Grimoire Of The Lamb Part 3

I closed the bathroom door behind me, hoping he wouldn't notice in his hurry to play with the grimoire. Outside, there was a short hallway leading to what I presumed were bedroom doors. Elkhashab didn't strike me as the sort to share the same side of the house with guests, so I ignored these and moved on. There was a s.p.a.cious living area with a giant TV and shelves lined with priceless figurines of this G.o.d or that G.o.ddess. On the opposite side of that, I found a foyer leading to the front door; I searched for a security system but found none. I could see wards around the front door instead.

An arched pa.s.sage led to a kitchen, but there was likely little of interest in there. Another arch seemed to do nothing but give a view of a magnificent statue of Sobek set in a lighted niche, but once I got closer I saw that another hallway beckoned. These might lead to Elkhashab's private rooms. I checked the door and doorjamb of the first one before opening it. No juju. No hairs across the threshold. And unlocked.

It was a study. A writing desk sat facing the wall shared with the hallway and door; the other three walls were lined with bookshelves. Centered between them was a comfy chair with a table and reading lamp next to it.

I clapped my hands together and rubbed them. s...o...b..-Doo's legacy had to be here. Pull the right book and one of those bookcases would move aside. Or ... I pranced over to the reading light and pulled the dangling chain. It turned on!

But nothing else happened.

d.a.m.n.

I began to systematically pull on every book he had on his shelves. Some of them were interesting, some were genuine grimoires I might enjoy snagging later, but most were dreck. None revealed a secret pa.s.sage. I moved aside the comfy chair. I lifted the rug to look for trapdoors. Nothing. The writing desk, a long shot due to its placement, was similarly uncooperative. I sighed heavily and admitted that I could have been wrong.

There were other rooms to check. The whole house, if necessary.

I exited the study and closed the door behind me. I turned right to the next door and examined it as I had the first one. This door had nothing in the way of magical traps, but it did have the old hair-across-the-doorjamb trick. I opened the door and then bound the hair back into place as I closed it. Feel secure, Mr. Elkhashab. n.o.body opened this door.

The room was an art studio. Canvases of ugly splatter paintings rested against the walls, five or six deep. An easel near the window had plastic sheeting spread underneath it with liberal staining. Despite this precaution, the floor of the studio-cheap linoleum tiles-had been anointed with droplets of various colors. A low countertop with cabinets underneath held his art supplies-lots of paint tubes and a container of paintbrushes, along with turpentine. A sink waited nearby to wash away the excess. On impulse, I tried the faucet. It sadly provided naught but hot and cold running water.

The canvases hid no secret doors behind them, and I was starting to get seriously frustrated. I'd been searching for an hour and had nothing to show for it. I moved the easel. I picked up the ceramic pot full of paintbrushes. I pulled up the edges of the plastic sheeting. I got a whole lot of nada.

Desperate, I began picking up the mess of paint tubes scattered about the counter, one by one, feeling intensely stupid as I placed them back exactly as I'd found them. Something clicked after I picked up the tube of phthalo blue. My eyes darted around the room, looking for canvases falling away. Nope. Behind me, the easel rested serenely, except for the unG.o.dly mix of colors scattered about the legs.

On the other side of the countertop, however, a neat little square of darkness beckoned. There was a set of stone steps leading down to something that was no doubt very naughty.

I circled and took a few steps down, looking for a way to close the door. Elkhashab would never leave it open when he wanted to perform his dirty deeds. There was a rather large b.u.t.ton labeled CLOSE in Arabic script, but it had an odd white glow around it, so I hesitated. A few more steps down and I lost all light from the studio, but there was a dim glow from some light source farther down, whether a tunnel or a room I could not tell. I cast night vision and scanned the area carefully with my improved sight. I spied a smaller, unlabeled, and non-glowing b.u.t.ton at the base of the stairs and pushed that instead. The door mechanism slid shut and a set of dingy old incandescent bulbs winked on, illuminating what turned out to be a tunnel after all and making my night vision unnecessary. I dispelled it and proceeded cautiously down the pa.s.sage, which had smooth walls of the same adobe material used in the rest of the house.

