‘Dammit!’ Quick Ben snapped as he spun and cavorted on the column of heat. Gritting his teeth, the wizard reached for the sticksnare’s power – and found what he had suspected to be the truth all along.

Hood’s. Through and through. Of the Barghast gods, barely a drop of salty piss. The damned newcomers are stretched far too thin. Wonder what’s drawing on their energies? There’s a card in the Deck, in the House of Death, that’s been a role unfilled for a long, long time. The Magi. I think it’s just found a face – one painted on a stupid acorn. Talamandas, you may have made a terrible mistake. And as for you, Barghast gods, here’s some wisdom to heed in the future. Never hand your servants over to another god, because they’re not likely to stay your servants for long. Instead, that god’s likely to turn them into weapons . . . aimed directly at your backs.

Dear Barghast gods, you’re in a world of predators, nastier by far than what was around in the past. Lucky for you I’m here.

He drew on that power, harshly.

The sticksnare writhed, twig fingers digging into the wizard’s shoulder and neck.

In his mind, Quick Ben closed an implacable grip on the Lord of Death’s power, and pulled.

Come to me, bastard. We’re going to talk, you and I.

Within his clenched hand was the rough weave of cloth, stretching, bunching. The breath of Death flowed over the wizard, the presence undeniable, heavy with rage.

And, in the clutch of a mortal, entirely helpless.

Quick Ben grunted a laugh. ‘So much for thresholds. You want to ally with me, Hood? All right, I’ll give you fair consideration, despite the deception. But you’re going to have to tell me what you’re up to.’

‘Damned fool!’ Hood’s voice was thunderous in the wizard’s skull, launching waves of pain.

‘Quieter,’ Quick Ben gritted. ‘Or I’ll drag you through hide and all and Fener won’t be the only god who’s fair game.’

‘The House of Chains must be denied!’

The wizard blinked, knocked sideways by Hood’s statement. ‘The House of Chains? It’s the poison we’re trying to excise, isn’t it? Burn’s fever – the infected warrens—’

‘The Master of the Deck must be convinced, mortal. The Crippled God’s House is finding . . . adherents—’

‘Wait a moment. Adherents? Among the pantheon?’