Wolves of the Gods

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lord Fari watched with mild amusement as the soldiers tormented the two prisoners. A man and a woman, both stripped naked, were staggering between two ranks of cheering warriors. One side was human, the other demon, and they were hurling rocks and sticks at the couple, trying to drive them toward one group of soldiers or the other.

The game would go on like this, with some interesting variations, until the prisoners had been ripped to pieces. Then those pieces would be used in stirring games of fiendish polo, pitting mounted demon and human teams against one another as they whacked gory parts about the field with clubs made of bone.

It was all great innocent fun, Fari thought, and he was pleased to see the young soldiers engaged in such vigorous, morale-building activity.

The woman fell a few feet from the demon side and long talons reached for her. She screamed, dragging herself away, long trails of blood raking along one thigh where they'd caught her. The soldiers roared laughter, giving the woman time to stagger to the middle of the wide gap between the ranks of tormentors. They howled louder still when she fell next to the man and he embraced her with bleedings arms trying to comfort her.

"Oh, good show! Good show!" Fari cried, rapping his skull-topped cane against the ground. Beneath him, a husky demon slave shifted patiently under Fari's bulk, alert to his lord and master's every movement.

There was a lull in the game as wineskins were passed about to slake all that happy thirst and Fari sent a runner with a bag of gold to add to the stakes and the excitement.

The rough playing field was set up on the edge of the Black Lands where Iraj had camped his army while he considered his next move. Fari frowned, absently reaching out a taloned hand-instantly filled with a cup of wine by a demon maid who was as comely as she was attentive.

Actually, time for consideration had little to do with the king's planning. Protarus was in one of his moods again, so black no one dared come near him except his slaves and they had no choice in the matter. He'd already killed more than a dozen for infractions so small even Fari was startled. Lord Fari was known to have hard views about spoiling slaves. He even approved of the occasional act of casual violence to keep them anxious to please. Besides, a slave on a gibbet in front of your house was a good thing for an enemy to see when he came to visit.

There was no similar artifice in Iraj Protarus' actions, however. He didn't even kill them out of anger, Fari noticed. It was more like a fly had been buzzing about, interrupting his melancholia. It was a melancholy so deep and so dark the king seemed to find a strange comfort and escape in it, as if sorrow were a thick, warm coverlet he drew over him to blot out the world. Then came the buzz of the fly-a smile when he didn't want to see a smile, a solemn face when he wanted a smile-and he would flick it away. Claws erupting from his hands, snatching out a throat, then becoming hands again as the king returned to his thinking, eyes only blinking when the body struck the floor.

Protarus had been like that since the attempt on his life by the boy, Palimak. Fari scratched his horn with a long, contemplative talon. It had been a very good spell, he thought. One that even he, a master wizard, could admire. The only error the child had committed when he'd composed the spell was to leave a link between the giver of the amulet and the taker. So when the king spoke the word "Palimak" aloud, triggering the spell, it was the witch who took most of the killing force, not the king.

The king had suffered enough physical harm to delay the march for several weeks while his wounds healed. He'd been left with only one scar no magical treatment could erase, even when applied to the self-healing body of a shape changer. It was a small scar that lifted one corner of his lip into a permanent smile. It wasn't a sneer or a grin, but a sly tilt that made you wonder if he knew some secret that did not bode well for you.

As time went by it soon became apparent the king had suffered a deeper wound. Without warning, he'd suddenly fall into a black mood and call the army to a halt, only to retire the into the depths of his harem.

When the mood ended he'd suddenly rise up and order the march to resume, cursing at the delay as if it were the fault of others.

The consequence was that they were far behind Safar Timura and his refugee caravan. So far the magical trail they were following was very weak and would soon fade out entirely. And Lord Timura would have eluded them once again-possibly for all time. The forced hunt could only go on for so long. Eventually, either all the supplies would be exhausted or the kingdom would become so neglected Protarus would have to pause to put things in order.

For the first time since the hunt began, Lord Fari didn't care. It didn't matter to him if they won or lost the race. He had different goals now. Goals which only coincidentally involved Safar Timura. In short, Lord Fari had a new view on things, a new way of thinking. Shorter still, he was thinking only of himself.

The game resumed with a blood-curdling scream as a rock struck the male captive. Fari glanced up, red demon's tongue flicking out at the prospect of renewed amusement. This time, however, he found himself bored. The man and the woman were barely conscious, so there was little sport. Fari snorted. The youth of today, he thought, have even less patience than they have imagination. Some other torments should have been used well before now. The trick was to keep the game alive and interested as long as you could.

