Eye of the mongoose, tooth of the boar
Heart of a virgin, soul of a whore
Burn to their blackness, heat till they boil
Dip in the periapt, confounding the roil.”
Hands shaking with haste, Amanar removed the amulet. He wanted to wipe it dry on the instant and replace it about his neck, but this stage of the spell was critical. With long bronze tongs he lifted the stone beaker. Nearby, atop a white marble pedestal, was a small, clear crystal coffer, fragile seeming against even that smooth stone. Deliberately the mage tilted the tongs, pouring the boiling liquid over the gleaming box.
The words he muttered then were arcane, known only to him among the living. The scalding mixture struck the small coffer. The crystal shrieked as if it would shatter in ten thousand pieces. The liquid seemed to gather itself to fly away in steam. As if from a great distance, screams echoed in the room. Mongoose and boar. Virgin and whore. Abruptly there was silence. The noxious mix was gone, no drop of it remaining. The crystal walls of the coffer now contained gray clouds, shifting and swirling as if before a great wind.
Breathing heavily, Amanar set the beaker and tongs aside. Confidence was flowing back into him. The haven, however temporary, was prepared. He wiped the amulet clean, inspecting it minutely before placing it once more about his neck.
From below rose the dolorous tone of a great bronze gong. Smiling, the mage unbarred the door and took up the crystal coffer beneath his arm. The gong echoed hollowly again.
Amanar made his way directly to the alabaster walled audience chamber, its domed ceiling held aloft by carven ivory columns as thick as a man’s trunk. Behind his throne reared a great serpent of gold. The arms of the throne were hooded vipers of Koth, the legs adders of Vendhya, all of gold. As he surveyed the assemblage before him, the necromancer allowed no particle of his surprise to touch his face. The S’tarra he had expected knelt with heads bowed, while five young women he had definitely not expected, in gossamer silks, hands bound behind their backs, were forced to prostrate themselves before the throne.
Amanar sat, carefully holding the crystal coffer on his lap. “You have that which I sent you for?” he said.
Sitha stepped forward. “They brought this, master.” The S’tarra Warden presented an ornate casket of worked gold, the lid set with gemstones.
The mage forced himself to move slowly, but still his fingers trembled as he opened the casket. One by one, four jewels the like of which no man had ever seen, mounted in pendants of silver or gold, were casually tossed on the mosaic floor. A blood-red pearl the size of a man’s two thumbs. A diamond black as a raven’s wing, and big as a hen’s egg. A golden crystal heart that had come from the ground in that shape. A complex lattice of pale blue that could cut diamond. All were as nothing to him. His hand shook visibly as he removed the last, the most important. As long as the top joint of a man’s finger, of midnight hue filled with red flecks that danced wildly as Amanar’s palm cupped the stone, this was the pendant that must be kept from Morath-Aminee.
He waved the golden casket away. “Dispose of those trifles, Sitha.” His S’tarra henchman bowed, and gathered the pendants.
Almost tenderly Amanar swathed the dark stone in silk, then laid it in the crystal coffer. When he replaced the lid, he breathed a sigh of relief. Safe, at last. Not even Morath-Aminee would be able to detect what was in there, for a time, at least. And before that could happen he would have found a new haven, far away, where the god-demon would never think to look.
Clutching the crystal box firmly, Amanar turned his attentions to the women lying before him with their faces pressed to the divers-colored tiles. They trembled, he noted with idle satisfaction.
“How came you by these women?” the mage demanded.
Surassa, who had led the foray, lifted a scaled head. The dark face was expressionless, the words sibilant. “Before Shadizar, master, we spoke the words you told us, and ate the powders, that the glamour might be on us, and none should see us enter.”
“The women,” Amanar said impatiently. “Not every last thing that happened.” He sighed at the look of concentration that appeared in the S’tarra’s red eyes. When they knew a thing by rote, it was difficult for them to separate one part.
“The palace, master,” Surassa hissed finally. “We entered the palace of Tiridates unseen, but when we came to the place where that which you sent us to seek was to be, only the casket was to be found. Taking the casket, we searched then the palace. Questioning some, and slaying them for silence, we found the pendants about the necks of these women, and slew the men who were with them. Leaving then the palace, we found that, as you had warned us, the glamour had worn off. We donned the robes—”
“Silence,” Amanar said, and the saurian creature’s words ceased at once. For their limited intelligence he had commanded them to fetch the casket and all five pendants, fearing they might make a mistake in the pressure of the moment and bring the black diamond instead of that which he needed. Yet despite all his careful instructions they had managed to increase their risk of being caught by taking these women. Rage bubbled in him, made all the worse for knowing that punishing them would be like punishing dogs. They would accept whatever he did, and understand not a whit of why. The S’tarra, sensing something of his mood, shifted uneasily.
“Bring the women before me,” the necromancer commanded.
Hastily the five women were pulled to their knees and the bare covering of their silks ripped away. With fearful eyes the kneeling, naked women watched Amanar rise. He walked thoughtfully down the line of them. Severally and together, they were beautiful, and just as important to him, their dread was palpable.
He stopped before a pale blonde with ivory satin skin. “Your name, girl?”
“Susa.” He quirked an eyebrow, and she hastily added, “Master. I am called Susa, an it please you, master.”
“You five are the dancing girls Yildiz sent to Tiridates?”
Her blue eyes were caught by his dark ones, growing more tremulous as he watched. “Yes, master,” she quavered.
He stroked his chin and nodded. A king’s dancing girls. Fitting for one who would come to rule the world. And when the last jot of amusement had been wrung from them, their puny souls could feed Morath-Aminee.
“Conan will free us,” one of the girls suddenly burst out. “He will kill you.”
Amanar walked slowly down the line to confront her. Slender and long of leg, her big, dark eyes stared defiance even as her supple body trembled. “And what is your name, girl?” His words were soft, but his tone brought a moan from her throat.
“Velita,” she said at last.