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Caina grabbed her wrist.
    “Wait,” said Caina. “Look at his shadow.”
    Admete frowned, and her eyes grew wide.
    Yestik’s shadow was pointing towards the lanterns.
    “Yestik,” said Admete. “What happened to you?”
    “He served,” said a deep voice, “a useful purpose. Possibly the first useful purpose he ever served in his life. A purpose that is now fulfilled.”
    Yestik’s eyes rolled up into his head, blood pouring from his mouth and nose and ears as his shadow slithered around him like a hungry serpent. He collapsed motionless to the ground, his eyes glassy and staring. 
    Nerina kept working, paying no attention to the dead man.
    “What the hell?” said Admete, yanking a dagger from her belt. “What happened to him?”
    “My dear Admete,” said the deep voice, “I am surprised you have not realized it yet.”
    A tall man with black hair and a long, gray-streaked beard stepped into the tomb, the hem of his ornate black robes whispering against the lead-plated floor. He moved with calm, easy confidence, and Caina felt the potent sorcerous power radiating from him. 
    That explained the three black shadows swirling around his feet like writhing banners of smoke. 
    “Tarniar,” said Admete, her voice tight with fear. 
    Caina took a step away from Admete, closer to the lanterns. Azaces growled and raised his massive scimitar. Nerina seemed oblivious to the danger, and kept poking at the intricate maze of mechanisms within the trapbox. 
    “A lead-lined tomb,” said Tarniar. “Clever. I should have realized it sooner.” He glanced at Yestik’s bleeding corpse. “Fortunately, our mutual friend was able to guide me here with a minimum of difficulty.”
    “What did you do to him?” said Admete.
    Tarniar grinned, his teeth white in his tangled gray beard. “I simply persuaded him to help me. He should be grateful, really. The traditional punishment for a thief is the loss of a hand. Though a man foolish enough to steal from an occultist of Anshan is usually crucified. Making his death useful was more merciful than he deserved.”
    Admete opened her mouth and closed it again, her eyes wide with fear. 
    “You,” said Tarniar, pointing at Caina. “I do not care who you are or why you are here, but you will leave at once. This is not your concern. Meddle with my business, and you will learn what it is to earn the wrath of an occultist of Anshan.” 
    “I know what’s in the box,” said Caina. “I cannot let you take it.”
    Tarniar laughed. “Who are you, then? An agent of the Imperial Magisterium? Or the College of Alchemists, perhaps? You wish to claim the idol for yourself?”
    “I want to see it destroyed,” said Caina. “Maatish necromancy is too dangerous to be used.”
    “Fool,” said Tarniar. “I shall take the power and use it to make Anshan strong. The world is changing, and chaos rises around us. The Padishah of Istarinmul shall fall, and civil war burns in the Empire. Ancient horrors stir in the dark places of the world. The day of the golden dead proved that. With the power of the idol, I will be the strongest occultist in Anshan, stronger than even Yaramzod the Black himself. The Shahenshah shall heed my wisdom, and I will lead Anshan to a new age of glory.” 
    “Or you’ll get yourself killed,” said Caina, “along with many other people.” 
    “Perhaps,” said Tarniar, stepping forward, his shadows slithering and whispering around him. “Or perhaps you shall be the first to perish, if you are foolish enough to aid this wretched thief in her folly. Stand aside, or I shall…”
    A loud click echoed through the tomb.
    “Of course,” said Nerina, straightening up with a sigh. “The torsion of the central gear was insufficient.” The trapbox clicked again, shuddered, and the massive lid rose a few inches. She sighed, stretched, and looked around. “Oh. Is something happening?” 
    “A few things,” said Caina.
    “Leave now,” said Tarniar, “or else I