Fari hoisted himself up on his cane. It was something he no longer needed-the transformation to shape-changer had rid him of all the ailments old demons suffer. But he used the cane anyway, out of habit, and as a badge of authority. He strode away, his slaves scrambling to keep up. The one who served as his stool ran the hardest. When Lord Fari decided to sit, he would sit. The slave's most constant nightmare was that he wouldn't be there, hunched on all fours and steady as a rock, when Lord Fari took it into his mind to rest.

Fari climbed a short hill, stopping at the crest and leaning on his cane to take in the view. His slaves scrabbled around him, the stool ready to leap into any position, the shade unfurling the wide umbrella over Fari's horned head, the fan swishing the air with her feathery plumes, the maid at the ready with cup and jug. Spread out behind him were guards and runners and bearers carrying small comforts he might desire while taking the air.

Fari glanced back, taking rare notice of his entourage. The king had more, he thought, much more. So many to tend his whims it beggared the imagination. Fari shrugged. What did it matter? It was better to be Grand Wazier than king. He gazed out at the Black Lands, where tornadoes rutted a ghastly terrain and volcanoes spat their fire, poisoning the air with their stench. To Fari it was a place of beauty and promise that soothed his old demon's soul.

When Lord Fari first saw the Black Lands he felt as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. For too long he had been held in the grip of the wild emotions and sensations of a shape changer. It was difficult to think clearly, to plan beyond the immediate goals and challenges. A demon of more two hundred feastings, he had seen many kings come and go. He'd survived them all by always being attentive to their moods, guessing which way they would leap next and racing ahead to that point so he could be there when they lighted. Not unlike the living stool Fari now sat upon. Court intrigue was second nature to the old demon. Many a knife had been aimed at his back by his rivals. Many a deadly plot hatched with Fari's removal at their core.

He was not a fiend normally driven by emotions of any kind-other than fear, that is. Fear alone was to be trusted. Fear kept a fiend wary. Fear could see into shadows. Fear could creep around corners unnoticed. Fear could read the lips of whispering conspirators. Fear could divine the deepest thoughts of a king. Fear had been with him as long as he could remember. It was his father, his mother, his brother and sister and most loyal friend. Fear was his lover whom he ardently embraced every hour of every day.

When he looked out over the Black Lands and felt the constant pounding of magic gone wild, Fari realized he had been without fear for much too long. He'd allowed himself to be overcome by his shape changer's heart where only bloodmust raged. Fari felt a little ashamed of himself when he realized that.

The old Fari, the Fari who had kept his head while thousands of others were losing theirs, would have made better use of the new powers he'd gained when he became a shape changer.

It was Fari who was the architect of the Spell of Four, after all. It was Fari who'd drawn Prince Luka and Kalasariz into the conspiracy to seduce the king into the shape changer's bond that had saved them all from Safar Timura's great spell of revenge, which had turned Zanzair into a molten ruin, killing all but the new brotherhood Fari had formed. The trouble was, he had forgotten his original intent. At the time it had seemed as if he were losing control. Safar Timura was the Grand Wazier, not Lord Fari. What's worse, Timura was such a powerful wizard Fari had no hope of competing against him. It was no secret.

Everyone knew it. And in the game of Grand Waziers, second best is a shadow away from an assassin's blade.

The old demon sighed and lumbered about, his entourage shifting with him, those who might impede his view falling to the ground to let him see what he wanted to see. The king's banner-silver comet collapsing onto the red demon moon-hung limp over the huge pavilion that housed his court and quarters. From the hilltop Fari could see the three smaller pavilions that made a half moon frame for the king's traveling palace. One was his. The others belonged to Prince Luka and Lord Kalasariz.

Each had his own fear, his own driving ambition. Each sought not just to find favor with the king, but to control him. To master him. To Lord Fari it only seemed right and just that it should be him. But how to go about it? How to slip past the canny Kalasariz? And Luka. What about him? His hate for Fari was long and deep. His ambition also burned brighter, because Prince Luka wanted nothing less than to be king himself. Something Fari could never allow him to achieve. It suddenly occurred to the old demon that Luka and Kalasariz might naturally seek an alliance. He wondered if they'd realized it yet. He wondered if their minds had become clear before his own.

He snorted. Not likely. He was not only wiser and cannier, but he possessed more magic than any of them. But then he thought, Just in case, my dear Fari, just in case … you'd better plan for the worst.

Then he straightened as he thought of a course of action. He'd begin with the king. All else should follow after that. First he had to shake the king from his melancholy. He needed to put the hunger back into Iraj Protarus. To rouse the hunter from his sleep.

A final, piercing shriek caught his attention and Fari looked over at the field, a smile curling up from his fangs. The soldiers had finished off the victims and were gleefully ripping them to pieces so the next game could begin. Actually, he thought, they'd done quite well. Considering their two captives were so young-barely in their teens-it was really quite a feat to keep them alive so long.

Then he saw a tall demon holding up the heads, the greatest prize of all. Many cheers greeted this gory sight.

