In regard to Mina, the young woman intrigued the goddess. True, Zeboim had disparaged her during their conversations together. But that had been for show; Zeboim never gave a mortal power by appearing to favor one above another.
Although Zeboim had despised Takhisis, Zeboim had to admit that her mother had a talent for finding good servants and this Mina was bold and intelligent, courageous and faithful, clearly a prize among mortals. Zeboim wanted Mina to worship her, and as she watched the boat make a safe landing and Mina depart from it, lugging with her the bundle in which she had wrapped up the helm of the death knight, the goddess toyed with various plans to try to win her.
It seemed that Zeboim had made a propitious start. The shrine of the Sea Goddess was the first place Mina went upon landing to give thanks for a safe voyage. Mina’s prayer was polite and properly respectful, and although Zeboim would have preferred more groveling and maybe even a few heartfelt tears, she was satisfied. She wrapped herself in storm clouds, and having nothing more interesting to do, she went back to Storm’s Keep to drag Krell’s soul from whatever immortal plane it was on (perhaps he was fondly imagining he could hide from her), and return him to his prison.
A gust of wind and a flash of lightning heralded her arrival in the Tower of the Lily. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at the empty armor with a malicious smile.
“No doubt your miserable soul is running about in circles, trying to find your way out of this accursed existence, Krell. Perhaps you think you’ll escape me this time. You are not be so lucky. My reach is long.” Zeboim suited her action to her words. Extending her arm, she reached inside the armor.
“I have but to grab you by the short hairs and drag you back—”
Zeboim withdrew her hand, peered down it, expecting to see Krell’s soul, cringing and whimpering, writhing in her grasp.
Her hand was empty.
Zeboim stared into the immortal plane, searching for Krell’s soul.
The plane was empty.
Zeboim smote the metal armor with her hand. It disintegrated into fragments of metal no larger than a dust mote. Feverishly she stirred the fragments.
The armor was empty. Nothing lurking inside trying to hide from her wrath.
Swift as hurricane winds, Zeboim whirled through the Keep, searching every crack and crevice. She was tempted to tear the fortress apart, stone by stone, but she would only be wasting her time. She realized the truth. She knew it the moment she touched that empty armor. She was loathe to admit it.
Krell was gone. He had escaped her.
Zeboim saw Mina kneeling, heard her words.
My loyalty and my faith are with the dead.
“Ah, you clever little bitch.” Zeboim swore savagely. “You conniving, thieving, clever little bitch. ‘My faith is with the dead.’ You did not mean my mother. You meant Chemosh!”
She spoke the name in a blast of rage that caused the seas to seethe and boil and froth. Storm winds raged, rivers overflowed their banks. Zeboim’s rage shook the very foundations of the Abyss, where Chemosh felt her fury and smiled.
hemosh paced the world, waiting for Mina to return to him. He tried to interest himself in what was transpiring in the world, for events were unfolding that would have an effect on his plans and ambitions. He watched the build-up of the minotaur forces in Silvanesti with concern. Sargonnas was setting himself up to take over the leadership of the pantheon of Darkness and there did not appear to be much that could stop him now. Chemosh had some ideas in regard to that, but he was not yet ready to put those into motion. Patience. That was the key. Haste makes waste.
He dropped by for a glimpse of Mishakal, for he had recently added her to his list of gods who threatened his ambition. He would not have believed it, but the goddess who had once been known for her gentle, unassuming ways had lately become quite militant. She was starting to seriously annoy Chemosh, for her clerics were not limiting themselves to sitting beside sick-beds but were harrassing his clerics, pulling down his temples, and slaying his zombies. True, Chemosh didn’t much like zombies, but they were his and killing them was an affront to himself. He would soon take care of that as well. He would present Mishakal and her do-gooder clerics with a dark mystery they would be hard-pressed to solve, provided Mina turned out to be all that he believed and hoped her to be.