I really was walking down the tunnel; there was a fairly steep grade, almost to the point where I wished there had been a staircase instead. Clearly this delved underneath Elkhashab's moat and continued on from there. After a few hundred meters it dropped again, even steeper, and soon the wished-for steps appeared to ease the descent. Once the tunnel leveled out, a brief three or four meters led me to a stunning room that Elkhashab had very little to do with constructing. He'd put up the lights, no doubt, and his presence was smeared over the chamber like a greasy film, but there was no doubt that this room was at least twice as old as I was. Far beneath the well-doc.u.mented and preserved ruins of Crocodilopolis, a grand hall stretched before me, supported by ma.s.sive pillars of stone. Sarcophagi stared at me with four-thousand-year-old eyes, not with the heads of humans or Anubis but with Sobeks, unlike any ever seen before. They didn't rest p.r.o.ne but leaned upright against the wall. It was an archaeologist's dream. Or a dark wizard's. I had never seen a Sobek sarcophagus before, but in this room there were at least twenty, each seven feet tall. I wondered if the mummies still remained inside and if they were well preserved. I paused to take a closer look at one that seemed to be in particularly good shape.

On top of the crocodile head was the tall yellow headdress and red disk signifying Amun-Ra. Instead of the customary crook and flail held by the pharaohs, this carved figure held a was scepter in the right hand, signifying power, and the ankh in the left, held by the loop and with the base pointing up to the figure's right shoulder. The human body was carved from limestone with tiles of colored stones inlaid, mosaic fas.h.i.+on, to provide color. Some of these were gilded, and jewels still gleamed around the neck. The crocodile head was polished basalt and skillfully carved. The teeth were limestone but had been painted white at one time. Much of that paint had deteriorated, but a few discolored flecks hinted at what it must have looked like when new. The scepter and ankh were not carved of stone but appeared to be gilded bronze.

I wasn't an expert on Egyptian artifacts by any means, but these sarcophagi couldn't be older than the Middle Kingdom period-and I wouldn't be surprised if they were from the time of the New Kingdom, judging by the craftsmans.h.i.+p on display. Normally the limbs and feet on sarcophagi were mere suggestions, painted on or highlighted with the slightest of bas-relief sculpting, but these were fully sculpted.

Miraculous that it hadn't been plundered-not only by Elkhashab but by centuries of grave robbers. Yet there was no other treasure in the room, so if it was a traditional burial chamber, then quite a bit of stuff was missing. But why take everything else and leave these untouched? Most curious.

I was about to reach out and touch the ankh when I heard the swirl of water and an animal grunt from the next chamber down, traveling and echoing the way sound will when water and stone is involved. I froze.

There was much more than Elkhashab's handiwork to fear here. Aside from whatever made that noise, untold ancient hoodoo could be waiting to descend upon my head-perhaps from this very sarcophagus. Though my cold iron aura would most likely protect me, prudence dictated that I shouldn't touch it without checking it in the magical spectrum first, and I let my hand drop. These weren't going anywhere; I could come back to examine them later. I had much more reconnaissance to conduct.

I crept down the hall in front of the line of sarcophagi, my eyes toward the center of the room. Elkhashab's string of bulbs, s.p.a.ced at odd intervals, created puddles of yellow like streetlamps, allowing the edges of the room to languish in shadow. Past the first set of pillars, I saw some familiar markings on the floor: a circle enclosing another circle, and inside that not a pentagram but a mixture of lines, Hebrew characters, and mystical symbols straight out of The Greater Key of Solomon. The White Knife and the Black Knife were there, the Sickle, the Sword, and all the rest too. Elkhashab was definitely more than a crocodile priest. He dabbled extensively in the dark end of the magic pool, like Nebwenenef before him.

A supporting wall forced me to move toward the center. A doorway there led to another room, decorated with bas-relief doodads heralding Sobek's spiffiness. At least, I inferred as much from the gaping maw of a crocodile sculpted at the top.

The next room was poorly lit. A single light made a half-a.s.sed effort at fighting the darkness from the edges. The scent of water and fetid rot twitched at my nostrils; something had died in there. Maybe many somethings. The pervasive miasma was enough to make me draw Fragarach from its sheath.

Two steps into the room, I heard the water gurgling again. Cursing the weak effort of the token bulb, I recast night vision to better see what I was missing. The chamber was of a similar size to the one I had just left, except that in the center of the room there was no floor with mystical symbols scrawled across it; rather, a black pool with ripples betrayed recent movement. Pillars rose out of it to support the ceiling.

