Another deep breath. Panic beat under my breastbone. I told myself it was silly. Japhrimel was right outside the door, and the god had always answered me before.

But ever since the night my god had called me out of slumber and laid on me a geas I couldn't remember, He had been silent. And losing that compass left me adrift in a way I'd never been before.

Cairo Giza had been Islum territory in the Merican era, but Islum had choked on its own blood during the Seventy Days War- along with the Protestant Christers and the Judics, not to mention the Evangelicals of Gilead. In a world controlled by the Hegemony and Putchkin, with psions in every corner, the conditions that had given rise to the Religions of Submission had fallen away. After a brief reflowering of fundamentalist Islum during the collapse of the use of petroleo, it became just another small sect-like the Novo Christers-and the old gods and state religions had risen again.

The single biggest blow to the Submissions had been the Awakening and the rise of the science of Power. When anyone could contract a Shaman or Ceremonial to talk to the god of their choice and spiritual experiences became commonplace-not to mention Necromances proving an afterlife existed and Magi definitively proving the existence of demons-most organized religions had died a quick, hard death and been replaced by personal worship of patron gods and spirits. It was, in all reality, the only logical thing to do.

Here in Egypt those old gods had returned with a vengeance, and the pyramid Ceremonials were starting to take on the tenor of a priesthood again. It was one of the biggest debates among psions, most of whom were religious only to the extent that the science of belief made Power behave itself. Necromances were generally more dedicated than most; after all, our psychopomps took the faces of ancient gods and acted a little differently from the average man's deities.

Part of that probably had to do with the Trial every accredited Necromance had to face. It's hard not to feel a little bit religious toward a god who resurrects you from the psychic death of initiation and stays with you afterward, receiving you into Death's arms when it is finally time.The question still remained-could a Ceremonial be a priest or priestess, and what exactly did the gods want anyway? Only nowadays, people weren't likely to murder each other over it. Not often, anyway. There was a running feud between the priestesses of Aslan and the Hegemony Albion Literary College, who said the Prophet Lewis was a Novo-Christer, but only ink was spilled in that battle, not blood.

I turned to my right. Sekhmet sat on Her throne, lion-headed and strangely serene, heat blurring up from the eternal fire in a black bowl on Her altar. The heady smell of wine rose, someone had been making offerings. Past Her, there was Set, His square-eared jackal-head painted the deep red of dried blood. The powers of destruction, given their place at the left hand of creation.

Necessary, and worshipped-but not safe.

Japhrimel's last gift to me before breaking the news that Lucifer had summoned me again had been a glossy obsidian statue of Sekhmet. That same statue of the Fierce One, repaired and burnished to a fine gloss, was set by the side of the bed in the boarding house Leander had found even now. Please tell me She isn't about to start messing around with me. I have all the trouble I can handle in my life right now.

I shivered, turned to the left. There, behind Thoth's beaky head, was the slim black dog's face of my own god, in his own important niche.

I breathed in, drawing kyphii deep into my lungs. A last respectful bow to Isis and Her son, and I began to walk to the left.

Thoth's statue seemed to make a quick movement as I passed it. I stopped, made my obeisance. Glanced up the ceiling, lasepainted with the figure of Nuit stretching through the skies.

Plenty of psions worshipped the Hellene gods, and there were colleges of Asatru and Teutonica as well as the Faery tradition in Hegemony Europa. The Shamans had their loa, and there were some who followed the path of the Left Hand and worshipped the Unspeakable. The Tantrics had their devas, and the Hindus their huge, intricate assemblages, Native Mericans and Islanders had their own branches of magick and Shamanic training passed down through blood and ritual; the Buddhists and Zenmos their own not-quite-religious traditions. There were as many religions as there were people on the earth, the Magi said. Even the demons had been worshipped at one long-ago time, mistaken for gods.

But for me, there had never really been any choice. I'd dreamed of a dog-headed man all through my childhood, and had taken the requisite Religious Studies classes at Rigger Hall. One of the first religions studied was Egyptianica, since it was such a popular sect-and my nape had tingled from the very beginning of that class. Everything about the Egyptian gods was not so much learned for me as deeply remembered, as if I'd always known but just needed reminding.

And the first time I'd gone into Death, He had been there; He had never left me since. Where else would I turn for solace, but to Him?

I reached His niche. Tears welled up, my throat full of something hard and hot. I sank down to one knee, rose. Stepped forward.

Approached His statue, the altar before it lit with novenas and laid with offerings. Food, drink, scattered New Credit notes, sticks of fuming incense. Even the normals propitiated Death, hoping for some false mercy when their time came, hoping to live past whatever appointed date and hour Death chose.

My rings sparked, golden points of light popping in the dark. From the obsidian ring on my right third finger to the amber on my right and left middle fingers, the moonstone on my left index finger, the bloodstone on my left third finger; the Suni-figured thumbring sparked too, reacting with the charge of Power in the air. And the Power I carried, tied to a demon and no longer strictly human myself. I sank down to my knees, my katana blurring out of its sheath. Laid the bright steel length on the stone floor in front of me, rested my hands on my knees. Closed my eyes and began to breathe.

Please, I thought. I am weary, and I hunger for Your touch, my Lord. Speak to me. You have comforted me, but I want to hear You.

My breathing deepened. The blue glow began, rising at the very corners of my mental sight. I began the prayer I'd learned long ago, studying from Novo Egyptos books in the Library at Rigger Hall. "Anubis et'her ka," I whispered. "Se ta'uk'fhet sa te vapu kuraph. Anubis et'her ka. Anubis, Lord of the Dead, Faithful Companion, protect me, for I am Your child. Protect me, Anubis, weigh my heart upon the scale; watch over me, Lord, for I am Your child. Do not let evil distress me, but turn Your fierceness upon my enemies. Cover me with Your gaze, let Your hand be upon me, now and all the days of my life, until You take me into Your embrace."

Another deep breath, my pulse slowing, the silent place in me where the god lived opening like a flower. "Anubis et'her ka," I repeated, and the blue light rose in one sharp flare. The god took me, swallowed me whole-and I was simply, utterly glad.

ALSO BY LILITH SAINTCROW.

DANTE VALENTINE NOVELS.

Working for the Devil Dead Man Rising The Devil's Right Hand Saint City Sinners To Hell and Back Dark Watcher Storm Watcher Fire Watcher Cloud Watcher The Society Hunter, Healer