"Don't you dare work your foul magic on me!" Mina cried angrily, striding toward him. "I won't-"

Nuitari tossed the rose petals into the air. They fell down around Mina as he recited the words of the magical sleep spell, the same spell he'd cast on her earlier.

This time, the spell worked. Mina's eyes closed. She swayed where she stood, then collapsed onto the floor. She would have bruised knees and elbows and a bump on her head when she awoke, but then, he'd warned her to lie down.

He knelt beside her, studied her.

She was, to all appearances, fast asleep, wrapped in the spell's enchantment.

He pinched her arm, hard, to see if she was shamming.

She did not awaken.

Nuitari rose to his feet. He cast one more look at Mina, then walked out of the room. He went over again in his mind Basalt's report.

The subject, Mina, is magic-resistant, Basalt had written, but with this qualification: she is resistant to the magic only if she does not know that magic is being cast upon her! she is resistant to the magic only if she does not know that magic is being cast upon her! Basalt had underlined this twice, Basalt had underlined this twice, lf a spell is cast upon her without her knowledge, the magic lf a spell is cast upon her without her knowledge, the magic-even the most powerful-has no effect upon her. However, if she is told in advance a spell is going to be cast upon her, she falls victim to it immediately, without even an attempt to defend herself.

Basalt concluded by writing, In several hundred years of practicing magic, I have never before seen a subject behave like this, nor has my fellow wizard In several hundred years of practicing magic, I have never before seen a subject behave like this, nor has my fellow wizard.

Nuitari stood outside Caele's room. Peering through the walls, the god could see Caele lying sprawled on his bed, indulging himself in an afternoon nap. Nuitari knocked on the door and called out the half-elf's name in a peremptory voice. He watched, amused, to see Caele jolt to wakefulness.

Stifling a yawn, Caele opened the door. "Master," he said. "I was just studying my spells-"

"Then you must have them inscribed on the backs of your eyelids," said Nuitari. "Here, make yourself useful. Take this book back to the library for me."

He tossed the white-bound spellbook of the White Robed wizard at Caele.

Instinctively, Caele caught it.

Blue and yellow sparks leapt off the white binding. Caele yelped and dropped the spell book to the floor. He thrust his burnt fingers into his mouth.

Nuitari grunted. Turning on his heel, he walked off.

This was all very strange.

Chapter 4.

Chemosh stood on the battlements of his cliff-top castle, gazing moodily out at the Blood Sea and thinking of various ways to avenge himself on Nuitari, rescue Mina, steal the Tower, and obtain the valuable artifacts stashed inside. He conceived and then discarded several plans, and after considerable thought, he was forced to admit that the prospect of achieving all of these goals was likely impossible. Nuitari was clever, curse him. In the eternal khas game waged between the gods, Nuitari had anticipated and thwarted Chemosh's every move.

Chemosh watched the waves break on the rock-bound coast. Below those waves Mina languished, trapped inside Nuitari's prison. Chemosh burned with a fierce desire to descend to the ocean floor and march inside and seize her. He avoided the temptation. Chemosh would not give Nuitari the satisfaction of mocking him. He would make Nuitari pay and he would get Mina back. He had yet to figure out how he was going to do this. Nuitari was in complete control of the win.

Almost. There was one piece on the board over which no one had any control. One piece that might give Chemosh the game.

Chemosh was thinking of this plan and that when he noted a wave, larger than the rest, rise up and move rapidly toward shore.

"Krell," he said to the death knight, who was skulking about in obsequious attendance upon his lord, "Zeboim is coming to pay me a visit."

Krell leapt a foot in the air. If steel could have lost color, his helm would have gone white.

Chemosh pointed. "Look at that wave."

Zeboim stood poised gracefully atop the mammoth wave. The water curled underneath her bare feet. Her hair streamed behind her. Sea foam clothed her. She held the wind in her hands and cast it forth as she came. Gusts started to buffet the castle.

"You might try hiding in the wine cellar," suggested Chemosh, "or the treasure vault, or under the bed, if you can fit. I'll keep her occupied. You had best hurry..."

Krell needed no urging. He was already running for the stairs, his armor clanking and rattling.

The wave broke over the battlements of Castle Beloved. The torrent of green water, tinged with red, would have drenched the god who stood there, if he had permitted the water to touch him. As it was, the sea swirled about his boots and cascaded down the stairs. He heard a roar and a clatter. Krell had been swept off his feet by the flood.

Zeboim calmly stepped onto the battlements. With a wave of her hand, she banished the sea, sent it back to fling itself in endless fury at the base of the cliff on which he had built his castle.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" Chemosh asked blandly.

