The bartender glanced at the new arrival. His head was a massive boulder set atop the broad mountains of his shoulders.

"Something I can do you for, friend?"

Pulling himself up in disdain, feeling the thick purple tongue moving with anticipation in his body, Borran Kiosk stepped into the room. The dead priest's robes whirled around him and dripped scarlet-tinted water onto the hardwood floor.

"Maybe you should have stayed in the hallway a little longer," the bartender growled, "instead of coming into my place and making a mess of it."

He reached for a mop leaning against the wall behind him and came around the bar. The dwarf woman said something too low for Borran Kiosk to hear, but she laughed at her own wit and reached for the schooner of ale before her.

"Aye, Serrim," the bartender said, "an' I'll thank ye to keep such comments to yerself." He glanced back at Borran Kiosk. "An' if ye've come to sup here, friend, ye're a mite too late, ye see. The victuals has all been put away for the e'ening."

"What there was of it," the dwarf woman agreed.

The bartender stopped in front of Borran Kiosk and un-limbered his mop.

Borran Kiosk stood his ground. Though his emotions weren't the same as they had been before his transformation, he still felt a twinge of anticipation.

"Mayhap ye'd care to move them big feet of yers," the bartender suggested as he mopped toward the mohrg.

"No," Borran Kiosk said.

Stooping, the bartender peered toward the mohrg's concealed face. "What did ye say, little man?"

With brazen boldness, Borran Kiosk reached up and swept the hood back from his head.

"No," Borran Kiosk repeated.

He knew even the dim lighting would reveal his flesh-less face and hollow-socketed skull. He didn't care what he looked liked. That such a sight caused fear in those who still had blood coursing through their veins served him well.

"What the hell are ye?" the bartender asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes rounded in fear as he stumbled back a step.

"Kiosk!" the dwarf woman croaked, spewing ale. "Borran Kiosk! He's returned!" She hefted a battle-axe from the floor beside her.

If Kiosk had possessed lips, he would have smiled. Though he was certain he'd been gone a long time, his name and deeds had been remembered.

"Yes," the mohrg spat, "I am Borran Kiosk. Fear me."

The bartender lashed out with the mop, trying to push Borran Kiosk away. The mohrg reacted with blinding speed. Before his transformation he'd been a warrior as well as a mage, and though the men he raised from the dead did not retain their memories, he had.

The rain-drenched robes whirled as Borran Kiosk spun. He knotted a hand into a hammer-like fist, caught the broom in his other hand, and snapped the end of the mop off. Before the collection of dirty rags fell to the floor, he stepped in, pulled the mop across his body, and brought his fist back up. The mop handle snapped again, leaving the bartender with only a precious few inches jutting from his hands.

Stuttering a surprised oath, the bartender stumbled back, but Borran Kiosk was on the man like a hawk taking a dove. Whirling, noticing the other men and women in motion around the room, the mohrg drove the splintered end of the mop handle through the bartender's chest. Flesh and bone gave way to the unforgiving blow, and the wooden shaft split the man's heart in two.

"Die, darkspawn!" the dwarf woman yelled as she raced across the room with her battle-axe raised.

With superhuman speed, Borran Kiosk evaded the dwarf's blow. The axe sliced through the air, dragging the woman forward a half step. Before she could recover her balance, Borran Kiosk seized the back of her head in one hand and her chin in the other. He wrenched her head and felt her skull separate from her spine with a sudden snap.

The dwarf's eyes widened in disbelief as she died.

Gleeful, Borran Kiosk savored the woman's death for a moment, holding her sagging body upright by her head without effort. He watched the life drain from her eyes and rejoiced in the savage jealousy that had filled him since he'd clawed his way free of the first grave to hold him captive.

Movement to the left alerted Borran Kiosk and gave him only a moment's warning. Spinning, the mohrg watched as the black-clad elf rose to his feet. His voice rang out with words in a tongue Borran Kiosk didn't recognize. As the words tumbled from his lips, the elf pointed.

Something blurred through the air before Borran Kiosk, and he felt an incredible agony rip into him. His knees weakened and even his supernatural vision wavered and filled with whirling black comets. Screaming, the mohrg forced himself to remain standing.

The elf murmured again, and the other men in the tavern stood back and watched, holding their weapons before them. When the elf gestured again, a flaming arrow leaped from his fingers.

Twisting with uncanny speed and grace, Borran Kiosk dodged the spell. The flaming arrow struck the wall behind him, scorching the impact area and leaving smoldering ruin in its wake. Concentrating on the elf, wondering if he was part of the damned Emerald Enclave, Borran Kiosk spoke his own spell and pointed toward the elf.

The magical energy spewed through Borran Kiosk's palm and became a windstorm in front of him. Another gesture sent the windstorm toward the elf. Howling winds tore through the tavern's interior, extinguishing candle flames and knocking over chairs and tables.

The howling windstorm struck the elf before he could move or defend himself. When the winds slammed into the elf, they lifted him from his feet and hurled him back through the window overlooking the street. Glass shattered and the thin panes crumpled and tore loose. Arms flailing, the elf screamed and tried to catch the sides of the windows. Before he could get a strong grip, he was blown through the window and vanished.

Still in motion, Borran Kiosk scooped the battle-axe from the floor. The wall where the elf's spell had struck burst into flame. Light and smoke filled the small tavern. A crossbow bolt tore into the priest's robes and slammed against the mohrg's pelvic bone. Setting himself, Borran Kiosk unleashed his tongue.

The thick, purple appendage sped across the room and ripped through the guts of the woman who'd fired the crossbow. Once his barbed tongue had penetrated its target, Borran Kiosk whipped his head back. His tongue opened the woman's midsection like an overripe tomato and spilled her entrails before her.

Screaming, dying, the woman dropped.

Borran Kiosk pulled his tongue back into his skull. He listened in satisfaction to the dying woman's pain-filled screams and pleas for help. It had been so long since he'd heard someone beg for her life

… he'd missed the sound.

"Run!" one of the sailors cried, shoving the man in front of him toward the door.

Borran Kiosk leaped in front of the door. The mohrg drew the battle-axe back, fitting both hands around the handle. He swung, slicing the axe in a transverse sweep across the sailor's body.

The sailor fell in halves, a horrified look frozen on his features. Before the next sailor could pull back, Borran Kiosk raised his captured battle-axe dripping with gore and brought it down again, cleaving the sailor's head from crown to chin. He lashed out with the tongue again, spearing the remaining sailor through his open mouth and tearing his brain out the back of his skull.

Sadistic glee filled Borran Kiosk as he turned on the last living person in the tavern. The woman cowered against the back wall, trapped by another wall on one side and the fire from the elf's spell on the other.

She sobbed and wailed, and the shrieks were a joyful noise to Borran Kiosk. Walking toward her, he dragged out the enjoyment. Torture, if there were time yet remaining before the city watch arrived, would be a welcome diversion.