Deeming that his torment had been too brief, Zeboim had cursed Krell, transforming him into a death knight, intending he should suffer for eternity. Instead, to her ire, Krell had actually enjoyed undeath. He wielded lethal power with cruel delight. He became the consummate bully, finding pleasure in tormenting and terrorizing and ultimately slaying those mortals who were either foolish or brave enough to encounter him. And he could inflict his punishment without the constant fear that someone bigger and stronger would do the same to him.

True, Zeboim had continued to be a thorn in his skeletal side, but Krell had finally solved that problem. He had sworn to serve Chemosh, Lord of Death, and in return, Chemosh had offered him protection from the Sea Goddess.

And now all that was gone. Death had been snatched from him by that cursed bitch, Mina. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. He’d been going to snap her neck. It had all seemed so easy. She had fought him with bestial fury and somehow (he wasn’t clear on just how it had happened) she had cursed him by giving him back his life.

Krell was not only alive, he was a prisoner inside his room in Chemosh’s castle, fearful of leaving because of the Beloved who roamed the castle and who were thirsting to kill him in a most unpleasant manner. Krell could hear outside his window the rumbling voices of the gods, but he was far too absorbed in bemoaning his own fate to pay much attention to their clamor.

Krell was strong and brutal enough to hold his own against most humans, but he could not fight the Beloved-those heinous undead beings now roaming the castle wailing for Mina. No weapon could kill the Beloved, at least no weapon that Krell had ever found. He had tried to hack them apart with his sword. He had battered them with his fists and even used his formidable magical power on them to no avail. Hacked apart, they put themselves back together and they shook off magic like a duck shakes off water. And now, the Beloved were capable of killing him. Indeed, they seemed to bear him some sort of personal grudge. He’d been forced to throttle a couple of them on his way here, barely managing to escape with his life. Now they lurked about outside his door, keeping him a prisoner in his own bedroom. All this while, outside his window, the gods raged.

Something about Mina being a god… Krell snorted, thought it over. True she had done this to him, taken away his power, but he was certain Zeboim was behind it. The two females were in this together. It was a conspiracy against him. He’d get back at the Sea Goddess, and that Mina-bitch, as well.

Such were Krell’s brooding thoughts, as he sat in the room, wrapped in a blanket for warmth, for his wonderful, shining, magical armor had vanished. He was thinking with cruel pleasure what he would do to Mina when he finally managed to lay his hands on her when a voice interrupted his blood-drenched day dreams.

“Who’s there?” Krell snarled.

“Your master, you dolt,” said Chemosh.

“My lord,” said Krell, but he said it with a sneer. Once he would have groveled, but he was in no mood to play the toady. Let Chemosh polish his own boots. What had the god done for him? Nothing. Perhaps the Lord of Death had even been in on the plot to destroy him.

“Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself,” Chemosh said coldly. “You must find Mina.”

No one wanted to find Mina more than Ausric Krell. He almost jumped at the chance, but then he checked himself. The Krell of low cunning was back. He could hear in his master’s voice an underlying hint of urgency, perhaps even of desperation. Krell could take advantage of the situation to do a little bargaining. He was in a position of power, after all. He had nothing left to lose.

“They say this Mina is now a god, my lord,” Krell pointed out. “And I am a poor, weak mortal.” He gnashed his teeth as he spoke.

“Do this for me and I will make you one of my clerics, Krell. I will give you holy powers-”

“Cleric!” Krell snorted in disgust. “I don’t want to be one of your sniveling clerics, running about in a black dress and a fright mask.”

“Do not push me, Krell-”

“Or you’ll do what to me?” Krell roared angrily. “You came to me for help, my lord. If you want my help, change me back into a death knight.”

“I can’t just ‘change’ you into a death knight,” Chemosh said testily. “It’s not like changing one’s clothes. It’s far more complicated, involves a curse-”

“Then go find Mina yourself,” Krell said sullenly.

Hunched in his blanket, he stumped over to his bed and sat down.

“I cannot change you into a death knight, but I will grant you the powers of a Bone Acolyte,” Chemosh offered.

“A bony what?” Krell asked suspiciously.

“I don’t have time to explain! I’m rather busy at the moment. I’m being forced to take a godly oath. But you will be powerful. I promise.”

Krell thought this over. Chemosh would have to be true to his word if he wanted Krell to succeed.

“Very well,” said Krell grudgingly. “Make me into this Bony Acolyte. Where do I find Mina?”

“I have no idea. She jumped off the battlements into the sea.”

“Then you want me to recover her body, my lord?” Krell was disappointed.

“She’s a god, you idiot! She can’t die! By the Skull, I think I would be better off giving orders to the bed post! I have to leave now-”

“Then where should I start my search, my lord?” Krell demanded, but he received no answer.

Krell had an idea, however. Mina’s monk, the one he’d found inside the grotto. Krell had first thought the monk was her lover. Now he wasn’t so sure. Still, she seemed to have taken an unusual interest in him. She’d sneaked out of Chemosh’s castle to meet up with him in secret in a grotto. Perhaps she’d gone back to find him. The last Krell had seen of the monk, he’d been chained to a wall in the grotto. Not likely he would be going anywhere.

Krell stood up, then realized that he couldn’t very well confront Mina wrapped in a blanket.

“My lord!” Krell shouted. “A Bone Acolyte! Remember?”

Chemosh did remember. He granted Krell the powers of a Bone Acolyte and, though he wasn’t quite as formidable as he had been when he was death knight, Krell was pleased with the results.

Nightshade entered the grotto staggering beneath a load of driftwood. He dumped it down on the floor and then stood staring at the girl, who lay unmoving on the cold stones as Rhys chafed her chill hands, trying to warm them. Atta trotted inside, sniffed at the girl, growled, and retreated to a far corner.

“We need tinder to start the fire,” said Rhys. “Perhaps some seaweed. If you could hurry…”

Muttering under his breath, Nightshade summoned Atta and the two went back out. Rhys hoped he would be quick about his task. The girl’s skin was cold and clammy to the touch, her heartbeat slow and sluggish, her lips and fingernails blue. He would have wrapped her in his own robes, but they were as wet as her cotton smock.

He glanced around the grotto that had once been a shrine to Zeboim. An altar to the goddess stood at the far end. He had paid it scant attention when the minotaur had first brought him here. He’d had far more urgent matters to think about, such as being chained to a wall and threatened with torture and death. Now, hoping he might find something of use, he left the child and went back to look at it more closely.

The altar was crudely carved out of a single piece of red-and-black striped granite. A conch shell had been placed reverently on the altar that was adorned with a frayed, sea-green piece of silk. Breathing a prayer of thanks to Majere and another prayer asking forgiveness of Zeboim for defiling her altar, Rhys lifted up the shell, removed the cloth, then carefully put the shell back.