"You have my son's soul in your possession!" said Zeboim, her aqua eyes blazing. "Free him-now!"

"I will do so, but I want something in return. Give me Mina," returned Chemosh coolly.

"Do you think I carry your precious mortal around in my pocket?" Zeboim demanded. "I have no idea where your little trollop has gone. Nor do I care."

"You should," Chemosh said. "Your brother is holding Mina against her will. Return Mina to me and I will free your son-if he'll go."

"He will leave," said Zeboim. "He and I had a little talk. He's ready to move on." She thought the deal over. "Give me that wretch Krell"-she ground his name between her teeth-"and we'll call it a bargain."

Chemosh shook his head. "Only if you will give me that annoying monk of Majere. First things first, though. You must restore Mina to me. Your brother has her locked in the Tower of High Sorcery beneath the Blood Sea."

"Rhys Mason is not not a monk of Majere," cried Zeboim, offended. "He is a monk of Majere," cried Zeboim, offended. "He is my my monk and he is passionately devoted to me. He adores me. He would do anything for me. If it hadn't been for him and his loyal dedication to me, my son would still be a prisoner of that-" monk and he is passionately devoted to me. He adores me. He would do anything for me. If it hadn't been for him and his loyal dedication to me, my son would still be a prisoner of that-"

Zeboim paused. Chemosh's last words had just hit her. "What do you mean-Tower of High Sorcery in the Blood Seal" Blood Seal" she blazed. "Since when?" she blazed. "Since when?"

"Since your brother restored the Tower of High Sorcery that was formerly at Istar. His newly built Tower is now at the bottom of the Blood Sea."

Zeboim scoffed. "A Tower in the Blood Sea? My My sea? Without my permission? You take me for a fool, my lord." sea? Without my permission? You take me for a fool, my lord."

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew." Chemosh feigned surprise. "Brother and sister, so loving and close. He must tell you everything. I assure you, Lady, that your brother, Nuitari, has raised up the Tower that once stood in Istar. He is restoring it to its former glory and he plans to bring Black Robe wizards beneath the ocean to populate it."

Zeboim was struck dumb. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She glared at Chemosh, convinced he was lying, yet she glanced back uncertainly at the sea that seemed to quiver with her outrage.

"The Tower is not far from here," Chemosh added, gesturing. "A stone's throw. Look to the east. Do you recall where the Maelstrom used to be? About one hundred miles from shore. You can see it from where we stand-"

Zeboim looked beneath the water. Now that it had been pointed out to her, the god was right. She could see a tower.

"How dare he?" Zeboim flared.

Thunder shook the castle walls, causing Krell, cowering at the bottom of a well, to quake in his boots. The impetuous goddess prepared to leap headlong from the battlements.

"We'll see about this!"

"Wait!" Chemosh shouted against the crashing roar of her ire. "What of our bargain?"

"That is true." Zeboim reflected more calmly. "We have business to finish before I shred my brother's eyeballs and feed them to the cat. You will free my son."

"If you free Mina."

"You will give me Krell."

"If you give me the monk."

"And you," said Zeboim haughtily, "you must put an end to these so-called Beloved."

"Am I to be denied disciples?" Chemosh demanded, aggrieved. "I might as well ask you to stop soliciting sailors."

"I do not solicit sailors," Zeboim flared. "They choose to worship me."

The two stood eyeing each other, both of them thinking how to gain what he or she wanted.

Mina will at last be in my grasp, Zeboim reflected. I'll have to turn her over to Chemosh eventually, but for a little while, I can use her to my own advantage.

Should I trust the Sea Witch with Mina? Chemosh asked himself, then thought, reassured, Zeboim does not dare harm her. I will keep her son's soul hostage until we make the trade.

As for Krell, tormenting him has grown to be a bore, Zeboim realized. My monk is far more valuable to me-not to mention entertaining. I will keep him.

Majere is a distinct threat, Chemosh was thinking. Zeboim is a minor irritant. If, as she claims, this meddlesome monk has switched his loyalties from the Mantis God to the Sea Witch, then Rhys Mason no longer poses a threat to me. I know how Zeboim treats her faithful. The poor man will be lucky to survive. And having Krell available to me instead of constantly hiding under the bed will be of considerable advantage.

As for this Tower... Zeboim moved on to the next irritant. I'm not surprised at anything that moon-faced little brother of mine would do. He'll pay for his impudence, of course. I'll shake his Tower to ruins! But why is the Lord of Death interested in a Tower of High Sorcery? Why should Chemosh care one way or the other? There's something more here than meets the eye. I must find out what.