Lord Fari grinned as the idea dawned. He rapped his cane for one his aides.

He tossed him a purse of gold, saying, "Buy me those heads."

Renor and Sinch sat easily in their saddles, nibbling on dried fruit while keeping a casual watch on the entrance to the pass. They'd neither heard nor seen anything amiss since Leiria and Dario had set out to investigate the Caluzian Pass.

Renor chuckled. "Old Dario had me about ready to wet my breeches with all that ambush talk," he said.

"But I guess that's all it was-talk." He stretched, yawning. "At least he's not wastin' our time for a change. We get to rest up while he and Cap'n Leiria scout the trail for us."

"I don't know if it was such a big waste of time," Sinch said. He waved at the dark entrance of the pass.

"Sure looks like ambush pie to me. And the only way to find out is to dig into it." Despite his comments, Sinch felt a sense of great ease and cheer.

"The sergeant's a good sort, don't get me wrong," Renor replied. "He just goes on and on, is all. You've got to listen to the whole history of the Tarnasian Wars, or some such, before you come to his point."

Again he stretched and yawned, really enjoying it. For the first time since they'd entered the Black Lands Renor felt safe and quite comfortable sitting here talking his friend about nothing in particular.

"Oh, I don't know," Sinch laughed. Actually, it was more like a giggle. "Depends on what sort of story he's telling. Like the kind you wouldn't want your little sister to overhear. The other night he told me one about an old lamplighter in Walaria. Did you hear it?"

Renor laughed in anticipation. "No, I haven't," he said. He nodded at the pass. "Nothing happening there.

So go ahead."

Sinch chortled, remembering the jest. "Anyway," he said, "there was this old lamplighter in Walaria named Zenzi. And old Zenzi had been lighting lamps faithfully in one neighborhood for nearly thirty years.

And now it was time for him to retire and collect his pension from the king.

"Comes his last night and when he gets to the first house the family comes out with food and drink and a few silvers to thank him for all his years of service. Same thing at the next house and the next. Everybody liked Zenzi, so they were piling on the gifts and making his last night something really special.

"Then he comes to the last house on the street and a slave comes to fetch him, saying her mistress wanted to speak to him. The slave takes Zenzi by the hand and leads him into the house and up the stairs, where he is pushed into a bedroom, the door closing behind him.

"You can imagine his surprise when he sees there's a beautiful woman waiting for him-dressed in nothing but a filmy gown and a big smile. 'My husband is away for the night,' she says, real sultry, then she takes him to bed and they make mad passionate love. The greatest love poor old Zenzi had ever experienced.

Then the woman claps her hands and the slave brings in a wonderful dinner of the best kabobs and sherbet and all the other delicacies the rich get, but Zenzi had never tasted before. When he is done the woman pours him some fragrant tea.

"Zenzi starts to reach for the cup, then notices a copper coin sitting beside it."

"'Pardon, my dear lady,' Zenzi says, 'but everything has been so wonderful. The hours of love. The food.

The drink. Everything. But what's this copper coin for?'"

"The woman smiled and said, 'Well, yesterday I told my husband this was your last night after thirty years of service. And I asked what we should give you. And my husband answered, 'Screw Zenzi. Give him a copper!' The woman shrugs. 'The dinner,' she says, 'was my idea!'"

Renor roared laughter, slapping his thigh and looking quite unsoldierlike when Lord Timura came riding up on his great stallion, accompanied by thirty men.

"I thought there was an emergency here," he said, blue eyes fierce under his dark brows. "Instead I find my best men lolling about like tavern sops. Laughing and making merry."

Renor shook his head, amused. "This is a pretty funny situation if you think about it, my lord," he said, chuckling. "Here we are telling jokes-dirty ones, at that. And then you ride up and-"

"Where's Captain Leiria?" Safar barked, breaking into Renor's babble. He glanced around. "And Dario!

Where's Sergeant Dario?"

Renor grinned and motioned toward the entrance. "Checking out the pass, Lord Timura," he said, choking back laughter. "To see if there's … ha ha ha … an ambush! Ha ha ha."

Sinch snorted laughter. "Did you hear the one about the guys who ate the frogs?" he asked.

Safar slipped his silver dagger out. He mumbled a spell.

Renor shook his head, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. "No," he said.

"Well there was this plague of frogs, see … And-"

Safar sliced the air, casting his spell, and the two young men were suddenly left gasping and flailing the air as if they'd been drenched with icy water.

Renor was the first to recover. His eyes were wide with shame and fear. "I'm sorry, Lord Timura," he said, voice trembling. "I don't know-"

"Never mind, lad," Safar said gently. "It wasn't your fault. Now, join the others. You too, Sinch."

The young men did as he said. At Safar's signal everyone formed up and checked their weapons and gear.

