"Got a god to anger? We've got something mad enough to spit, I'll own," Tempusreplied. Now, Tempus knew, was not the time to raise false hopes of Vashanka theMissing God's return in a warrior who'd willingly and knowingly come to a thronewhose weight would kill him. It was the dirtiest of jobs, was kingship, andTheron had become the man to do it by default. "If it's Vashanka, then it's amatter between Him and Enlil. Theomachy tends to kill more men than gods. Don'tbe too anxious to get the armies' hopes up-the war with Myg-donia won't end bygods' wills, any more than it will by Nisi-bisi magic."

"That's what you think this infernal darkness is, then- magic? Your nemesis,perhaps ... the Nisibisi witch?"

"Or yours, the Nisibisi warlocks. What matter, gods or magic? If I thought hehad the power, I'd pick Brachis as the culprit. He'd do without both of us wellenough."

"We'd do without all of his well enough. But we're stuck with one another, forthe nonce. Unless, of course, you've a suggestion... some way to rid me, as thesaying has gone from time immemorial, of all meddlesome priests?"

The two were fencing with words, neither addressing the real problem: the stormwas being taken as an omen, and a bad one, on the nature of Theron's rule.

The aging general fingered a jeweled goblet whose bowl was balanced upon awinged lion and sighed deeply at almost the same time that Tempus's rattlingchuckle sounded. "An omen, is it, old lion? Is that what you really want-an omento make this a mandate from the gods, not a critique?"

"What / want?" Theron thundered in return, suddenly sweeping up the artsy,jewel-encrusted goblet of state and throwing it so hard against the farther wallthat it bounced back to land among the dregs spilled from it and roll eerily,back and forth in a circle, in the middle of the floor.

Back and forth it rolled, first one way and then the other, making a sound likechariot wheels upon the stone floor, a sound which grew louder and melded withthe thunder outside and the renewed clatter of hailstones which resembledhorses' hooves, as if a team from heaven was thundering down the blackened sky.

And Tempus found the hair on his arms raising up and the skin under his beardcrawling as the wine dregs spattered on the floor began to smoke and steam andthe dented goblet to shimmer and gleam and, inside his head, a rustle-familiarand unfamiliar-began to sound as a god came to visit there.

He really hated it when gods intruded inside his skull. He managed to mutter"Crap! Get thee hence!" before he realized that it was neither the deep andprimal breathing of Father Enlil-Lord Storm-nor the passionate and demandingboom of Vashanka the Pillager which he was hearing so loud that the shimmer andthunder and smoke issuing from the goblet and dregs before him were diminishedto insignificance. It was neither voice from either god; it was comprised ofboth.

Both! This was too much. His own fury roused. He detested being invaded; hehated being an instrument, a pawn, the butler of one murder god, the batman ofanother.

He fought the heaviness in his limbs which demanded that he sit, still and popeyed, like Theron across the table from him, and meekly submit to whatevermanifestation was in the process of coalescing before him. He snarled and cursedthe very existence of godhead and managed to get his hands on the stout edge ofthe plank table.

He squeezed the wood so hard that it dented and formed round his fingers likeclay, but he could not rise nor could he banish the babble of divineinfringement from his head.

And before him, where a cup had rolled, wheels spun- golden-rimmed wheels of awar chariot drawn by smoke-colored Tros horses whose shod hooves struck sparksfrom the stones of the palace floor. Out of a maelstrom of swirling smoke itcame, and Tempus was so mesmerized by the squealing of the horses and thescreech of unearthly stresses around the rent in time and space through whichthe chariot approached that he only barely noticed that Theron had thrown upboth hands to shield his face and was cowering like an aged child at his owntable.

The horses were harnessed in red leather that was shiny, as if wet. Beyond theblood-red reins were hands, and the arms attached were well-formed and strong,brown and smooth, without hair or scar above graven gauntlets. The'driver'storso was covered by a cuirass of enameled metal, cast to the physique beneathit, jointed and gilded in the fashion chosen by the Sacred Band at itsinception.

Tempus did not need to see the face, by then, to know that he was not beingvisited by a god, nor an archmage, nor even a demon, but by a creature morestrange: as the chariot emerged fully from the miasma around it and the horsessnorted and plunged, dancing in place, and the wheels screeched to a halt,Tempus saw a hand raise to a brow in a greeting of equals.

The greeting was for him, not for Theron, who cowered with wide eyes. The faceof the man in the chariot smiled softly. The eyes resting upon Tempus so fondlywere as pale and pure as cool water. And as the vision opened its mouth tospeak, the god-din in Tempus's ears subsided to a rustle, then to whispers, thento contented sighs that faded entirely away when Abarsis, dead Slaughter Priestand patron shade of the Sacred Band, wrapped his blood-red reins casually aroundthe chariot's brake and stepped down from his car, arms wide to embrace Tempus,whom Abarsis had loved better than life when the ghost had been a man.

There was nothing for it, Tempus realized, but to make the best of thesituation, though seeing the materialization of a boy who had sought anhonorable death in Tempus's service wrenched his heart.

The boy was now a power on his own-a power from beyond Death's Gate, true, but apower all the same.

"Commander," said the velvet-voiced shade, "I see from your face that you stillhave it in your heart to love me. That's good. This was not an easy journey toarrange."

The two embraced, and Abarsis's upswept eyes and high curved cheeks, his youngbull's neck and his glossy black hair, felt all too real-as substantial as thesplinters that had somehow gotten under Tempus's fingernails.

And the boy was yet strong-that is, the shade was. Tem-pus, stepping back,started to speak but found his voice choked with melancholy. What did one say tothe dead? Not "How's life?" surely. Certainly not the Sacred Band greeting....

But Abarsis spoke it to Tempus, as he had said it so long ago in Sanctuary,where he'd gone to die. "Life to you, Riddler, and everlasting glory. And toyour friend ... to our friend... Theron of Ranke, salutations."

Hearing his name shook Theron from his funk. But the old fighter was nearlyspeechless, quaking visibly.

Seeing this, Tempus recovered himself: "You scared us half to death. Is thisyour darkness, then?" Tempus stepped back and waved a hand toward the sky beyondthe corbeled ceiling overhead. "If so, we could do without it. Scares thelocals. We're trying to settle in a military rule here, not start a civil war."

A shadow passed quickly over the beautiful face of the Slaughter Priest andTempus, seeing it, wanted to ask, "Are you real? Are you reborn? Have you cometo stay?"

The shade looked him hard in the eye and that glance struck his soul and shockedit. "No. None of that, Riddler. I am here to bring a message and ask a favor-forfavors done and yet to be done."

"Ahem. Tempus, will you introduce me? It's my palace, after all," the emperorgrowled, bluffing annoyance, straining for composure, and casting covetousglances at the horses- if such they were-which stood at parade rest in theirtraces, ears pricked forward, just a bit of steam issuing from their nostrils."Favors," Theron murmured, "done and yet to be done...."