Part 12 (1/2)

Shakar caht finished weaving itself together and faded to white He stood unsteadily before the supernatural projection as the ebony figure coalesced within its wall of witchfire and regarded hiether in the stillness

”Speak, Jullah rend your soul! You are Eldred the Trader, are you not?”

The veils of lighta short, bearded Shee blurred ale

”Fool,” said a voice that was not a voice, ”do you iine that a trader would visit you thus?”

The Sheian with a bald,eyes afire with contempt seemed to sear into Shakar's body

”Who are you?” cried the Keshanian ”Why do you torment me?”

”I am called Ethram-Fal and I do not torment you I study you Froone”

Shakar's h cah lips drawn back from teeth clenched in a death-like rictus

”Study?” shouted the Keshanian ”Are you ive you all I have for more of it!”

”Yes,” said Ethram-Fal, ”of course you would Tell me, when did you use the last of it?”

Shakar forcibly cal breath

The hand that gripped the silver box clung to its burden so tightly that pain rippled through the knuckles

”Yesterday reat sorcery I need er than I had thought Has the pain begun yet?” The voice of Ethram-Fal was clinical and expressionless

Shakar could scarcely contain his rage and need

”Yes!” he cried ”My chest is gripped in a vise of fire Now givein the Keshanian's brain like a struck gong, driving hi cloud of inky blackness poured over the Stygian's scornful features, transforure suspended in a curtain of ? You are too weak and witless to even ood slave Take solace in the fact that you have provided a lesson to Ethran”

With an inarticulate howl of hate, Shakar opened the silver box and brought it to his face Thrusting out his tongue, he licked the polished inner surface clean He hurled the box aside and staggered drunkenly to his feet

”I'll kill you!” he railed,both hands in a swift, arcane series of motions that ceased with both fists extended toward the dark forht shi+ before theuished like a torch in a downpour as Shakar cried out in anguish

”Your powers fade,” said the voice that was not a voice ”You ht want to cut your own throat That would” be both quicker and easier than the death which noaits you Goodbye, Shakar”

The Keshanian lunged at the apparition with flailing fists, passed into it without resistance and rebounded from the marble wall He sprawled on the floor, stunned, with Ethra in his skull prone and helpless, Shakar watched the eldritch projection flow into itself and fade until all that ree etched upon his retina

The Keshanian tried to get up, but his legs felt paralyzed The tortured nerves of his body jerked spashtly back around his chest The effect was spreading, flickering up the sides of his neck to drive nails of agony into his temples A desperate sanity surfaced in the black warlock's bried himself down the hallway to his study The labored rasp of his breathing was the only sound in the dis were useless and the bands around his chest constricted until he grew dizzy and held to conscious action only through sheer force of will

In the study he used his arms to draw himself up the front of his desk and jerk open a drawer It fell fro its contents upon the floor The black-crystal vial broke with a liquid crunch, spattering the marble with translucent syrup Shakar let hi the bamboo spike He held the bloodstained weapon before rheuripped the spike firainst the flesh of his throat