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that was the name of the spirit the warlock had tried to summon, and he was willing to play the part if it
    would help him complete this phase of his task more easily. “Yes, Master,” he replied.
    “No,” the wizard said. “You’re not Eenonguk. Eenonguk is a babau demon.” He dropped the athame to clank on the floor and snatched for the wand sheathed on his hip.
    Tsagoth hurled himself forward. As he crossed the boundary of the pentacle, his muscles spasmed, and he staggered. But since the warlock hadn’t drawn the figure to imprison creatures of his precise nature, it couldn’t contain him.
    It had delayed him, though. The wand, a length of polished carnelian, had cleared the sheath, and the Red Wizard nearly had it aimed in his direction. The blood fiend sprinted fast as ever in his long existence, closed the distance, and chopped at the conjuror’s wrist with the edge of his lower left hand. The blow jolted the rod from the wizard’s grasp.
    Tsagoth grappled the Red Wizard, bore him down, and crouched on top of him. He gave the wretch a moment to struggle and feel how helpless he was then bared his fangs.
    The display made him feel a pang of genuine thirst, for all that the blood of humans was thin and tasteless stuff. Resisting the impulse to feed, he stared into his captive’s eyes and stabbed with all his force of will, stabbed into a mind that, he hoped, terror had disordered and rendered vulnerable.
    The Red Wizard stopped squirming.
    “You will do what I tell you,” Tsagoth said. “You will believe what I tell you.” “Yes.”
    “You meant to summon me here and you did. Afterward, you bound me without incident.”
    “… without incident,” the mage echoed.
    “And now you’ll see to it that I’m assigned to the house of Aznar Thrul.”
    His broad, tattooed hand numbed by all the alcohol he’d already consumed, Aoth Fezim carefully picked up the white ceramic cup and tossed back the clear liquor contained therein. The first few measures had burned going down, but now it was just like drinking water. He supposed his mouth, throat, and guts were numb as well.
    His opponent across the table lifted his own cup, then set it down again. He twisted in his chair, doubled over and retched.
    Some of the onlookers—those who’d bet on Fezim to win the drinking contest—cheered. Those who’d wagered on his opponent cursed and groaned.
    Aoth murmured a charm, and with a tingle, sensation returned to his hands, even as his mind sharpened. It wasn’t that he minded being drunk, to the contrary, but it was still relatively early, and he feared passing out and missing all the revelry still to come. Better to sober up now and have the pleasure of drinking himself stupid all over again.
    He waved to attract a serving girl’s attention and pointed at the length of sausage a fellow soldier was wolfing down. The lass smiled and nodded her understanding, then gave a start when a screech cut through the ambient din. Indeed, the entire tavern fell quiet, even though the cry was nowhere near as frightening as it could be when a person heard it close at hand or could see the creature giving voice to it.
    At the same moment, Aoth felt a pang of … something. Discomfort? Disquiet?
    Whatever it was, nothing could be terribly wrong, could it? After an uneventful flight up the Pass of Thazar, he and Brightwing were properly billeted in the safety of Thazar Keep. He’d seen to his familiar’s needs before setting forth in search of his own amusements, and in the unlikely event that anyone was
    idiot enough to bother her, she was more than capable of scaring the dolt away without any help from her master.
    Thus, Aoth was tempted to ignore her cry and the uneasiness that bled across their psychic link, but that wasn’t the way to treat one’s staunchest friend, especially when she was apt to complain about it for days afterward. Consoling himself with the reflection that even if there was a problem, it would likely