He turned back to the entrance of the Caluzian Pass, probing with his magical senses. Khysmet chuffed and shifted under him, as if he too were investigating. Safar pushed harder. It was difficult to "see" in the constant hail of wild magic that pelted the Black Lands, but whoever had cast the spell of amusement on Renor and Sinch had left a faint trail. In Safar's magical vision it looked like a silvery path left by a snail.

But it faded away just before it reached the first bend in the road.

To Safar it seemed obvious that whoever, or whatever, had tricked the young scouts was trying to keep their attention away from what was happening down that dark avenue through the mountain. Not for the first time he wished he had Gundara with him. The little Favorite was an expert at snooping out such things.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind away from what might be happening to Leiria. And Dario, oh yes, mustn't forget Dario. But it's Leiria, dammit, Leiria! She has no stake in this whole thing … except for me.

Then Khysmet pawed the ground and Safar jerked back. He knew immediately he was being seduced by another sort of spell and he shook it off like clinging moss. Quickly, he raised a magical shield over himself and his men so there could be no other such surprises.

Safar leaned forward, patting Khysmet and whispering, "Who needs a Favorite?" The horse jerked its head up and down as if agreeing.

Then, without a thought passing between them Khysmet moved toward the pass and Safar signaled for his men to follow.

They made their way much as Leiria and Dario had done-leapfrogging from one cleared section of road to the next. Although the passage was narrow, it was still wide enough to carry caravan wagons and so Safar had little concern he might encounter an overwhelming force. There was plenty of room for him to deploy his men in strength, and either fight their way through or retreat to safety, dealing out much death and injury to whoever opposed them.

Khysmet moved easily over the rubble-strewn ground, finding firm footing in places where the other animals stumbled. Safar was left free to concentrate solely on the task at hand. His eyes pierced every shadow, his hearing was acute and his magical senses kept up a slow sweep for any sign of danger.

It came without warning-the heavy tread of many boots marching toward them. Khysmet whinnied alarm and Safar heard his men shout. With a start he realized the sound of marching came from both before and behind him!

As the air shimmered he scrabbled for a blocking spell, mind yammering that there had been no sign of a magical attack, but it was coming just the same.

Then he saw what Leiria had seen: long columns of huge mailed warriors marching toward him, closing the jaws of the trap.

He reared back to blast them, praying he had the right spell. But just before he struck he heard a shout:

"Safar!"

Safar blinked. It was Leiria's voice.

She called again. "Over here, Safar!"

He looked in the direction of her voice, then realized he could see through the warriors as if they were ghosts.

And there, just beyond, he saw a small golden pavilion. And in that pavilion, sitting at their ease before a table filled with food and drink, were Leiria and Dario.

Leiria waved to him. "Just push on through, Safar," she said. "They're harmless. Come and meet our hostess."

Lord Fari fussed with the heads, pushing a stray curl away from the woman's dead eyes, wiping a spot of blood from the man's pale lips.

"Perfect, your Majesty," he said. "Just perfect. We couldn't have asked for better heads."

Protarus gloomed at him from his throne, eyes hollow, features slowly changing from man to wolf to man again. Scarred lip twitching in all forms.

"What's so special about these heads?" he asked in a deadly voice.

"Exactly what I was wondering, Majesty," Prince Luka said.

He glared at the old wizard, who stood between the two posts that held the heads. "The king is ill," he said to Fari. "Why are you disturbing him with such nonsense?" And he thought, what an old fool you are.

I've been waiting for you to slip. Now I'll boot your arse the rest of the way down the stairs.

Fari sneered at Luka. "His Majesty will soon be able to judge for himself whether this is nonsense or not," he said. And he was thinking, You haven't a brain in your noggin, my prince. You were bred to fight, not to think. Your father was right not to trust you.

Kalasariz shifted his glance from one demon to the other, highly amused at the barely disguised hate between them. He kept silent-ready to jump to whichever side most benefited him.

Protarus motioned. "Get on with it," he said. His voice, however, was less threatening than before. The game between Fari and Luka had sparked his interest more than Fari's urgent call for a meeting.

"My mission tonight is most vital, Your Majesty," Fari said. "If I am successful in my experiment we will know the whereabouts of Lord Timura within the hour."

Iraj shifted in his throne, black mood momentarily abated by this news. His features becoming wholly human.

Luka sneered, exposing many rows of gleaming fangs. "I suppose the heads are going to tell us," he said.

"We've tried that sort of thing before. But Timura's shields are too strong to get past."

"That's true, Lord Fari," Protarus said, mildly amused. He was thinking of various torments he could apply to the old demon after he failed. "It's never worked before. Why now?"

Fari raised a talon, looking a bit like an old demon school master. "In a moment, Majesty," he said, "all will be clear."