The other gods were not much of a threat. Kiri-Jolith was focused on re-establishing his worship among the Solamnic Knights and other war-minded individuals. Chislev danced with the unicorns in her forests, rejoicing in having her trees back. Majere watched a lady-bug crawl up the stem of a dandelion and marveled at the perfection of both bug and weed. The gods of magic were embroiled in their own politics and in bickering over what to do about the scourge of sorcery that had reared its playful head in their well-ordered world. The gods of neutrality were going about being firmly neutral and uncommited to anything, for fear that so much as a sneeze would tip the delicate balance in favor of one side or another.
Something was going to tip it and it wouldn’t be a sneeze. Mina was the golden weight in the hand of the Lord of Death, the golden weight that would drop onto the scales of balance and completely overturn them.
Chemosh had not been at all certain that Mina would succeed at the task he had set for her. He knew that she was an extraordinary mortal, but she was mortal and she was human into the bargain—an often unsatisfactory combination. He was pleasantly surprised when she stepped out of the small sail boat, carrying the bundle with the helm in her arms. More than surprised, he was admiring. Eons had passed since he had last viewed a mortal with anything akin to admiration.
Their appointed meeting place was an ancient temple dedicated to his worship off the coast of Solamnia. He had been waiting for her there, careful to keep out of sight, for Zeboim would be watching Mina for as long as she sailed upon the sea and perhaps even after she landed. Thus he had directed Mina to keep Zeboim off-guard by paying a visit to her shrine.
The temple in which he met her had once been a mausoleum, designed and built by a grieving noble lady for her noble husband. The family name, emblazoned across the front of the mausoleum, had eroded, as had the coat of arms. The hall had fallen into ruin. Nothing was left of it except the foundation, for the materials used in its construction had been hauled off by the local residents to use in rebuilding homes damaged in the First Cataclysm. The mausoleum remained intact, however, and in relatively good condition. None dare touch it, for legend had it that one could still hear the grief-stricken wail of the bereaved widow and see her ghostly figure weeping on the marble stairs.
Built of black marble, the mausoleum was almost a small hall. Four ornately carved spires stood at each corner of a sharply pointed roof, surrounded by delicate wrought iron filigree. A columned portico at the top of the famed marble stairs sheltered an immense bronze door. Inside the mausoleum, two rows of slender columns stood like sentinels on either side of the enormous marble tomb bearing the family coat of arms and replete with the outstanding moments of the man’s life carved in raised relief all around the base.
The noble lady had built an altar at the far end of the mausoleum and dedicated it to Chemosh. Here she had come to pray daily to the God of Death, swearing never to leave this place until he restored her husband to her. Since the husband’s soul had already gone on, Chemosh was unable to answer her prayer. He did, however, see to it that she kept her vow. Chemosh had returned to the world to find her ghost still there, still weeping on the stairs. He’d forgotten how annoying he found her blubbering and he freed her at last, sending her off to join her husband.
He wondered if he wasn’t becoming a bit of a romantic.
He entered the temple, looked around. The mausoleum was well-constructed. The roof did not leak; the building was dry and neither musty nor dank. There was only one body inside and he had remained decently interred. No stray shin bones or skulls cluttering up the place. Chemosh’s followers, undeterred by the ghost, had moved into the mauso
leum during the War of the Lance and had remained here up until the theft of the world deprived them of their god. He was pleased to note that they had been an unusually tidy lot, cleaning up after their rites, so there was no melted candle wax upon the altar cloth, no blood stains on the floor, no fragments of bone left on the dais.
Chemosh found some evidence that someone—either one of those new, misguided users of necromancy or grave robbers—had recently been inside. Someone had tried to pry the lid off the tomb using a crow bar. The marble lid was extremely heavy and the attempt had failed. They had raided his altar, too, carrying off a pair of golden candlesticks and a ruby-encrusted chalice, both of which he distinctly remembered, for he kept track of all his sacred artifacts.
“No thief would have dared tempt my wrath in the old days,” Chemosh said, frowning in ire. “Thanks to our late and unlamented Queen, no one has any respect for the gods these days. That will change. One day soon, when mortals speak the name of Chemosh, they will speak it with respect, with reverence and awe. They will speak it with fear.”