So Zeboim didn't know about the Tower. Chemosh considered that interesting. I feared brother and sister were in league. Apparently not. What will she do? What can she do? Nuitari is not someone for even a sister to cross.

The sea rolled, and waves came and went as the two gods viewed this deal from every angle.

Finally, Zeboim said graciously, "I promise Mina will be restored to you. I know how to deal with my brother. Provided, of course, that you free my son's soul in return."

Chemosh was likewise gracious. "I could agree to that. I want Krell for myself. In return, I give you the monk."

Chemosh is up to something. He is giving in too easily, Zeboim thought, eyeing him.

She is giving in too easily. Zeboim is up to something, Chemosh thought, eyeing her.

Still, thought both, I'm getting the best of this bargain.

Zeboim held out her hand.

Chemosh took her hand and they concluded the deal.

"Bring Mina to me and I will start your son's soul on its journey to its next bloody conquest," said the Lord of Death.

"I will return with Mina," said Zeboim, "and I will let you know what I find out about this Tower. I'm sure there must be some mistake. My brother would never deceive me."

Liar, thought Chemosh.

"I merely told you as a courtesy," he replied nonchalantly. "What Nuitari does or does not do with his Tower holds no interest for me."

Liar, thought Zeboim.

"Until we meet again, dear friend," she gushed.

"Until we meet again," said Chemosh suavely.

"Ugh, how I hate that wretch!" Zeboim said to herself as she strode across the ocean floor. "I'll make him pay!"

"Conniving witch," Chemosh muttered. "I'll fix her." He raised his voice. "Krell! You can come out now! Mina will soon be restored to us, and when she is, I want to be ready to act."

Chapter 5.

Unaware his life had been used as a bargaining chip by his goddess, Rhys remained in Solace, as he had promised Gerard. Several days passed after their conversation, during which time Rhys saw very little of the sheriff. Whenever he did run across him, Gerard would always rush past with a wave of his hand and the muttered words, "Can't talk now, but soon. Very soon."

Rhys returned to his work at the inn, where he received a warm welcome from the inn's proprietor.

"I'm glad you're back, Brother," said Laura, wiping her hands on her apron. "We missed you, and not just for cutting up potatoes, either, though no one else around here can cut them into those neat little squares like you do."

"I am pleased to be back," Rhys said.

"You have a way about you, Brother," Laura continued, bustling about the kitchen. She lifted a lid and a gush of spicy steam rolled out of a kettle. She peered into the pot, dipped in a spoon, and shook her head. "Needs more salt. Where was I? Oh, yes. You have a kind of calm that spreads over everyone when you're around, Brother, and evaporates when you're not."

Lifting a ball of bread dough from a crock, she began to deftly knead it, working as she talked.

"The day you left, Cook quarreled with the scullery maid, who was so upset she spilled a pot of ham and beans and nearly scalded herself. Not to mention the two fistfights we had in the yard, and then there was the youngster who took a notion to slide all the way down the banister from tree-level to ground and ended up breaking his arm. When you're here, Brother, nothing like that ever happens. Everything just seems to go as smooth as my lady's backside.

"Oh, dear!" Laura clapped her hand to her mouth and flushed bright red. "I beg your pardon, Brother. I didn't mean to be talking about my lady's backside."

Rhys smiled. "I think you overrate my influence, Mistress Laura. Now, since it is close to supper, I should be starting on those potatoes..."

Rhys sliced potatoes and onions, hauled water, and listened sympathetically to Cook's complaints about the scullery maid, then he soothed the scullery maid, who didn't know what she could ever do to please Cook. He enjoyed working in the inn's kitchen. He liked the hectic times, such as dinner and supper, when he was often doing three things at once, working with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow, rushing about with no time to think of anything except worrying that the potatoes were underdone, or that the haunch of meat roasting on a spit over the open fire was cooking unevenly.

When the crowds departed and the doors of the inn closed for the night, Rhys enjoyed the peace and quiet, though there were mountains of crockery to wash, and kettles and pots to scrub, and the floor to sweep, and water to haul, and bread dough to mix so that it could spend the night rising. The simple, homely tasks reminded him of his life at the monastery. His arms elbow-deep in sudsy water, he would wash out ale mugs and reflect on Majere and wonder what the enigmatic god was doing and why he was doing it.

When Rhys ended up breaking a mug, he realized that he was still angry at Majere and that, far from abating, his anger was being fueled by the god's continued stubborn presence in Rhys's life. Like some spoilt and ill-behaved child whose parents persist on coddling him no matter how much he misbehaves, Rhys did not deserve the god's care of him; he felt guilty accepting it when he couldn't return it.