There was no great mystery about what awaited me in the gloom. Elkhashab, that pantweasel, had left me with one or more crocodiles to deal with. A faint electric hum drew my attention over my left shoulder.

A large old-fas.h.i.+oned freezer lurked there, a thick cable snaking from underneath it to the room I'd just vacated. He must have run the electricity behind all the sarcophagi. I opened the lid and saw that it was full of steaks and roasts. Oberon would have approved. I took a few out and threw them to the edge of the pool, then tossed a final one into the pool itself. Something responded in the dark, and I slid along the wall counterclockwise, holding my sword point in front of me. Anything that wanted to eat me had to eat my blade first. Once I'd started to move along the longer wall, a splash sounded from the s.p.a.ce I'd vacated, followed by serious macking noises. I saw gold glinting in the dim light, and then an enormous pocked back stretched sinuously into the water: It was the largest crocodile I had ever seen, festooned with enough metal to make reestablis.h.i.+ng the gold standard plausible. I hurried to the next supporting wall and another doorway. There was nothing that I could see to keep the crocodile from entering the next room, but perhaps it didn't want to leave its comfy mini-swamp with easy-to-hunt rump roasts.

The subsequent chamber was fairly well lit, like the first one, allowing me to dispel night vision, but its contents were entirely different. Instead of sarcophagi along the walls, there were boxes-the wooden kind you used to see a lot of before the planet started to run low on trees and people figured it might be better to use recycled cardboard instead. They were probably full of the treasures missing from the burial chamber. I left them alone, figuring it was best to leave it all conveniently packaged for the Ministry of Antiquities. I was much more interested in the creeptastic vibe coming from the far side of the room.

Elkhashab had repurposed an ancient stone worktable, perhaps originally intended as an embalming station, by turning it into a makes.h.i.+ft altar. It was stained with fluids that were supposed to stay on the inside of bodies, and there were a couple of smallish skulls on either end. Around the altar itself he'd drawn a couple of large circles, symbols of invocation and protection written along the circ.u.mference and ritual materials placed carefully inside. Adjacent to these were other circles-the summoning kind. Circles of binding with pentagrams. A telltale whiff of sulfur confirmed that he'd successfully summoned physical demons here, not just the spirits suggested by the first room's circles. He had the seals of calling, binding, coercion, submission, and banishment painted perfectly between the points of the stars. Almost too perfectly.

I scanned the altar again with a new suspicion. The two skulls were facing at exactly the same angle. He had some bowls full of ritual ingredients-salt and salamander tails, that kind of thing-and those bowls were precisely equidistant from one another. The candles were brand new and of the same kind. The ritual knife was placed perpendicular to the edge.

I thought back to the guest bathroom with the air freshener and the primly folded towels. The order of the library. Even the studio, meant to look sloppy and spontaneous, had been carefully arranged that way. This guy was an obsessivecompulsive.

It made sense. The precision required to be a practicing magician was no joke.

I decided to mess with him. A fingernail's scratch across the seals of coercion, submission, and banishment would drive him crazy. He'd spend hours repainting just to make sure everything was perfect. That is, if I didn't kill him first.

Golden figurines of Sobek, Amun, and Amun-Ra stood impa.s.sively on the altar, their dead painted eyes calmly awaiting tribute and sacrifice. I smirked; Elkhashab appeared to be hedging his bets on which form of Amun would get all the love. Amun had been a headliner in the early Egyptian dynasties, but he had to share top billing with Ra later on, and Sobek was considered in some tales to be a manifestation of the combined G.o.d Amun-Ra. Elkhashab must be harboring doubts about which was to receive sacrifices from the Grimoire of the Lamb.

This room was the last one. Nestled in the corner behind the altar, off to my left, a spiral staircase twisted up into the ceiling. If it led all the way up to the surface, that was how he smuggled stuff out of here. He would never leave his house with contraband when he was under surveillance; he would choose to emerge elsewhere.

It also explained why he never went for the big score with a sarcophagus; never mind that it would invite too many inconvenient questions, there was no way he'd get one up through that wee well. I doubted he could get one up through the steep tunnel that led to his studio either. I wondered why he hadn't installed a rudimentary lift instead. Too conspicuous?

