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ask you to do nothing until I return. By that time, my preparations will be complete, and I will share my secret with you.”
    And Helm Dwarf-friend, Vhok said to himself, I will witness your fall from grace. I will be the instrument of your utter and unending misery. Mark my words.
    For a moment, the cambion reveled in the image of the human mercenary exposed as a fraud and a traitor to his own city. The half-fiend daydreamed the scene playing out, the folk of Sundabar gathered in the square, bearing witness to Dwarf-friend’s downfall and Vhok’s triumph.
    A triumph that would not come to pass without the Banites’ aid.
    “Very well,” Holt said, just a hint uncertainly. “We shall concede this secrecy to you for the moment. But we will
    not seal this alliance, at least not yet. Though you have made a compelling case showing the mutual benefit of our cooperation, you have not assuaged my concerns over the outcome should you—we—fail. If we cannot unseat Helm Dwarf-friend from the Master’s Hall, you and your army simply return to your infernal pit beneath the ground, little the worse for wear. But we”—he gestured around the chamber—”we are drawn out, exposed, and our power crushed between the city and temples. That does not sit well with me. You must bring proof that you can lead the populace, control them. Only then will we lend you our aid.”
    The chamber was quiet for some moments longer. Vhok again resisted the urge to grimace, though for a different reason. Dreadlord Holt Burukhan was a fanatic, but the half-fiend grudgingly acknowledged that he was not a complete fool. All the risk lay in the Banites’ lap, and the priests knew it.
    No matter, Vhok thought. Once I have the power of the Lifespring, convincing them of the plan’s worth will be the simplest of things. They will feel foolish for ever doubting me. I will have this city. And Bane be damned.
    The meeting was over. The gathered assemblage rose to their feet and began to slip out one by one, each by magical means of one sort or another. Vhok watched the priests as they vanished, leaving behind nothing more than a sparkle of magic or a zephyr of breeze to mark their passing. In moments, only he and Zasian remained behind.
    “He is a fool,” Vhok said at last, sighing loudly. “A fool’s fool.”
    The remark drew a raised eyebrow from Zasian. “Perhaps, but such comments are dangerous. He or his spies might be listening to us at this very moment.”
    “It’s all right,” Vhok said. “I warded the room before we began tonight.”
    Zasian nodded. “Wise,” he replied. “As did I. Burukhan rarely gives proper consideration to such precautions, I fear.”
    “Exactly,” the cambion said. “A fool. And don’t think I don’t know you feel the same way about him, Zasian. I see the wisdom in your eyes—wisdom that flinches whenever that bag of winds speaks. For all his dedication and charisma, Dreadlord Holt Burukhan is not best suited to lead your church, Banite. You are far more able than he to command the hordes who worship your Black Hand.” Vhok knew he spoke that last bit with more sarcasm than was probably wise, but he couldn’t refrain from letting his true feelings trickle out.
    Zasian seemed to ignore the jibe. “It is not so uncommon for a man to serve as the power behind a throne,” he said. “Sometimes the masses need a face—a ‘bag of winds’ who can work them into a fervor on his behalf—more than they need a wizened contemplator. I accomplish far more behind the scenes, away from the scrutiny he receives. Burukhan can be the king. I prefer the role of kingmaker.”
    Vhok smirked. “If you say so. I could not be so content in such a role.” Then his eyes narrowed. “When we have the city, is it your intention to continue to work behind the scenes?” he asked.
    Zasian smiled, a charming grin that gave the ladies unsteady knees. “Almost assuredly,” he purred. “Though I’m sure that when Kaanyr Vhok sits in