He busied himself with the heads, taking jars of magical oils and powders from the stand beside him and sprinkling the heads.

"For most of this hunt, Majesty," he said, "Lord Timura has been dashing all over the landscape. Going in first one direction, then another, then back again. It made it more difficult to find him, because we couldn't determine his eventual goal."

"He had no goal," Luka snorted. "Except to live another day. He's running, that's all."

"Do you think that's true, Majesty?" Fari asked, daubing a bit of ointment on the woman's head. "Does this sound like Lord Timura? You know him best."

Protarus frowned. "Not one damn bit," he said, surprising himself a little by his answer. "Safar always has a goal. A direction."

Luka was alarmed. "Well, of course he has some eventual goal, Your Majesty. But that's only to find some place of permanent safety for his people."

Kalasariz thought it time to insert a neutral comment. "He has been moving generally toward the northwest," he said. "Taking in all miles traveled, that is."

"That's most likely accidental," Luka protested. "We're the ones doing the driving. He's fleeing in the only direction left open to him. Which just so happens to be northwest."

But to the Prince's dismay, Protarus had already gone past that point. "I wonder what he's looking for?"

he mused. "What's in that region?"

Fari pretended to be busy, hiding a smile as he poured golden oil over each head.

Kalasariz thought it was safe for another neutral answer. "Eventually, Majesty," he said, "there is only the Port of Caspan. And then the Great Sea."

Luka took heart, smacking one taloned fist into the other. "Exactly!" he said. "In the end, there's nothing but the sea. And if we keep going like we are we'll have him pinned against it. With nowhere to go."

Protarus shook his head, his scarred smile making Luka's heart jump. "Not likely," he said.

"There's one thing we've all overlooked, Majesty," Fari said. "I blame myself for not seeing it before."

"What's that?" the king prodded.

"Until a few months ago everything Prince Luka just said appeared true. Lord Timura was behaving exactly as described. Dashing this way and that with no other apparent purpose than to escape us.

"Then everything changed. Just before the, uh…" he gave Protarus a sympathetic look, "…the uh … most unfortunate attack on Your Majesty … he leaped onto one road. And then stayed on that road, never varying his direction or using his usual tricks."

Kalasariz cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, "it happened after Naadan. We tracked him to the ravine. He tried to escape, but we had the, uh … the uh…" he glanced at Protarus "the, uh … Lady Sheesan to help us. Then he got on this road and went like the hells."

"He must have made some kind of decision in Naadan," Protarus said. Then he grimaced, remembering the magical stallion. "Or maybe even before. Perhaps he meant to go to Naadan all along. And then …

and then…" He shrugged. "My logic takes me no further. So he travels through the Black Lands. What does that tell us? Nothing."

He sighed, adding, "Except that Safar is as brave as ever. We have two hundred wizards with us. He has only himself. And yet he dashes across the Black Lands while we stand here afraid to set our toes in it."

"It's the machine, Majesty," Luka pointed out. "We know that somewhere out there a great magical machine has gone wild. We have to be sure we have the right spells before we proceed. It's the prudent thing to do, isn't that right, Lord Fari?"

The old demon brushed away Luka's desperate clutch to rejoin him on the side of safety. "I don't think our esteemed Majesty wants to hear about prudence right now, My Lord," he said.

Kalasariz, the most cautious of men, agreed. "Bold action is the only course," he said, aligning himself with Fari. Thinking, you cunning old foul-breathed devil. I just know you have something up your sleeve.

Now, let's see it.

He was startled when the king, as if reading his thoughts, said, "Let's see it, Fari! What are you leading up to?"

"Why, the heads, Your Majesty," Fari said, "The heads." He gestured at the completed pair. "Beautiful, aren't they?" He said this as if they were the greatest works of art, instead of two ghastly things with dead eyes and slack mouths.

Luka found reason to murmur appreciatively, as did Kalasariz. The king only frowned, impatient.

"It's like this, Your Majesty," Fari said. "The Black Lands have confounded us for a few days, no doubt about it. But they also give us an opportunity. With all the magical insanity raging out there, it's highly unlikely that Lord Timura could maintain his usual shields. Why, all my wizards together couldn't do it and as great as Lord Timura's reputation might be, I suspect he's met his match with that machine.

"So he'll be going naked, as it were. Using all his powers just to throw up a small ring of protection around his people. There's nearly a thousand of them, if you recall, Majesty. That is an enormous amount of people for one wizard to shield, especially in the Black Lands."

He gestured at the heads. "These people were captives from a nearby village. They were born and raised next to this region, continually bathed in all the sorcery leaking out. They had no magic of their own, of course, but when I saw our soldiers making sport with them, it came to me that they would be very sensitive to it." He shrugged, "That was my guess, at any rate. Subsequent experiments proved my theory."