The staircase bore investigation. It was probably my best way out, after all. But the altar needed a closer look first. I circled it and discovered a small table nestled against the far side, almost like a hallway desk, yet lower in height so that it was invisible while looking at the altar from the direction I'd entered. Stacked on it were two sheaves of paper-no, parchment. Incredibly old stuff too, mostly illegible, the ink having faded and flaked away after centuries. In the magical spectrum, the writings were quite clear, however; they glowed with ancient hoodoo. I'd bet five biscuits that these were the writings of which Elkhashab had spoken-the writings of Nebwenenef.

My immediate impulse was to destroy them, but I decided against it, figuring that Elkhashab would notice right away and know that someone had been there. Like everything else around the altar, the sheaves were placed and organized with attention to detail, and I didn't want to give myself away yet. I'd definitely come back and take care of them before I left, however.

I turned my attention to the staircase. It was a st.u.r.dy metal one; it didn't creak or s.h.i.+ver as I ascended, and my inner ninja approved. My stomach, however, began to rebel as I got closer to the ceiling. Something smelled foul up there-but it was a different stench from the one in the chamber of the crocodile G.o.d.

Once I got my head in the s.p.a.ce between the ceiling and the floor, I paused. The smell was definitely coming from the room above, but I couldn't see very much. Silently, I withdrew a dagger from my satchel and poked it up through the hole to see if it set off any kind of trap. I wiggled it around. I swirled it all around the edges. Nothing.

I did a quick peekaboo, feeling silly, but whatever-I didn't want to end more than two thousand years of existence as a victim to one of Elkhashab's b.o.o.by traps. No reaction, and I didn't see much of anything. It was fair-to-middling Stygian darkness in there.

Casting night vision, I took a longer peek and did a complete survey, three-sixty. There was a break in the railing of the staircase so that one could enter or exit on this floor. It appeared to be a single chamber, smaller than the ones downstairs. There was a lone sarcophagus here, but a more conventional type rather than one of Sobek. It was situated conventionally as well, resting p.r.o.ne instead of leaning upright against the wall. Three large cages filled the rest of the room, and it was from them that the stink emanated. Behind me, there was just the bare stone wall, and the staircase continued to wind above into farther unknown levels. I put my dagger away.

I climbed and left the stairs to check out the cages. The first one held a small skeleton without a skull. The next held a rotting corpse, also headless, dressed in tatters of once-white linen that had been chewed on by rats. Or maybe by those flesh-eating scarab beetles from The Mummy, which still gave me nightmares. I couldn't tell if the body was male or female, but it was young. I remembered the two skulls resting on the altar; I'd thought them there for gravitas or a sense of theatre, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had actually sacrificed kids. Sure, demons would let themselves be bound for one of those.

Another still form lay in the third cage. The legs faced the door and the rise of shoulders concealed the head-if there was one. The reek was awful; there was a bucket filled to the brim with waste in one corner. Strangely, it gave me hope.

"Hey, kid," I whispered. Then I realized I didn't need to whisper and I should probably speak in Arabic. "Wake up!" I called. No reaction. My throat tightened, but I shouted it again. The child didn't move.

Concentrating on the lock, I bound the metal tumblers to the unlocked position, swung open the door, and entered the cage. The boy-for it was a boy, about ten years old or so-still had a head. He was alive but unconscious, and the pulse I felt at his neck was weak. He was probably dehydrated and starved. Elkhashab had just left him in here while he went off to America to steal an ancient grimoire.

I couldn't let him stay here any longer. He needed medical attention now. As I had done before with Oberon, I created a binding so that this boy could use the magic stored in my bear charm for energy. Once the binding was complete, his eyes popped open and he scrambled away from me until he was at the back of the cage, his hands raised defensively as he begged in Arabic not to be killed.

"Salaam," I said in the same language. The poor kid had every reason to be terrified. "I've come to take you out of here. Let's get away from that man." I backed out of the cage and left the door open, speaking to him from freedom. "Come on." Belatedly, I remembered that he probably couldn't see anything. He might be thinking that I was Elkhashab. I cast night vision on him and spoke again. "Let's go. Up the stairs. Let's get you home. Your parents are worried."

