talking.

'Well, I shall say no more then, other than you must remember they grow strong from illogical sources, that their image is often greater than their strength. There are some that are very powerful, but that is the same with men. You would not notice a man if he were not remarkable in size or strength or skill. But if that same man went berserk, he could cause a shocking amount of damage, and if he attacked a race that had never seen a man, he would terrify them.'

'I think I understand what you mean. When I feel the presence

of Nartis I'm paralysed…' Isak trailed off, unable to describe the

sensation.

'And that gives him strength over you. It is intentional – the Gods reject a shining image because it inspires wonder. And the more you are awed, the more powerful they grow; not only over you, but part of what sustains them is belief and praise. Gods are made stronger by belief: that you see them as greater, and worship them accordingly, that is one of the things that separates Gods from daemons.'

'One of the things?'

‘That is not an encouraged topic of conversation. The state of my eternal soul is debatable in any case when much of my time is spent hunting down followers of Azaer; I have no desire to be actively impious on top of anything else. King Emin will know men who will be happy to have those discussions. For now, you should accept that a daemon or ghost will try to terrify you, because then you open yourself to it and lend it strength.'

He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his palms over his cheeks, the rough skin rasping against his stubbled face. 'I think it's time for a practical demonstration.'

Isak stared in fascination, reaching out with his senses to feel the shape of what was happening to Morghien. The man started to hold up a hand to halt the Krann's efforts, but it was not necessary: one look at Morghien's features had been enough for Isak to draw back hurriedly and grasp the ghost of Eolis at his hilt.

The man had changed. Subtle weaves of magic had smoothed out the lines of his face, softening the ruddy colour of his cheeks and reducing the size of his nose. It was still Morghien, but Isak could see the features were now almost those of a woman's.

His voice had altered too. 'Keep your defences strong, don't leave yourself open,' Morghien said, but a musical note had entered his previously rough voice.

Isak felt his mouth dry as he tried to respond, but then he remembered Morghien's words. With an effort he could see past the glamour to the man's true features: and he was right, nothing had changed except for Isak's perception. With a smile he dismissed the weaves of the projected image.

Morghien shrieked in pain. His hands flew to his face as though Isak had just slashed him with a knife. He threw himself off the log and crashed face-down on to the ground. Isak jumped to his feet in alarm and Mihn rushed over with Vesna and Carel close behind. He held up a hand to them.

'No, get back – keep away from him. He didn't attack me.'

They did not look impressed with the order, but they complied sullenly. Morghien remained on the ground as they moved away.

A tense silence fell. Isak could hear the keening of a hawk in the distance, and the skitter of dead leaves as a gust swept them up and settled a few on Morghien's back, like the first effort to bury a man who was lying as still as a corpse.

At last he breathed out, sending a single leaf tumbling end over end. He took his hands away from his face with careful, deliberate movements and pushed himself up from the ground. His face was disturbingly pale and calm, all trace of the Aspect gone, though his cheek and eyebrow seemed to be trembling very slightly. Then he breathed again and the calm was abruptly broken as he gulped down air, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

'I'm sorry,' Isak began, 'truly. What did I do?'

Morghien felt his way back to the fallen log again and pulled himself on to it. After half a minute, some colour returned to his face and he began to explain. 'The fault was mine. I should have explained more of the nature of glamour. But there is no serious damage done.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am. Seliasei was hurt rather, but I think it's shock more than any-thing else. The glamour is part of what she is; a local Aspect is still a God. It is not vanity, but part of her very essence. When you cut through those weaves it was like slapping my face to distort my fea-tures – except I have a shape to revert to. Seliasei has only the image of herself to define her. Without the strength to extend it to a physical form, any distortion of that image makes her forget who she is.'

Isak looked stricken. 'I think I understand. I'm- Er, could you apologise to her for me?' He would have felt stupid saying that, but for the glimpse of fear and pain on Morghien's face. One thing he did remember was that death for a God was the loss of identity. A divine force could not be truly killed, but as Aryn Bwr had shown with the Crystal Skulls, it could be reduced to a voice on the wind, weakened to the point of non-existence and capable only of remembering that once it had been so much more. Isak had shivered at the prospect of eternity like that: a sense of loss the only sliver of self left.

'She will recover, but she will not come out in your presence again.

Even before that she was terrified of you. She's a local God, an Aspect, sharing some memories with Vasle and his view of history. They see the present in a completely different way to mortals. To her, you are partly to blame for the death of Vasle's brother, for it was partly you who proved Gods could be effectively destroyed.'

'Ah. And then I did something akin to just that. I'm sorry.'

'There's more of a problem than that. She had agreed to touch vour mind, to help you understand how Xeliath thinks you will be attacked. Now…' Morghien's voice trailed off. His eyes lost their focus as if he were listening to a faint voice behind him. Isak watched silently.

'We can but try,' he said aloud finally. Isak was burning to ask what had been decided, but he'd caused enough trouble – and besides, he was too impatient to listen to more explanations.

'Please, sit again.' Morghien motioned Isak to the fallen tree. Once they were facing each other again, Morghien closed his eyes and started breathing deeply. When he looked up to Isak again, he appeared calmer, still himself, but ready for whatever lay ahead.

He reached out and touched his fingertips to Isak's forehead. The white-eye recoiled slightly, then leaned forward so Morghien wouldn't have to stretch quite so far. As he did so, Isak realised that the muscles of his shoulders were rigid with anticipation, ready to strike out. He made himself relax and opened his thoughts again.

A chill breeze touched his cheek, like the caress of winter fingers. He closed his eyes to focus on the smooth sensation as it trembled over his skin. A tingling began on his forehead where Morghien was touching him, trickling down through his right eyebrow and into the cheekbone. The delicate sensation grew in strength and Isak felt the warmth of his body begin to seep from his skin. This time he was careful not to disturb the shade that was greedily leeching off him. Whatever it was, it lacked the strength to cause him any hurt, whether it was intended to or not.

In his mind, Isak was aware of an ancient odour – not actually unpleasant, but not enjoyable: the dry scent of a tomb, the smell of undisturbed years rather than a corpse, but still a dead place. The prickle of ice increased, sliding its way down to his jugular.

Now Isak stopped it gently, reaching around the helpless spirit to bind it and keep it still so he could see what he was dealing with. It still terribly weak, but it had drawn enough strength for the image