"Now I understand," Kalasariz said, smiling, feeling pleased he'd jumped in the right direction. To seal his position he hastened to explain, whether anyone needed the explanation or not.

"Lord Timura is not only vulnerable to a casting," he said, "but those are the ideal devices for the casting spell."

"As always, My Lord," Fari said, "you are most astute even in matters that aren't your expertise."

"You are too kind, My Lord," Kalasariz murmured.

Luka said nothing.

"Enough!" Protarus barked. "You're mooning over each other like a pair of harem girls. Do the casting, dammit! Let's see what Safar's up to!"

Safar goggled at the scene, not sure which was real and which the apparition. The threatening horde of warriors, or Leiria and Dario laughing and waving in greeting.

Then he had even more reason to goggle as a large figure rose from the table, saying, "Welcome to Caluz, Safar Timura. We have been waiting many a year for your visit."

The speaker was female-a demon female. And as she spoke she made a motion and the ghostly soldiers vanished.

She was a spectacular sight. Even taller than a large male demon, she was dressed entirely in red-a red gown of the finest Sampitay silk; red shoes beneath that gown with the sheen of a rare jewel. Her talons were painted red, as were her lips curling up in a red painted demon smile above fangs like spears. A ruby crown was set upon her jutting forehead-just above her ivory white demon horn, which was decorated with red magical symbols.

Big as she was, demon as she was, none of these things were the true reasons for Safar's amazement.

What had his complete attention was her gown, which was embroidered with a startlingly familiar decoration. The winged, two-headed snake that was the sign of Asper.

She came toward him and Safar whispered assurances to Khysmet, who was still uneasy, then swung off the saddle to greet her.

Safar had never been aboard a ship, but in his imagination the demon queen-for her bearing left no doubt she was a queen-looked like a ship as she came to him, red gown billowing like great sails.

Despite her size she was incredibly graceful, moving with smooth and sweet femininity. An odd side of him, a primitive side most men would rather not discuss, took note of her remarkable figure. She was large, yes. A demon, yes. But her shape was the perfect hourglass that dumbfounds all human and demon males.

When they came together, pausing for the formal greeting, Safar felt shamefaced, like a boy.

She held out her claw, dainty as a maid, saying, "I am Hantilia. Queen of Caluz. And chief priestess to the Oracle of Hadin."

In Protarus' court Lord Fari was making his final preparations.

"I'll need your help, Majesty," he said. He motioned to the others, Prince Luka and Lord Kalasariz. "All of you must help. To ferret out Safar Timura we need the full powers of the Spell of the Four."

Everyone leaned forward, concentrating, as Lord Fari made magical motions over the heads, chanting: Speak, my Brother.

Speak, my Sister.

Speak, O creatures of the Shades!

What road does Timura take?

What goal does he seek?

And what is his heart's desire?

Soul numbing shrieks shattered the air as both heads came alive. Their eyes burned with pain and they screamed to the heavens as they relived their final moments on the sporting field. Their anguish was so deep that it pierced Iraj's shape changer's heart and struck at the core that was still human.

Their wails echoed throughout the royal chamber, hammering at his ears and rattling the small, scarred thing he called a soul. He wanted to shout at Fari to end their agony and his misery, but he clipped it off, gagging on guilt. To do otherwise would show a dangerous weakness.

Then, thankfully, Fari waved a claw and the wailing stopped. Two pairs of haunted eyes turned to regard the demon wizard.

"Speak, my sister," Fari chanted. "Speak, my brother. Grant us this boon and we shall release you from all your cares."

The woman spoke first, voice quaking with pain. "He is near!" she said. "He is very, very near!"

Then the man, in equal agony-"Yes, he is near! Run my friend, run from these devils!"

The woman shouted-"No, don't run! Please don't run! Save us, Safar Timura! Save us!"

Fari chortled. "What willful heads," he said to Iraj and the others. "No matter. They're very young and so it's to be expected."

Then, to his victims-"Lord Timura can't hear you. And even if he could, there'd be no help. You are in our care, my lovelies. Only I can help you. Now speak. What road does Timura take?"

And the woman said, "The king's road."

"What king?" Fari pressed. "Tell us his name."

"Protarus," the man croaked.

"Timura and the king," the woman said, "travel the same road."

Fari was clearly puzzled. Luka, seeing slender hope, said, "I knew this was nonsense from the start."

But Protarus shouted, "Silence, you fool!"

The outburst surprised Iraj as much as the demon prince. Mysterious as the answers were, they made ghostly, skin-prickling sense.

Emboldened, Fari continued. "What goal does he seek?"

"Hadin," the woman said. "The Land of Fires."

And the man said, "Two were together. But now there is one."

Iraj shuddered as the words unleashed memory's flood. Suddenly he was a boy. And Safar was with him, casting the demon bones to see what the future held.