I hoped he wouldn't take too long to decide. The energy in my charm wouldn't last forever and was already getting low.

The boy's eyes grew wide. "You don't work for him?"

I snorted and shook my head. "No. I prefer life over death. If anyone dies today, it will be him, not you. Come on."

"Who are you?"

What a great straight line. A few different superhero names rushed through my head, Whiskey Man being my favorite for its rather dubious heroism, but he might not have ever heard of whiskey here. "Call me Atticus," I said. "What's your name?"

"Hamal."

"Are you from Al Fayyum, Hamal?" He nodded. "Good. Home is upstairs. Let's go." I held out my hand to him and he moved at last. He rose to his feet and shot toward me, leaping into my arms and wrapping his legs around my waist like a much smaller child. He held me tightly around the neck.

"Okay, that'll work too," I said, and carried him up the staircase. It rose past another darkened floor, a chamber full of more wooden boxes, then another, and then a period of traveling through solid rock. We arrived finally in a small room, clearly modern, and just as clearly a changing room. Several different outfits hung on hooks, to allow Elkhashab to emerge into the world looking completely different from however he'd entered his house. A small bank of TV monitors showed four different views of some barren desert, no doubt the area around our exit point. No one was currently pictured. I dispelled our night vision.

There were no giant red b.u.t.tons here to tempt people; Elkhashab was confident that no one would find this place by accident. A simple switch on the wall next to the staircase opened a sliding trapdoor that turned out to be a piece of a fake boulder. Said boulder was hidden inside a thicket of thorns, which made our emergence a tad painful. but also completely hidden from view.

I wondered who had built all this cloak-and-dagger s.h.i.+t for Elkhashab. I wondered if they were still alive or if they had turned into dinner for the crocodile G.o.d below.

Once out of the boulder, I waited for the trapdoor to slide closed automatically, but it didn't. That meant that there must be a switch around somewhere to close it. After a bit of searching-made more difficult by Hamal's refusal to let go of me-I found a small painted b.u.t.ton at the base of the same boulder. That closed the door.

Following some footprints, I took the path of least resistance out of the thicket. We were on a rocky outcropping in the desert north of the lake. The center of Al Fayyum was a few miles away to the south.

"There, you see?" I said to Hamal. "Sunlight. You're safe now." The boy said nothing, but he began to cry. No tears, though-that was a bad sign. He needed fluids desperately, and the lake wouldn't provide any. It used to be freshwater, in ancient times, but today it's a salt.w.a.ter lake, cut off from the flow of the Nile.

With earth under my feet again, I replenished my bear charm and drew more to run quickly. I had no idea where to find a hospital.

I hugged the lakesh.o.r.e and headed south until I hit the suburbs of Al Fayyum and found a bazaar. People were looking at me curiously-what was that white man with the sword doing carrying that filthy boy?

It was a good time to gamble on basic human decency. I began to call for help in Arabic. "This boy needs water! I found him in the desert!" I was surrounded in no time by four or five locals. Outside Al Fayyum's oasis, the desert was harsh and unforgiving, and the people knew it well.

I broke the binding that fed magical energy to Hamal, and his grip about my neck slackened enough that I could lay him down and kneel by his side. Somebody had a canteen of water and put it up to Hamal's lips.

"Not too much. He really needs medical attention. I'm a stranger here. Is there a hospital nearby?" I wanted to keep things moving along before people started asking me questions like, "What were you doing in the desert?"

An argument broke out regarding the wisest course of action-calling an ambulance, or grabbing a doctor one person knew a block away, or carrying him all the way to the hospital ourselves because, you know, who knew when the ambulance would get there? For just a moment n.o.body was looking at me, so I cast camouflage and backed away.

They noticed me disappearing, but they couldn't figure out where I'd gone to. I stayed still and heard them quickly dismiss me, because the kid was what mattered. Exactly. Satisfied that Hamal would be taken care of and returned to his family, I hoofed it back to the ruins and gingerly crept into the thicket, where I pushed the b.u.t.ton on the bottom of the proper boulder. The smooth mechanism slid aside and I began my second descent into darkness, fully recharged, lips pressed tight in a grim line. It was far past time for the crocodile priest to get his.

Unfortunately, he couldn't get his until he showed up. I checked my cell phone on the way down: no messages from Yusuf in Cairo.

