Book and Priest exchanged a glance, the young cleric sighing in relief. “My thanks, sir,” he said, starting towards the right-hand path.

“You’re most welcome.” Player gave a bow, twirling a hand as he did so. “An actor’s insight is often disregarded, I find…”

His words died as something uncoiled from the shadows behind, a faint scrape of scales on stone causing Player to half turn. It seemed as if the darkness itself reached out to claim him, the body that sprang forth being completely black save for the gleam of light on its smooth, diamond-scaled skin. A flash of colour came as the thing opened its jaws, revealing a glistening red maw spiked at the corners with fangs the length of a sabre. They pierced Player from chest to groin as the beast snapped its jaws closed, venom dripping as it raised him high. The viscous liquid spattered onto the stone below, birthing smoking honeycomb marks wherever it fell.

Player failed to die despite the fangs speared through his form, struggling manically as the snake raised him up, a roar of agony and rage erupting from his mask. Hissing, it shook him, snake and prey blurring with sufficient violence to dislodge his mask. It spun down to clatter onto the walkway at Pilgrim’s feet. For a second his gaze was captured by the blank eye sockets, then another cry of pain drew his gaze back to the ugly spectacle above.

I told you, the voice said with a self-satisfied note of triumph as Pilgrim took in the sight of Player’s revealed face. His skin was a dark, mottled shade of crimson set in a snarl of agonised fury that revealed a set of elongated, sharp pointed teeth. His eyes were a dull shade of yellow beneath a brow riven by small, horn-like protrusions.

“Demon!” Pilgrim heard Book exclaim in shock before the huge snake vanished back into the shadows, taking its prize with it.

“Y ou knew what he was, didn’t you?” Maisha asked Pilgrim as he carried her along the walkway. Her strength had given out an hour before, causing her to sit down with a muttered request that they leave her. Instead, he had stooped to gather her into his arms and bore her on, ignoring her thinly voiced protestations. “Player, I mean to say,” she added with a cough.

“I suspected,” he said. “The Crucible’s blow should have killed him. And, however skilled he might have been with that crossbow, it was unlikely a high-status Arethian fop could have survived a journey all the way from his city to the Execration.”

“Makes one wonder what his mission might have been here.” She coughed again and allowed her head to loll against his shoulder. “After all, what manner of demon is given to prayer?”

“Perhaps he didn’t come to pray at all.”