He remembered the red smoke hissing up, rising like a snake. Then out of the smoke a mouth formed, curving into a woman's seductive smile. Then she spoke, and he could hear the words clear echoing down the long corridor of years:

"Two will take the road that two traveled before. Brothers of the spirit, but not the womb.

Separate in body and mind, but twins in destiny. But beware what you seek, O brothers. Bewarethe path you choose. For this tale cannot end until you reach the Land of Fires."

Then he was jolted back to the present as Fari asked the final question:

"What is his heart's desire?"

And the woman said, "Love."

And the man said, "Hate."

And Fari shouted, "Answer clearly, or I'll blast your souls to the Hells!"

But once again Iraj could glimpse cloudy meaning and the two words, "love" and "hate" churned about in his guts.

Kalasariz spoke up. "Some of my spies are like that. Ask the time and they count the grains of sand in the glass. Perhaps our questions are too general."

Fari took heart and tried again. "Tell me brother, tell me sister, where is Lord Timura now?"

"Caluz," the man answered.

Fari was pleased. "Who does he seek there?"

"The Oracle of Hadin."

"Now it makes sense!" Kalasariz said. He turned to Iraj. "There is a famous oracle at Caluz. Called the Oracle of Hadin, I believe."

Fari could see his victims were tiring. He wracked his brains for a last question.

Then, "Tell me brother, tell me sister, what is Lord Timura's purpose in Caluz?"

The answer came in a ghastly chorus: "To kill the king."

Then their eyes went lifeless, their lips slack, and blood gushed to the floor.

Fari turned to address the king, rattling his talons in glee. But when he saw the state Protarus was in, he kept his silence. He noticed Kalasariz and Luka were also staring in wordless fascination. The king was flickering from one shape to the other at a blinding rate, claw and maw and handsome human profile winking in and out of existence.

Iraj knew his emotions were an unchecked torrent, but he couldn't help himself. The announcement that Safar sought his death had unaccountably ripped him from his moorings. He suddenly felt as if he were the hunted, instead of the hunter. He knew this made no sense. Safar was the deer, Iraj the bowman.

Still, he'd felt a chill run down his spine when the words were spoken: "To kill the king."

Then fear turned to mad outrage. This was betrayal! Safar was his friend! How could he possibly plot to assassinate a friend? Never mind that Iraj tried to kill Safar long ago and had sought his death since.

Never mind that Safar had struck back furiously, nearly killing Iraj and destroying his kingdom. Deadly blows had been exchanged many times over the years. Safar Timura was clearly his enemy. But why did Iraj still feel he was also a friend? A friend bent on betrayal and murder?

All these thoughts and emotions stormed about his heart and brain, then anger took root and bloomed into a mighty tree, spreading strong branches of rage all through his body from toe to nape.

With anger came cold reason and purpose and fully human now, he rose to his feet. Golden beard and head and crown glowing in the torch light. He was Iraj Protarus, by the gods! The King of Kings. Lord of the Shape Changers. Greater even then the Conqueror Alisarrian, who was a mere mortal, wizard though he had been.

"We all owe you a great debt, my lord," he said to Fari, who visibly preened, not caring if Luka or Kalasariz noticed. "Now we know not only exactly where Safar Timura is hiding, but we know that Caluz has been his goal all along.

"Timura is not a man to just run and hide. He was mountain born and people who live so high above us all have courage and will bred into them. They breathe air so thin it would make you faint. I lived among them once, so I know. I was weak and light-headed for days before I found my footing. In fact, I think that's the reason for it. The reason Safar and his Kyranians have managed to defy us for so long.

"It's the air, dammit! And I curse myself for missing it all this time. I'm a man of the plains. The air is thick and healthy on the plains. Now water, that's scarce and all our wars rise from that. But water is nothing compared to air. Can you imagine living in a place where you had to fight for the very air to sustain you?"

No one answered. The king's anger made speech unwise.

"They can also see! Oh, by the gods can they see! Up in that eagle's nest they called Kyrania, they could see the most amazing horizons. Horizons so distant they confounded me. Me, a simple man of the plains where all is flat and you drown in the air and you can't imagine what it really is to see. All the way around you-all the time. That's what separates Kyranians from ordinary mortals. The power to see.

"That's another thing we must remember. Safar is the greatest Kyranian of them all, for he can see the future. And sometimes I think he can imagine more. If there is a place that lies beyond the future, Safar can see it.

"But he has to kill me first." The king slammed his throne over, shattering the wood against ground.

He turned to Fari, who was frightened, no longer so desirous of the king's attention.

"Tell me, Lord Fari," he said, his tone fearfully close to the one the demon had used addressing the heads, "And tell me true. Does Safar have to kill me to get to Hadin? Isn't that what your heads were telling us?"

