Behind him, the rat-faced demon gave a scoff, and Yehuda Leib could hear the sneer in his expression as he answered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am the lord high general’s most constant servant. Anything you wish to say to him you may say to me.”

It was a massive risk, but Yehuda Leib could see no other way forward.

Slowly, just as he had been instructed never to do, he lifted his eyes to look directly into Dumah’s.

Dumah stiffened, straightened.

Yehuda Leib did not blink.

And slowly, almost lazily, Dumah waved the back of his hand toward Behemoth.

“But,” spluttered the little rat-faced demon. “But, my lord!”

Now Dumah lowered himself back into his creaking chair, careful not to move his eyes from Yehuda Leib’s. He lifted his arm and pointed a thick finger at the curtain through which Behemoth and Yehuda Leib had come.

“Are you certain, my lord?” said Behemoth, almost desperately.

Dumah dropped his arm.

Behemoth sniffled, furious, humiliated. “Very, um…,” he said. “Very well. I shall go and, uh, check on the other prisoner.”

And, with a shushing of curtains, Behemoth was gone.

Dumah leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and spread his hands wide.

—

Go on.

“I thank you for bringing me here, Lord High General,” said Yehuda Leib. “And I thank you for your generous offer.”

Yehuda Leib swallowed. Was he sure about this? If he offended the lord high general, then these might be the last words he ever spoke.

“But I don’t think I can accept.”

Dumah leaned forward and knotted his thick fingers together beneath his exposed upper teeth. Yehuda Leib’s heart clattered in his chest.

“War is coming, yes. But it’s not a war that will take place in thirty years. It’s a war that has already begun. And as Lord Dantalion has told you, a lot depends upon me. I am the fight, and as soon as I am able, I will carry myself to the enemy.”

Lord Dumah raised one open palm as if to say, Where?

“There,” said Yehuda Leib, and without breaking his eye contact with Dumah, he pointed at the many-sided tower at the center of the model beside him. “To Death.”

Dumah leaned back in his chair and began to tug at his muttonchops.

“He’s taken something—something of mine. I intend to force my way inside his tower and take it back. If I have to go alone, I will. But I’d feel far more comfortable with your army at my back.”

Slowly, Dumah stood and paced his way over to the model on the table. Death’s tower rose high into the modeled clouds, its innumerable little faces meeting in a universe of sharp corners.

“At this point you must be asking yourself why you would ever want to tempt a foe as strong as the Angel of Death.”

Dumah didn’t respond.