Even sitting in the dark, Cera could feel Jhesrhi give her a sour look. Perhaps before attempting to lighten the mood, she should have remembered that the sellsword, for all her good qualities, mostly lacked a sense of humor. A flaw no doubt exacerbated by the fact that at the moment, there truly wasn’t much of anything to laugh about.

“With Sarshethrian dead,” Jhesrhi said, “we’re back where we started: trapped.”

“Could we spy on Lod and his creatures?” Cera asked. “Just watch and see how they open a door into Rashemen?”

“We’ll have to try if we can’t think of a better plan,” the wizard replied. “But it won’t be easy. The undead know we survived. They’ll be on the lookout for us. And what if we need to be up close to really see how to control the arches?”

Cera shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone surface beneath her, removed her helmet, and ran her fingers through her sweaty, tangled curls. “Maybe,” she said reluctantly, “I do know another way.”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s say I’m a sunlady who allied herself with Sarshethrian because even that was better than letting the undead overrun Rashemen.”

“You are, give or take.”

Cera smiled for an instant. “Yes, but bear with me. I’m a sunlady. You, however, are a fire spirit Sarshethrian bound into his service, and when he died, you regained your freedom. Now you want to escape the deathways, and Lod’s the one who can let you out. In exchange, you’ll help him conquer Rashemen. Ordinary mortals, after all, are nothing to you. To prove your good faith, you’ll give him the prisoner you captured: me.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, I’m plainly a human being, not an elemental.”

Cera took a moment to choose her next words carefully. “Of course you’re human, but since you stole Tchazzar’s might, you’re also … special. Why do you think the stag men gave you their allegiance? Because they were fey, and you looked like a mighty fey or spirit to them.”

“I … it doesn’t matter. Because the scheme would also require me to deceive Lod, and I’m a bad liar.”

“How long did you keep Tchazzar beguiled?”

“He was mad and blind with, well, lust.” Jhesrhi’s emphasis bespoke her revulsion. “The bone naga won’t be.”

“But you have moments when you think a fire’s thoughts, and human concerns recede. I’ve seen it. And like any wizard, you know how to manipulate the state of your own consciousness. Be living fire when you approach Lod. Then he won’t see the emotions that would give you away.”

“Like being upset at the prospect of what’s going to happen to you? Because it will be bad. Even if I can convince the undead to make common cause with a creature of fire, they won’t be kind to a cleric of the Yellow Sun.”

“I’ll count on your glibness to convince them I’ll be more useful alive than dead.”

“I already told you, I don’t have any glibness.”

“Well, even if they kill me, it’s better for one of us to escape than neither. Someone has to find Aoth, stop the undead, and pay back that little turd Dai Shan. Don’t you think?”

Jhesrhi sat in silence for a few breaths. Then: “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It was the best chance, for Jhesrhi if not for her. “Just promise me one thing. If they don’t only kill me, if they turn me into one of them, burn me up if you possibly can.”

“I’ll try to keep it from coming to that.”

“I know you will.” Cera put her helmet back on. “We should hurry back and find them while we can. Amaunator grant they haven’t moved on already.”

“They haven’t,” Jhesrhi answered, her garments rustling as, presumably, she too stood. “Unless it needs to run away, every war band, even an undead one, bides to rest and put itself back in order after a battle.”

Threatened with a hand-and-a-half sword in the grip of one of Rashemen’s greatest warriors, Nyevarra reflexively sought to spring to her feet. But weakness made her flounder and nearly fall back down again.

That was bad. But her vampiric strength would return, and in the meantime, maybe she could stall. Her sudden appearance in the Iron Lord’s personal chambers was understandably alarming, but even so, in her mask and vestments, she looked like an ordinary hathran.

“Majesty,” she began.

Mangan Uruk called up his rage without any of the shuddering, stamping, howling, gnawing on a shield rim, petty self-mutilation, or other tricks required by less accomplished berserkers. Only a sudden wild light in his eyes afforded even an instant’s warning as he sprang and slashed at Nyevarra’s neck.

Somehow, she twisted out of the way of the cut, and as she did, she discerned the reason for the failure of her deception. Her right hand was as it ought to be, but the left had warped and darkened into a cloven stump like the terminus of a wasp’s leg. It was as if the ekolid had concluded it could never possess her and so had spitefully betrayed her to her foe.

Reckless but preternaturally strong and fast, Mangan immediately pivoted and cut a second time. Nyevarra dodged, but less successfully. The blade sliced her shoulder, pulled free, and whirled down for a stroke to the guts.

Instinct told her she wouldn’t be able to dodge that one either. Blocking out the belated flare of pain in her shoulder, she snarled a word of warding and made a pushing motion with her good hand. With a clang, the bastard sword rebounded from the invisible shield she’d conjured to deflect it.

This, she realized, was the way to survive. A physical assault stirred her predatory instincts and made her want to answer in kind, but she wouldn’t be a match for Mangan until her strength returned, and conceivably, not even then. She had to oppose him with witchcraft, one difficulty being that, while he was intent on slaughtering her, she couldn’t achieve her purpose if she killed him, visibly wounded him, or even made sufficient noise to alarm people elsewhere in the fortress.

Mangan sidestepped and cut at her head. She jumped back out of range without an inch or an instant to spare, kept on retreating, rattled off words of power, thrust her good hand at him, and simultaneously puffed out her breath at his face.

He faltered as the stream of noxious fumes engulfed him, but only for a heartbeat. Then, shaking off the nausea, he rushed her again.

Curse it! Another hastily conjured shield kept his blade from driving home, but she couldn’t count on that trick working every time, nor did she want anyone to take note of the recurring clash of steel. She chanted and swirled her hands in the air.

To her dismay, the ekolid hand, if it even could be described as such, turned out to be awkward. It was attached to a wrist of sorts, but the joint didn’t bend in precisely the way a human wrist did, and for a second, Nyevarra felt the pattern of force she was weaving threatening to dissolve. But she spoke her words of power even more insistently and made reinforcing flourishes with her human hand, and that compensated for the fumbling of the demon limb.

Like the curtains of soft, subtle lights that sometimes danced in the northern sky, color rippled into existence between her and the berserker. The flowing phosphorescence was beautiful, and despite his fury, Mangan hesitated to gawk at it.

But as before, it was plain the spell would hold him only for a moment. His jaw clenched, and his grip on his sword hilt tightened as he started to break free.

Risking an attack, one she almost certainly couldn’t avoid since she’d be moving right into it, Nyevarra stepped into the center of the luminous haze. To her relief, Mangan didn’t slash or stab at her. But he would in another instant unless she forestalled it.

She grabbed his head between her two hands and stared into his eyes. Her conjured light had muddled him. Perhaps, in so doing, it had opened a breach in his psychic defenses through which a vampire’s power of command could stab to more permanent effect.