Fari called on all his skills to slip to a middle course. He shrugged.

"Who can say, Your Majesty?" he said in his most oily voice. "Our casting was not plain on that point."

The king merely nodded, so Fari braved thinner ice. "We should be practical about this, Your Majesty,"

he said. "Hadin is so far away it was known as World's End by the ancients. Surely, this place is out of anyone's reach.

"Far-seeing though he may be, I think it would be wiser to surmise that Lord Timura's goal is more reasonable. Forget about World's End. Think of Esmir, only. It would be far seeing enough of Lord Timura to conclude that his answer was in Caluz. In the center of the Black Lands where a magical machine has gone wild.

"He must overcome the devil machine, the desolate land, the low spirits of his people-everything-to consult with the Oracle of Hadin. And there he must pray that he can find a means to kill the most powerful king in history."

He snorted. "Come, now, Your Majesty! That is seeing very far, beyond not only the future, but hope itself. And as for the business with the air, Highness, I think he's breathing something very thin indeed to conjure up such an impossible task."

"Here, here," Luka said, making the king smile and gaining back a bit of grace.

"Lord Fari speaks wisely, Majesty," Kalasariz said, tipping a wink at the old demon that meant, 'We must talk.'

Although no plan had been set, the unholy three, as Iraj had come to think of his brothers, acted as if victory had already been won. They called for food and drink and music and dancers to celebrate. Iraj tilted his scarred lip, making them believe he was fooled by their actions.

Oh, but he was cold, so cold. Damnation he could see it clear. Like Safar could see distant horizons.

Iraj was no fool-even though he was a king, and kings, it is said, make the grandest fools of all. He knew what was going on. His brothers of the spell conspired against one another and they all conspired, separately and together in various alliances, against him. Sheesan had warned him about that.

He felt a pang, thinking of that strange, beauteous witch. How could she have borne appearing like such a crone, when she had been a woman of such beauty and wonder. She had her own designs, of course-some of which she'd even admitted. But that hadn't bothered him. Iraj had learned early that no one addresses royalty without base motives. Even Safar, pure, humble, "I'm only a potter's son," Safar, had something he wanted when he joined Iraj in his mission. He wanted Iraj's power. Safar was jealous because Iraj Protarus was favored by the gods! Destined at birth to be king of kings.

But what was it Safar claimed he wanted? Oh, yes-to save the world. What a lie that was!

Iraj scraped at his chair with a heavy ring, smiling at his false brothers as they drank and made merry jests about the human and demon maids who danced for their pleasure. They pretended to chatter happily about their king, their wise, strong king, and how they would stretch every tendon in his effort.

Talking about this plan of attack and that.

Fari was saying something about gathering all his wizards to cast a spell to protect them all from the wild magic of the Black Lands. Luka was laying plans to create the greatest mounted shock force in history.

As if the Kyranians were the half million demons Iraj once defeated to gain his crown, instead of a handful of hastily trained peasants. And Kalasariz-Damnation! Safar warned me about him, I'd better be careful-Kalasariz was slipping up to Fari, saying this and that and glancing in Luka's direction. What Iraj would have to watch for was when Kalasariz looked in his direction.

In some ways Luka and Fari were easier to understand, he thought. They were demons. Conspiracy came easily to demons. But Kalasariz-oh, be careful of Kalasariz-was of a different cut. The least of which was that he was human. And humans, Iraj thought, were superior to demons in hatching a conspiracy.

I should know, he thought. I am the result of conspiracy-from whom my father would bed on a royal night, to my mother's scheming against his harem. His mother had been a gentle sort, loathe to use poison. But when it came to her son and dreams of being mother of a clan leader, her hand was steady when she poured.

Iraj's mother had taught him about secrets. Keep your own counsel, she'd said, no matter who tells you what is closest to their heart. They are lying. Know this, son, and build greater lies and you will be safe.

Iraj had such a secret. He'd guarded that secret more closely than even his love for his mother. If she were here he'd lie to her face and know she'd be proud of him.

His secret was that thanks to the witch who desired to be his queen, he had the means to break free of the loathsome bond he'd made with these fiends. He ached for the moment when he could cast the spell she'd taught him and destroy them.

But first he'd have to catch Safar. Oh, yes, I must not forget-and his scarred lip twitched-the child, Palimak. Before she died the witch said the child wasn't really necessary. Although the spell would be more powerful if Iraj had them both-like the heads on Fari's stake.

Then I can be free, Iraj thought. Free!

A winsome demon maid pranced in front of him. She was half again his size and of a form he'd only killed before, not caressed. But he suddenly found himself desirous of her and so he motioned and she came to him, pressing strange but somehow familiar parts against him.

He plunged into her embrace, thinking, I wonder what Safar is doing now?

I wonder how he finds Caluz?