“Expression they use here. Never mind. It’s an illusion, like Darsal. Unfortunately this book isn’t”—he brought his hands together again and the book vanished—“real. This, however”—he snapped his fingers and a goblet appeared in his grasp—“is real. Care for a sip?”

Black lifted the glass to his lips and drank the milky substance. “Ahhh . . . Worm sludge, they call it, but it’s delicious. Take a drink.” He nodded at a table to Billos’s right where a similar glass goblet sat, filled to the brim with the nectar.

“It’ll give you the kind of power you need to finish this task of yours.”

Billos hesitated, then picked up the glass. Smelled the drink. A sweet, musky odor reached up into his nostrils and stung his eyes. He felt lightheaded and pleasant. He’d had strong grog, but nothing that smelled so delicious and none that affected the mind with a single sniff.

He took a sip. The worm sludge, as Black had called it, tasted awful, much like he imagined worm sludge would taste. But it filled him with such a feeling of . . . what was it? Confidence? Power, the man had said power.

He took another sip. On second thought it wasn’t so bad at all. Warmth spread through his chest and arms. Mighty fine grog at that, this worm sludge.

Black was grinning.

“So what is it, Bill? My way or his way?”

The choice seemed clear. And although Black’s approach was rather unorthodox, it was compelling.

“Naturally, I’ll give you more than grog,” Black said. “Clap your hands, baby.”

“Now?”

“Now. Put the drink down, and clap your hands together.”

Billos took one more slug, set the glass down, and clapped his hands. A bolt of energy rode up his arms. Without warning, a piece of formed steel appeared in his right fist. Like a curved knife with a handle in his palm, and a tube where the blade should be.

He was so stunned by the appearance of the strange object that he nearly dropped it. He studied it in awe. He’d done this?

“How . . . how did . . .”

Black chuckled. “You like? That’s what I’m talking about, baby. Magic! I call it suhupow. Short for superhuman power.”

“Suhupow,” Billos repeated, staring at the weapon. “What is it?”

“It’s called a gun. Pull the trigger.”

He assumed the small lever under the crook of his forefinger must be the trigger, so he pulled on it.

The weapon bucked in his hand, throwing it back. Boom! Thunder crashed overhead.

Billos yelped, dropped the weapon, and grabbed his ears. His heart pounded. “What? What happened?”

Black chuckled and nodded at a chair next to him. “You missed me.”

The chair’s back had a large, splintered hole in it. He’d done that? Billos looked down at the gun. Smoke coiled from the hole on one end.

“My way or his way?” Black asked again.