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poses no threat to your precious Tyrant.”
    Lykander ducked his head, chins spreading over his chest. “And what help do you need of us?” he wondered.
    “A fresh-slain body,” Anomius answered, pushing aside the emptied platter of venison and reaching for the salmagundy. “Of preference undamaged, a man or woman in their prime. A strong body to become my hound.”
    “A revenant?”
    Cenobar’s dark features paled and beside him Andrycus gasped; Rassuman shaped a gesture of warding. Even Lykander’s plump lips pursed in disgust.
    “It were best I attend the slaying,” Anomius said, undeterred. “Or even perform the act myself, but the corpse must be fresh.”
    “If these two roam Kandahar they may be found,” Cenobar protested. “Their descriptions can be posted among the lictors and the legions. And they may be brought to you.”
    “And do your lictors consort with Sathoman?” Anomius demanded. “Do your legions have eyes in Mherut’yi and Mhazomul and Kesham-vaj?”
    No answer came and he shook his head, turningfrom the salmagundy to the compote casually as if they discussed some trivial matter of etiquette. “No. What I need for this is one of my own creation.”
    “You ask that we aid you in foulest blasphemy,” Cenobar cried. “Lykander, this cannot be!”
    The plump wizard gave no immediate response but studied Anomius with a mixture of disgust and fascination, as if he looked on something horrifying—that very horribleness rendering it intruging.
    “Necromancy is the foulest thaumaturgy,” Cenobar insisted. “Shall we stoop to dark magic merely to please this creature?”
    “Would you have my aid or no?” Anomius wondered, his eyes on Lykander, unwavering. “Without this you shall have nothing of me.”
    “Xenomenus bade us give him whatever he might demand,” Lykander said slowly, turning from the gaunt figure across the table to study his companions. “And I take him at his word—he’ll refuse else.”
    “Xenomenus spoke of wine and wealth,” cried Cenobar. “Women or boys; not this.”
    “But still Xenomenus would defeat Sathoman,” Lykander said. “And without Anomius . . .”
    “He’d put all our souls in peril,” Cenobar argued.
    “Surely mine alone,” Anomius murmured, licking the compote’s sugar from his lips. “And that I’ll chance.”
    “Let us vote on it,” suggested Rassuman.
    “Aye,” Lykander agreed, “and should the vote be ‘nay’ and he refuse to aid us, then let those who deny him advise the Tyrant.”
    Faces paled then and eyes dropped, finding interest in hands and tabletop. Anomius wiped his mouth, smiling, and poured another glass. Lykander drummed fat fingers, summoning attention, and the seven sorcerers raised their heads, the voting silent, the scent of almonds brief on the warm air. In moments it was done and Lykander nodded, turning again to Anomius.
    “We’d have your aid, outlaw, so you shall haveyour body. But be warned—you shall be held accountable for its actions! Be they contradictory to our wishes, it and you shall burn together.”
    “I ask no more,” Anomius declared.
    “Then it shall be provided,” Lykander said, his voice somewhat less confident now, “and your magical powers shall be restored.”
    “Excellent.” Anomius sat back, emitting another belch, his smile satisfied. “You choose well, my friend.”
    “I am not your friend,” Lykander said softly.
    B ATHED and perfumed, dressed in a robe of silver-threaded black, Anomius was a more prepossessing figure than the sorry creature extracted from the oubliette. He remained ugly and small, but the restoration of his powers invested him with an aura of strength and a semblance of dignity so that it appeared the ranks of the Tyrant’s sorcerers were augmented as the eight similarly dressed men went down into the dungeons, guided by the chief argus, impressive in his kilt and cuirass of crimson dragon hide.
    That official halted, nervous, where a great vaulted