“Safe?” twinkled Penthos as though it were ever the watchword of his magic, as opposed to “incendiary.” “Now, creature, hearken to me.”

Nth hearkened. Every ounce of his concentration was bent on the wizard.

“I shall transfigure you back into the semblance of the creeping thing that once you were,” Penthos said grandly. At the sound of the others grinding their teeth in frustration, or perhaps at the audible sound of the night wasting away, he hurried himself. “Well, you shall negotiate with your foul siblings truly and loyally, and argue our cause, that we may get through this benighted passage and to Darvezian. Are you ready?”

“Yes!” Nth got out even before the man had finished. He braced himself, feeling acutely the lumpen weight of his human flesh on him. Yes, yes, to be free, to be myself once more…

And he stared on, stony-faced, as Penthos pulled out a candle from within his robes. It was greater than the stub that the Doomsayer used, but it was a candle nonetheless.

“While this flame burns,” Penthos exposited, though Nth knew it already, “you shall hold the form I give you. After that, you shall be like this once more, so be quick about your business.”

Nth did not trust himself to speak. To his surprise, Cyrene did it for him.

“Why not just break your spell and make him a spider. That’s what he wants.” She seemed to have difficulty with the words, but got them out anyway.

“You have no concept of the higher magics,” Penthos said dismissively. “Such would require a grand ritual as did his creation, a place of power to draw from, a night’s work. And besides, the bonds placed on his mind might not survive such a thorough reversion, leaving him free to indulge in inevitable betrayal. This is but a temporary transformation. I could do it to Harathes just as easily but he wouldn’t know what to do with all the legs.”

And with that, he turned and thrust his hands out at Nth as though trying to shoo him away. The man-spider jerked back in shock, and then—

Agony. Utter agony. Hearing the thin, squalling sound that came from a throat being reworked in blood and searing pain. Feeling every limb, each muscle, sinew, and organ melted in a furnace and cast anew: cast into maddeningly familiar shapes, and yet not his. None of it was truly his. What the magician made him into was a travesty, for all a human would never have known the difference. It was a flimsy shambles of a work of magic.