robes of the others fit tightly over their arms, her sleeves were voluminous. When she spread her arms wide, the

sleeves made a rippling motion, providing her with an eerie, not-of-this-world aspect. This was further enhanced by

her extremely pale complexion, a pallor that Raistlin suspected was probably enhanced by the skillful use of chalk.

She had darkened her eyelids with kohl, rubbed coral powder on her lips to make them. stand out in the flickering

light.

Her hair was drawn back from her head, pulled back so tightly that it stretched the skin over her cheekbones,

erasing many of her wrinkles, making her look younger. She was an impressive sight, one that the audience, in their

opiated state, appreciated to the fullest. Murmurs of admiration and awe swept through the arena.

Judith raised her hands for silence. The audience obeyed. All was hushed, no one coughed, no baby whimpered.

"Those supplicants who have been deemed acceptable may now come forward to speak to those who have passed

beyond," the High Priest called out. He had an oddly high-pitched voice for a man his size.

Eight people, who had been herded into a sort of pen on one side of the arena, now shuffled down the stairs in

single file, guided by the priests. The supplicants were not permitted to step onto the floor of the arena itself, but

were kept back by ropes.

Six were middle-aged women, dressed in black mourning clothes. They looked pleased and self-important as they

entered behind the priests. The seventh was a young woman not much older than Raistlin, who looked pale and worn

and sometimes put her hand to her eyes. She was also wearing mourning clothes, her grief was obviously fresh. The

eighth was a stolid farmer in his forties. He stood rock still, stared straight ahead, his face carefully arranged so as to

betray no emotion. He was not dressed in mourning and looked extremely out of place.

"Step forward and make your requests. What is it you would ask Belzor?" the High Priest called out.

The first woman was escorted to the fore by a priest. Standing in front of the High Priestess, she made her

request.

She wanted to speak to her deceased husband, Arginon. "I want to make sure he's fine and wearing his flannel

weskit to keep off the chill," she said. "This being what kilt him."

High Priestess Judith listened, and when the woman

finished, the High Priestess made a gracious bow. "Belzor will consider your request," she said.

The next woman came forward with much the same desire, to speak to a dead husband, as did the four who came

after.

The High Priestess was gracious to each, promising that Belzor was listening.

Then the priests led forward the young woman. She pressed her hands together, gazed earnestly at the High

Priestess.

"My little girl died of ... of the fever. She was only five. And she was so afraid of the dark! I want to make sure ...

it's not dark ... where she is...." The bereaved mother broke down and sobbed.

"Poor girl," said Caramon softly.

Raistlin said nothing. He had seen Judith frown slightly, her lips compress in a tight, forbidding smile that he

remembered ve ry well.

The High Priestess promised, in a tone somewhat colder than that she had used with the others, that Belzor would

look into the matter. The young woman was helped back to her place in line, and the priests led forth the farmer.

He appeared nervous but determined. Clasping his hands, he cleared his throat. In a loud and booming voice,

speaking very rapidly, without a pause for breath or punctuation, he stated, "My father died six months ago we know

he had money when he died 'cause he spoke of it when the fit was on him he must have hid it but we can't none of

us find it what we want to know is where the money is hid thank you."

The farmer gave a curt nod and stepped back in line, nearly trampling the priest who had come up to escort him.

The audience murmured at this; someone laughed and was immediately stifled.

"I am surprised he was permitted to come forward with such an ignoble request," Sturm said in a low voice.

"On the contrary," Raistlin whispered, "I imagine that Belzor will look upon his reque st with favor."

Sturm looked shocked and tugged on his long mustache. He shook his head.

"Wait and see," Raistlin advised.

The High Priestess once more raised her hands, commanding silence. The audience held its breath, an air of

excited expectation electrified the crowd. Most had been in attendance many times previous. This was what they had