“‘When Jesus saw that the people came running together,’” Reynevan obediently read, “‘he rebuked the foul spirit, saying unto him, Thou dumb and deaf spirit, I charge thee, come out of him, and enter no more into him.’”

“Surde et mute spiritus ego tibi praecipio,” Scharley repeated menacingly and commandingly, stooping over Brother Deodatus. “May His power cast you out along with your entire cohort!”

The honey-guzzling hulk suddenly coughed, slobbered and snorted mucus. Scharley wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“An exacting and difficult casus,” he explained, avoiding the abbot’s increasingly suspicious expression. “It will be necessary to use even stronger arguments.”

For a moment, it was so quiet that all that could be heard was the insistent buzzing of a fly that had flown into a spider’s web in the window alcove.

“By the Apocalypse,” Scharley’s now slightly hoarse baritone sounded in the silence, “which our Lord used to reveal things which are to come to pass, and confirmed those things through the mouth of an angel banished by him, I curse you, Satan! Exorciso te, flumen immundissimum, draco maleficus, spiritum mendacii!”

As before, the words had no effect. All sorts of emotions were etched on the faces of the watching Benedictines. Scharley took a deep breath.

“May Agios strike you as he struck Egypt! May they stone you to death, as the Israelites stoned Achan. May they trample you with their feet and hang you on a tree, as were the five Amorite kings! And may your tail be cut off right by your devilish arse!”

Oh, thought Reynevan, this is going to end badly.

“Devilish spirit!” Scharley suddenly spread his arms over Brother Deodatus, who was still showing no signs of life. “I curse you by Acharon, Ehey, Homus, Athanatos, Ischiros, Aecodes and Almanach, by Pophiel and Phul! I curse you by the mighty names of Shmiel and Shmul! I curse you with the most abominable of names: with the name of the overpowering and terrible Semaphor!”

Semaphor was no more effective than Phul and Shmul. It couldn’t be denied. Scharley saw it, too.

“Jobsa, hopsa, afia, alma!” he screamed savagely. “Melach, Berot, Not, Berib et vos omnes! Hemen etan! Hemen etan! Bow! Wow! Wow!”

He’s lost his mind, thought Reynevan. And in a moment, they’ll pounce. They’ll soon work out that it’s all nonsense—they can’t be that stupid.

Scharley, now awfully sweaty and hoarse, caught his eye and winked an extremely clear request for support, a request bolstered by an insistent though furtive gesture. Reynevan raised his eyes towards the vault. Anything, he thought, trying to recall the old books and conversations with friendly mages, anything has got to be better than “bow-wow-wow.”

“Hax, pax, max!” he bellowed, waving his arms. “Abeor super aberer! Aie Saraye! Aie Saraye! Albedo, rubedo, nigredo!”

Scharley, breathing heavily, glanced at him gratefully and gestured for him to continue. Reynevan took a deep breath.