What might have been a faint answering nod descended into Morgan’s hands as he closed his eyes, feigning an attitude of prayer. Again he triggered the first stage of the Thuryn trance, this time going almost immediately into deeper and deeper levels, reaching, questing…

WENCIT opened his hand and gazed at Derry’s Camber medallion again, then passed it to Rhydon, who slipped it into a pouch at his belt. The Deryni sorcerer still seemed calm, composed, but Derry thought he detected a touch of irritation, a hint of unease. The torchlight cast ruddy highlights on Wencit’s hair, making him seem even more malefic in the wavering shadow-play, and Derry was suddenly reminded that he was playing for his life. The thought sobered him as nothing else could have done at that moment, for he could no longer entertain any doubt that Wencit would kill him without a qualm if it suited his purpose. He felt the icy gaze upon him again and forced himself to meet it, tried to will his growing dread to recede.

“So,” Wencit said with a sinister calm to his voice, “I wonder what we should do with this bold interloper, Rhydon. This spy in our midst. Shall we kill him?” He leaned both hands on the arms of Derry’s chair, his face very close to Derry’s.

“I suppose we could feed him to the caradots,” Wencit continued conversationally. “Do you know what a caradot is, little lordling?”

Derry swallowed with difficulty but would not trust himself to answer. He had a suspicion. Wencit smiled.

“I gather that you are not acquainted with caradots,” Wencit murmured, looking pleased. “I fear ’tis a subject sadly lacking in your education, young Derry. This Morgan of yours has been very lax. Rhydon, would you be so good as to show him a caradot?”

With a sly, languid nod, Rhydon moved closer to Derry’s left side and drew himself erect, then traced a peculiar symbol in the air with his forefinger as Wencit moved behind the chair to Derry’s right. At the same time, Rhydon murmured words of an ancient spell under his breath, uttered in an alien tongue whose sound grated on the senses.

The very air crackled at the sorcerer’s fingertips, and a noxious scent of molten lead tickled at Derry’s nostrils. In that instant, which seemed all too endless, Derry caught a glimpse of a creature straight from Hell: a shrieking, mawing terror of green and crimson and gore, with a gnashing, ravening mouth and undulating tentacles that reached hungrily toward his face, closer, closer…

Derry screamed, squeezing his eyes closed and struggling hysterically in his bonds as he fancied he could feel the creature’s acid breath on his face. He heard the monster roar, the hot, leaden smell almost overpowering in his nostrils.

Then there was only a sudden, deathly silence, a breath of fresh breeze; and he knew that it was gone. He opened his eyes to find Wencit and Rhydon gazing down at him in wry amusement, Rhydon’s pale eyes still veiled with a hint of dark, unspeakable power. Derry’s breath came in ragged, terror-fueled shudders as he stared up at the pair of them in horror. Wencit’s mouth twitched in satisfaction, a patronizing little smirk, as he turned to Rhydon and made him a short, casual bow.