“My lord Chemosh.” Mina spoke his name, but not with fear. With love and reverence.
Chemosh opened the bronze door to find her standing on the marble stairs. She was wet, bedraggled, her hands bloodied and bruised, weary to the point of dropping. Her amber eyes glowed in the warm red light of Lunitari. Bowing to him, Mina held out to him the helm of the death knight, Ausric Krell.
“As you commanded, my lord,” she said.
“Come inside. Away from prying eyes.”
Taking hold of Mina, he drew her inside the mausoleum and shut the great bronze doors.
“How cold your hand is. Cold as death,” he said, and was pleased to see her smile at his little jest. “And you are soaked to the skin. Here. We will warm you.”
He was eager to find out if his enchantment had worked and if he had indeed managed to capture Krell, but he was concerned about Mina, who could barely walk for shivering. He snapped his fingers and a fire sprang up from a brazier on the altar. Mina approached it gratefully, holding her hands to the warmth.
The sodden fabric of her cambric shirt clung to her body, flowing over the fullness of her breasts that were pale and smooth as the marble of the altar. He watched her breasts quiver with her shivering, rise and dip with her breathing. His eyes moved to the hollow of her throat, a tempting shadow of darkness in the firelight, to her face, the curve of her lips, the strong chin, the remarkable amber eyes.
Chemosh was surprised to feel his own heart beat faster, his own breath catch. Gods had fallen in love with mortals before now; Zeboim had been one of them and she had even sunk so far as to give birth to a half-mortal child. Chemosh had never understood how one could be attracted to a mortal, with their limited minds and butterfly lives, and he did not understand himself now. He had intended his seduction of Mina to be strictly business, at least as far as he was concerned. He would make love to her and ensnare her, force her to become dependent on him. He was now half-amused by his own feelings of desire and half-annoyed. Desire was an indication of weakness on his part. He had to conquer it, get back to the business of becoming king.
Mina felt his gaze upon her. She turned to look at him and she must have seen his thoughts in his eyes, for she smiled at him, the amber warm and melting.
Chemosh wrenched his thoughts and his gaze away from her. Business before pleasure. He placed the helm upon the altar and stared eagerly inside. He could see, in the shadows of the Abyss, the small and shriveled soul of Ausric Krell.
A raging gust of wind smote the mausoleum, lashed the trees and tore the leaves from their limbs. Thunder pounded the temple in frustration. Fury lit the night skies and tears of rage drowned the stars.
Inside the mausoleum, all was warm and snug. Chemosh held the spirit between his thumb and forefinger and watched Krell squirm, like a mouse caught by the tail.
“Do you pledge me your loyalty, Krell?” Chemosh demanded.
“I do, my lord.” Krell’s voice came from far away, sounded tinny and frantic. “I do!”
“And you will do whatever I ask of you? Obey my orders without question?”
“Anything, lord,” Krell swore, “so long as you keep me out of the clutches of the Sea Witch.”
“Then from this moment on, Ausric Krell,” said Chemosh solemnly, dropping the spirit upon the altar, “you are mine. Zeboim has no hold upon you. She has no way to find you, for you are hidden safely within my darkness.”
All this time, he was aware of Mina watching him, her amber eyes wide with awe and admiration. He was pleased to have impressed her, until it occurred to him that he was behaving just like a school boy, showing off for some giggling girl.
He gave an irritated wave of his hand and Ausric Krell, wearing the armor of his curse, stood before the altar. His red eyes, glowing like banked coals, flicked about suspiciously, taking in his surroundings.
“No tricks, Krell, as you see,” Chemosh stated, adding in grating tones. “You could at least say ‘thank you’.”
Krell knelt down ponderously, clanking and rattling, onto one knee.
“My lord, I do thank you. I am in your debt.”
“Yes, you are, Krell. And don’t ever forget it.”
“What is your lordship’s command?”