I parked myself next to the stairs on the floor where I'd found Hamal and settled down to wait. Elkhashab would be coming, I felt sure, to try out the Grimoire of the Lamb as soon as possible. And he'd do it at the altar with the Amun idols, not anywhere else, and when he did, I'd take a pound of flesh for Hamal and those other poor kids.

If Elkhashab didn't come back soon, the authorities might swarm down here and take care of everything, because Hamal would eventually start talking. I'd rather inform the authorities myself, though, after the grimoire was safely back in my hands.

It occurred to me to wonder why archaeologists had never found these chambers. They were buried deep, no doubt, and there wasn't a convenient pyramid above ground shouting, "Here's where all the plunder is!" but they had all kinds of little electromagnetic radar scanner doodads these days to search for chambers like these. My guesses were that Elkhashab had spoofed their findings with his ritual practice or greased some palms-or else the real Sobek was exercising himself to keep his treasures hidden. Considering how eager Bast was to have her book returned to her, I didn't think it unreasonable to expect Sobek to be just as protective of his legacy.

During the archaeological orgy at the beginning of the twentieth century, the Egyptian G.o.ds reveled in the attention they were getting around the world. But I knew that not everything had been found, and I'm sure the joy of the G.o.ds ebbed away when they saw that the new attention they received did not translate into new wors.h.i.+ppers. They were still keeping plenty of secrets. This place was one of Sobek's.

The more time I had to think, the more I began to respect Elkhashab's cleverness. He clearly had the talent and the stomach to do what was necessary to deal with demonkind, but he must have realized that continuing to kidnap and kill kids was simply unsustainable to do all he wanted to do. But if he could accomplish basically the same sorts of things by dispatching lambs instead of children, well, he could continue that ad infinitum. n.o.body cared if you slaughtered lambs. They expected you to slaughter them when they sold them to you.

A splash and a terrified bleat let me know that Elkhashab had finally arrived, lamb in tow. He'd feed his giant croc and then enter the room directly below. I drew Fragarach as silently as I could to get ready and crouched near the staircase.

The bleating continued and grew louder, and Elkhashab's quiet cursing could be heard underneath it.

"I'm going to tranquilize the next one and have done with it," he muttered. "Can hardly wait to sacrifice you. There. Stay there."

More bleating, then a soft plop as Elkhashab dropped something-perhaps the grimoire?-on the altar. "There, Nebwenenef. I have brought it, you see?" he said, his voice full of victory. There was rustling from what sounded like several plastic bags being set down and dull impacts from the contents inside hitting stone. A sharp metallic ring announced a knife being yanked from its sheath.

"But, first, I have older business to conduct. Hamal!" He crooned the name, lengthening the last syllable. I nearly snarled aloud. Most serial murderers don't want to know the names of their victims. It's easier to sleep at night if you have killed only victims instead of people with names and families. Elkhashab was a different kind.

I hadn't planned on him coming up here-I imagined sneaking down while he was busy doing something else-but if he wanted to stick his head up through that hole, so be it. It would be a cleaner and quicker death for him than I'd antic.i.p.ated.

Silently s.h.i.+fting so that I'd be behind his head when he came up the stairs, I c.o.c.ked my sword hand back. His boots made a dull, hollow sound on the stairs. His white cap rose out of the hole like a giant marshmallow, then the back of his neck, and I swung-but he must have heard or sensed something, because he ducked back down and Fragarach whiffed, clanging loudly against the staircase's main support.

"s.h.i.+t! Who's there?" Elkhashab cried.

I cursed silently and moved away from the stairwell. Only an idiot stays where the enemy can locate him.

"Is that you, Hamal? How did you escape?" The sorcerer thought about it and then realized that didn't make much sense. A ten-year-old boy wouldn't hang around to ambush him when he had an escape route handy. Elkhashab's conscious mind slowly caught up with what his subconscious had absorbed.

"No. That was a sword. It's you. The American wizard." He switched to English. "I know you're there, O'Sullivan. I don't know how you found this place, but you're going to die here."

He didn't say anything else, and I was faintly disappointed. I'd been hoping for a longer monologue. Perhaps he was waiting for me to respond? Fat chance of that. I wasn't going to sneeze or fart or do anything else to give away my position, least of all stick my head down the hole. Nor was he going to give me another free strike. It was something of an impa.s.se.

