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and Caina started to shiver. 
    What were they going to do with her?
    Boots clicked in the hallway, and a key rattled in the door’s lock. The door started to open, but got stuck against the frame. Someone cursed and kicked it, and the door swung open with a shriek of rusted hinges.
    Ikhana stood in the corridor outside, two of the Istarish slavers besides her.
    “Good. She is awake,” said Ikhana, fingering the black dagger at her belt. “The Master requires her now. Take her.”
    Caina pressed herself against the far wall, heart hammering with dread. The men reached in the cell, seized her arms, and dragged her out. Caina fought, or tried to, but the men held her fast.
    “Also, gag her,” said Ikhana, her face expressionless. “If she disrupts the lesson, the Master shall be wroth.”
    One of the men nodded, produced a length of rag, stuffed it into Caina’s mouth, and tied it behind her head. Then they carried her out the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Ikhana opened another door, and they stepped into an vast stone room, dozens of square pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling. More strange blue light filled the room, coming from glowing glass spheres upon iron stands. The Magisterium manufactured and enspelled those spheres, Caina remembered, selling them by the thousands. 
    A dozen men and women stood near the far wall, speaking in low voices. Unlike the slavers, they wore ornate black robes, tied about the waist with crimson sashes. Magi, Caina realized, brothers and sisters of the Imperial Magisterium. 
    A metal table stood before the assembled magi, its corroded surface marked with dark stains. The slavers wrestled Caina onto the table and shackled her wrists and ankles to the corners. The metal felt very cold through her clothes, and even colder against the bare skin of her wrists and ankles. 
    A cane tapped against the flagstones, and the assembled magi felt silent.
    Maglarion limped between the table and the magi, leaning upon his cane, his white hair ghostly in the pale light, his good eye hidden in shadow.
    “Welcome,” he said, speaking in High Nighmarian. “Welcome.” He smiled and spread his hands. “Do you know why you are here?”
    “This had better be worth the risk,” said one of the magi, a sullen man with a square jaw. “The practice of necromancy carries the death sentence. If the high magi or the Ghosts get word of this…”
    “Nothing is accomplished without risk, Kylan,” said Maglarion. “If you are too timid to face that, then you may leave. But if you are strong enough to stay, then you will indeed see the power that lies within reach of the strong.”
    Kylan scowled, but said no more.
    “You are here,” said Maglarion, “because you are wiser than your peers. You realize that the Emperor’s ban against the necromantic sciences is foolish and short-sighted. In the days of the Fourth Empire, when the magi ruled, the Empire was strong. The commoners knew their place, and the magi used the blood of slaves to fuel mighty spells.” 
    The magi nodded in agreement.
    “And I am here,” said Maglarion, “because of my mastery of the necromantic sciences, and I mean that in the most literal sense. For I was born four hundred years ago, during the War of the Fourth Empire, and I studied at the feet of the great masters of those days, whose like cannot be found in the Magisterium today. And it is through necromancy that I have done what every god has promised, but cannot do - I have transcended death through my skill, attained immortality through my power. And you, too, may attain immortality - if you are strong enough.” 
    “And how did you attain this?” said Kylan, still dubious. 
    “Power is the essential principle of sorcery,” said Maglarion. “Or, more precisely, the source of a spell’s power. A magus can draw upon his mind to empower a spell,” he gestured, and his cane floated into the air, “or upon the elements of earth, wind, and water. And the