Chemosh’s thoughts kept straying to Mina. He was beginning to find the death knight an intolerable nuisance.
“I have no commands for you yet,” said Chemosh. “I have a plan in mind, in which you will play a part, but the time is not yet right. You have leave to go.”
“Yes, my lord.” Krell bowed and started for the door. Halfway there, he halted and turned around, confused. “Go where, my lord?”
“Wherever you want, Krell,” said Chemosh impatiently. His eyes were on Mina, as hers were on him.
“I can go anywhere?” Krell wanted to make absolutely certain. “The goddess cannot touch me?”
“No, but the god can,” said Chemosh, losing patience. “Go wherever you want, Krell. Commit what mayhem you will. Just don’t do it here.”
“I will, my lord!’ Krell gave another bow. “Then, my lord, if you have no further need for me—”
“Get out, Krell.”
“I await your call. Until then, I take my leave. Farewell, my lord.”
Krell clanked and rattled his way out of the mausoleum. Chemosh slammed shut the bronze door behind him and locked it.
“I thought you had done something quite clever in capturing that wretch, Mina. I see now that I could have sent a gully dwarf to fetch him.” Chemosh smiled at her, to show he was teasing, and reached out his hands.
Mina clasped her hands in his, moved near to him. “And what is to be my reward, Lord?”
Her amber eyes shone; her hair was red-gold flame. Her hands tightened over his, and he could feel the smoothness of the skin sliding over the hardness of bone. He could hear the rush of the pulsing blood in her veins and see the throb of her life in the hollow of her neck. He gathered her close, reveling in her warmth, the warmth of life, the warmth of mortality.
“How will I serve my lord?” Mina asked.
“Like this,” he said and took her in his arms.
He kissed her lips. He kissed the hollow of her neck. He stripped the shirt from her body, and holding her tightly, pressed his lips on her breast, above her heart.
His kiss seared her flesh, which began to blacken beneath his touch. Mina cried out. Her body stiffened and she writhed in pain and struggled in his arms. He held her fast, held her close. And then, slowly, he withdrew.
She shuddered, sighed. Her eyes opened. She looked at him, deep into his eyes. Then, wincing, she looked down at her breast.
His mark was on her, the imprint of his lips, burned into her flesh.
“You are mine, Mina,” said Chemosh.
The kiss had burned through flesh and bone, struck to her heart. She felt stirring within her the power he had just granted her and she leaned toward him, her lips parted,
wanting his kiss again and again.
“I am yours, Lord.”
Desire ached in him, and he no longer questioned it. He would take her, make her his own, but he needed to make certain she understood.
“You will not be a slave to me, as you were for Takhisis.”
Chemosh caressed her neck, ran his hand over the imprint left by his kiss. Her flesh was charred and starting to blister where his lips had touched her. He traced the black kiss with his finger.
“You will be my High Priestess, Mina. You will go forth into the world and gain followers for me, followers who are young and strong and beautiful as yourself. I will be their god, but you will be their master. You will wield power over them, absolute power, the power of life and death.”
“What inducements can I offer them, my lord? The young do not like to think of death …”
“You will give them a gift from me. A gift of rare value, one that mankind has wanted since the beginning of time.”
“I will do all you ask, lord, with pleasure,” said Mina. Her breath came fast.
Chemosh brushed back the red hair with his hand. The silken strands tangled around his fingers. Her lips were warm and eager, her flesh warm and yielding at his touch.
He crushed her body against his. She gave herself to him with passionate abandon, and he no longer wondered how a god could find pleasure in the arms of a mortal. He wondered only that it had taken him this long to make the discovery.
he black palanquin arrived at the city of Staughton early on the morning of the festival known as Spring Dawning. Festivities included a fair, a feast, and the annual Flower Dance. One of the most popular holidays of the calendar, the celebration of Spring Dawning, drew crowds of people to Staughton every year. Even though the day was as yet nothing more than a warm, red streak on the horizon, the gates leading into the walled city, located in the north of Abanasinia, were already jammed with people.
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