"And you do not approve?"

"On the contrary, I doubt that I would have been as merciful. I have little tolerance for those who take what is neither rightfully theirs nor freely given." My tone was such as to indicate I was not referring to the assault on the girl. I was hoping he would bring up the subject of the book he had taken.

"Even if the object in question is taken from those who are not worthy of its possession?" Right. He'd picked up on the hint fast enough and shifted to a different topic entirely.

"And who is to be the judge of another's worthiness?"

"He who is worthy. Yourself, for example."

"And yourself?"

"I will not deny it."

What a high opinion he cherished of himself. He also emphasized the point by increasing the pain of the needles and keeping it at that level. Some of them seemed to burn right into my flesh and remain there. It was a hellish distraction. Best to end the game-playing now before he did something we would both regret. "It is time we spoke face-to-face."

"I think not." He sounded bored again and there was a finality to his words.

The needles blazed, not a mere dozen, but hundreds, thousands of them. I staggered back, biting off a cry as the pain shot through me. Distance did not mitigate its force, indeed, it was on the increase. An ordinary man would have been dead by now. Instinct took over, and I retreated into mist-form, blending with that which lay all about me on the ground. The pain did not follow me there and instantly ceased.

I had to take a moment to collect myself, both physically and emotionally. No one, absolutely no one in over two hundred years had ever had the insolence or unmitigated arrogance to speak to me like that, then dismiss me like some dull-witted servant.

I was absolutely furious. For a moment I could not think at all, so consumed was I by sheer rage. My initial reaction was to call back the rain clouds, stir them up, and send a few blasts of lightning dancing throughout the house. Indeed, I was halfway through the initial stages of the spell before I caught myself and pulled the power back in. It was not out of any mercy, but rather my instinct operating again. It told me that such an impetuous action would be a very bad idea.

After some moments I was calm enough to deal with things in a more rational manner. Before I gave in to natural urge and killed this insufferable bastard, I wanted to know more about him. If he proved to be stronger and more skilled in the Art, and thus immune to anything I could perpetrate, I would have more to deal with than just being shrugged off like an annoying stingfly.

Perhaps this Azalin had but a few spells and only happened to be very good with them, bolstering himself the rest of the time with a supreme show of confidence.

That was my hope, but I doubted things would prove to be so simple. The obvious fact was that he was extremely powerful in the Art, knew how to use it, and had little regard for the consequences of his actions. A highly dangerous combination.

I was not about to let him intimidate me, though. I was still lord of the land with all its strength at my back and a substantial knowledge of magic to draw upon. I had woven a number of deep protections about my person and Castle Ravenloft that would be difficult for even a skilled practitioner in the Art to breach. Difficult, I reminded myself, but not impossible. Caution was required.

Still holding to the mist, I eased forward until I encountered the outer layer of his spell. It was new to me, but not impenetrable. I could have likely dissipated it, but that would require effort better saved for other things, as well as alert him to my coming. I went through the barrier with hardly any resistance at all.

Cold. An unfamiliar sensation in this form, but the chill was not something even remotely physical. It was the sort to affect the mind rather than the body, permeating the heart and whatever it was I had left that served as a soul. Part of his defenses. I ignored it and pressed through it and the front gates of the house.

Re-forming just enough to see, I found I possessed two views at once, illusion and reality layered upon each other. In illusion the iron bars were new and locked, in reality, fallen and rusting in the mud.

The same went for the once massive front door. As I floated into the entry hall I seemed to pass right through the thick slab of oak, but at the same time it was flat on the floor, covered with debris.

A third layer of illusion assailed me inside, and it was wholly from my own mind: the sight of the cringing, murderous burgomaster and next to him Tatyana in the humble clothes of a serving maid. They were ghosts, but only in my memory. I was unprepared for the strength of the memories, but long practice helped me to push them away. I could spare no attention for the past now and needed my every thought trained upon the hazardous present.

The more I concentrated, the more clearly could I see what was reality, and after a few moments I shattered the last blocks.

Around me the dank ruin emerged from the illusion, the counterfeit manor abruptly melting away. After surveying the wreckage, I almost wanted the illusion back, then dismissed the dream. There was work to do yet.

Gradually, I assumed full solidity, ready to forsake it should the pain return, but nothing untoward happened. I took a look about me and found no immediate threat in the dismal hall, beyond the insistent cold.

Ahead, in the very room where I had met Tatyana again, I heard a distinct scraping sound, perhaps a chair or table being dragged along the warped flooring.

No light. What illumination there was came from the windows, and they were choked with the pale mist seeping in. It was more than sufficient for my use. I let myself go mist-like again, holding to a nearly transparent form, but with little substance, and floated forward, my boots an inch or so above the floor, utterly silent.

His back was to me as he stood over a rickety table, at first little more than a tall man-shape in a black velvet cloak with blood-red fur lining showing at the collar and edges. The style was definitely not Barovian, but its blatant richness and severity was decidedly meant to intimidate lesser souls. The heavy material was wrong for this time of year, as though he had come from a colder climate.

He partially turned, presenting his profile; I recognized him at once from Zorah's description, the lean face, dark hair, and hawkish features. I could not yet see his eyes. His gaze was fixed on the tattered pages of a crumbling book lying on the table top. An ebony box bearing the Latos crest lay on the floor in one corner as if impatiently flung there. No mystery remained as to what he had carried away in it now.

Thief, I thought. For all his powers he was no better than some greedy cutpurse on market day. The magic book-and it was magical, I could feel it even at this distance-would be mine soon, as it should have been.

He turned his back again, leaning on the table with one hand and flipping the pages with another, reading in near-total darkness. I sensed he had placed some preservation spell on it to keep it from further deterioration, else the near-ruined paper would surely have cracked away to dust under his handling.

I took that moment to fill out into solidity again.

Cold. Very cold it was in here with him.

A scent of dust in the air, very strong, filled my head as I silently inhaled. Not unexpected in these surroundings, but this had the additional sour taint of decay, as if something had crawled in and died, but the odor seemed to come from the man before me, not the house.

Then I noticed the silence. Like that of a grave in here. What was missing?

His heartbeat.

I could not detect the least muffled thump of life from his chest, nor was he breathing. Was he an illusion as well? But no, his hands created sound while turning the pages, thin creaking whispers they were as his fingertips brushed the paper, like that of a spider scuttling over the sheets.