He was listening hard. I heard nothing but the occasional bleat of the lamb. Elkhashab grew weary of that after a while and began to move. He struck a couple of matches to light some candles on his altar. A bowl or two got picked up and put down again. He muttered unintelligibly; either it was just very low volume or it was a language I didn't understand.

A sharp intake of breath-a hiss of pain. What the f.u.c.k was he doing? The mumbling resumed, but it quickly rose in volume until it was distinguishable as a chant in an absurdly old language, one with lots of gutturals and fricatives.

G.o.ds below! He was summoning a demon, using his own blood so he could send it up here to off me. If he was occupied doing that, then he couldn't be watching the stairwell to take a potshot at me; he had to concentrate on the ritual. I decided to risk a peek.

Padding forward to the well, I stretched out p.r.o.ne on the floor, then held on to the edge with my right hand as I dropped my head and left shoulder down into the stairwell far enough to steal a quick look.

The light coming up from the lower chamber was a yellow-orange, but as I descended it turned red, and a sound like someone slamming a refrigerator door really hard foomped and rattled the staircase.

"Yes!" Elkhashab cried, and the light turned yellow-orange again. My eyes dropped below the ceiling to catch the crocodile priest in the midst of an ecstatic fist pump. He faced a demon in his circle of summoning, ignoring the choking brimstone fumes that filled the chamber. I could tell he was winding himself up for a cackle of glee before he told the sp.a.w.n to eat me, but then a deep-fried gravel voice answered in much the same tone of victory, and Elkhashab's face went slack as he realized something had gone horribly wrong.

"No!" His tone had changed to the raw falsetto of pants-c.r.a.pping panic. He was discovering that he could not cow his personal demon into submission with a broken seal, or coerce it to do his bidding with the seal of coercion broken as well, or indeed even banish it now. The scratch of my fingernail and his hurry to kill me had slain him. All he could do anymore was scream as the demon's claws opened up his belly and his guts slithered out. He screamed for a long time. The demon made sloppy chewing noises as he ate Elkhashab alive.

Justice.

I pulled myself up as silently as I could, but the demon had to know I was there. A demon's ability to sense prey was unmatched. He'd come for me next, but if I tried to escape up the stairwell, he'd come for me sooner and I'd be in a poor position to defend myself. As it was, I had a couple of advantages most mortals did not: I had a cold iron amulet bound to my aura, which protected me from most magic, and my sword cut through any armor. Demons didn't wear chain and plate or any other kind of traditional armor, but some of them had magical armor that made them immune to conventional weapons. Fragarach wasn't conventional.

I backed away from the staircase, because I had a feeling the demon was faster than me, even if I juiced myself up. I went ahead and did that, of course. If I made him come all the way up and locate me before he could charge, I'd have enough time to take my own shot. He might, in his hubris, even let me take a free swing at him.

Elkhashab finally died, and the demon seemed to lose interest. No fear and pain there anymore. The lamb, I realized, hadn't bleated in a while. I didn't know if it was dead or if it was hoping the demon wouldn't notice it. I hadn't seen it when I played peekaboo, but neither had I looked for it.

The demon was free to do as he wished. The one who had summoned him was dead; all bindings were off. The lamb, if it was still around, wasn't much of a soul. The demon came after me instead.

He made no noise on the steps with anything that could be called feet; there was simply a sort of deep drumroll and he was there-glowing orange like banked embers around the edges, a mouth and a distended stomach and two pairs of huge arms to shove food down the maw. He didn't have any legs at all; his black body was rounded like a balloon. He moved on his knuckles, and his mouth sneered at me.

"Khaja gorl mahka ..." the demon began. The voice sounded like a grumpy Tom Waits mixed with an acetylene torch. I didn't let him finish. I didn't understand him anyway. I lunged much faster than he expected and lopped off his front left arm at the elbow.

The creature was shocked but utterly savage in reply; he roared and swung at me with his right, able to stay balanced on the back two arms, and my attempt to block cost me a broken left wrist. Both of us staggered back, wounded and wary now. I decided that attacking was my best strategy; the demon was probably unused to playing defense, and I had to make the most of my few advantages, especially since I was operating on a limited supply of magic.