As the wemic stalked through the great hall on silent, massive paws, all others fell back to make way. There was not a soul in the hall who lacked personal experience with the wizard's dark work, and they held Ka'Narlist's leonine assistant in almost as much dread as they did the wizard himself.

The massive front door was flanked by a pair of mino-taur guards, huge beasts armed with wicked scimitars and unnaturally long horns. Before Mbugua could growl a command, the bull-men leapt into action. They raised the portcullis and then threw their combined weight against the wooden bolt that barred the outer door. The bar gave way with a groan, and the doors swung outward.

Mbugua padded out into the courtyard, gratefully filling his lungs with the cool evening air. The wizard's lair was always filled with smoke from the braziers, fetid steam from a dozen vile magical concoctions, and the ever-present scent of death.

The wemic made his way down a steep path to the rock-strewn coast below. There was a small cove, ringed with high-standing stones. He could do what he willed here, for the cove could not be seen from the castle windows and courtyard. The wizard's servants feared Mbugua too much to follow him here; the wizard himself was too prideful to imagine that anything a mere slave might do could be of any harm or interest. Mbugua's captivity and loyalty were maintained by powerful magical bonds: Ka'Narlist trusted in his own magic.

It was that very trust, that pride, and that magic that Mbugua would turn against the dark elf. These were the only weapons he knew strong enough to defeat the wizard.

The wemic dropped the kodingobold's body onto the hard-packed soil. He stooped and picked up a small, perfectly round black object that was hidden-in plain sight-among the many stones. Then, closing his eyes, he reached his arms high and began the slow, rhythmic breathing that cleared his mind and prepared him to see and hear the things that only a shaman could know.

In moments, Mbugua sensed the kodingobold's spirit, an unseen presence that lingered near like a furtive shadow. The wemic began to dance, at first padding slowly around the slain kodingobold, then moving more quickly with darting turns and leaps like those of a lion cub at play. His manlike arms wove a mystic pattern in counterpoint to the rhythm of his paws, magically describing the path that the kodingobold's bewildered spirit must follow. He sang as well-a deep, surging chant that soared out over the twilit sea and melded with the magic of the dance. It was a ritual the wemic shaman had performed many times.

But this time, it was slightly, profoundly different.

At last, Mbugua stood silent, his tawny form glistening with sweat as he gazed with mingled triumph and horror at the black pearl that lay in his hand, vibrating with a silent song that only a shaman could hear. The gem was a magical weapon-a device created by Ka'Narlist that could swallow the magic of his enemies. Ka'Narlist kept a heaping basket of these hungry gems in his arsenal. The wemic had stolen two of them, and had adapted the fearful devices to his own, even more fearful purposes.

Within his hand, within the pearl, was the trapped spirit of the kodingobold.

"Forgive me," Mbugua murmured, his wemic's pride doing battle against the apology his honor demanded. Yet he did not regret what he had done. Ka'Narlist had his work, and Mbugua had his own.

The wemic reclaimed the other "hidden" pearl from the shore and began the ritual anew-but this time, his song was infinitely darker and more seductive. This time, Mbugua intended to cast magic that would lure the spirit of a living being into his snares.

Your kindred are avid listeners, elf. See how they lean in, attending to my tale! They seem troubled by the wemic's plot. I have heard that elves do not disturb the afterlives of even their enemies. This says much to commend you-if it is true. I have also heard that elves show honor to bards, yet none among you has offered water or wine to sooth my throat and to speed the tale.

Ah, for me? You are a most gracious host. Yes, thank you, I feel quite refreshed. Yes, I would be pleased to continue.

"You have not sought me out in many moons," Satarah observed. Her calm, musical voice gave no hint to the question in her words, and her golden face was calm as she handed her "father" a steaming mug of tea.

But Mbugua heard the question with ears made sharp by guilt. "The wizard grows ever more obsessed with his work. I have had little time to call my own."

"And now that you are here, it must be for some purpose," the girl stated plainly. "I do not see you otherwise."

The wemic sighed. "I have done what I could, Satarah. I named you for my own mother. I tried to teach you the ways of the pride. But it is difficult. This… this is not the life I would have chosen for you."

"Nor this body," she commented, gesturing toward her lithe, humanlike form. This time, a hint of bitterness crept into her voice and her eyes.

The wemic could not dispute her words. Satarah was one of the "children" created from his blood, and as such he owed her the love that was any child's due. But it was difficult It was difficult even to look upon her.

Satarah was beautiful-not even the wemic could deny that-but she was not one of the lion-folk. She had two long legs rather than four, shapely human feet rather than paws, and a slender, curvy body that would be the envy of any human or elven woman who set eyes upon her. Even Satarah's face was more elfish than wemish, with delicate features and no hint of the blunt cat nose that so often appeared on the children begotten of Mbugua's stolen blood. The few lingering hints of her wemic heritage only served to make her appear more exotic: her silky black hair was as thick and abundant as Mbugua's mane, her skin had a golden, sun-dusted hue, and her large, almond-shaped eyes were a catlike shade of amber. Yes, she was very beautiful, and nearly ripe for mating. Neither fact would long escape her master's attention.

"Why have you come?" Satarah repeated softly.

The wemic met her eyes. "Has Ka'Narlist taken you to his bed yet?"

Satarah's gaze kindled. "Is the wizard still alive? Am 7 yet alive? Answer those questions, and you have answered your own!"

Her fierce tone and blazing eyes smote Mbugua's heart-and firmed his purpose. The bonds of blood were strong indeed: Satarah might not look like his child, but he saw something of himself in her indomitable pride. This one, regardless of the conditions of her life, would ever be free.

"You cannot strike the wizard without bringing harm to yourself," he advised her.

The girl grimaced. "This I have already learned." She lifted the heavy mass of her hair and showed him the multitude of long, livid streaks that scored her neck and shoulders.

Mbugua recognized the mark of fingernails, and noted with a touch of pride that Satarah used her hands in battle as well as any wemic would use her forepaws. It was a shame that such wounds had not remained upon Ka'Narlist, who so deserved to bear them!

"If he has sought you out once," the wemic noted grimly, "he will do so again."

"And when he does, I will fight again!" she growled back. "I quenched his ardor in blood, and so will I do again! I will have my honor or my death-it matters not which."

Mbugua started to bid her otherwise, but something in Satarah's eyes made him hold his tongue. He could not-he would not-instruct this fierce girl to tamely submit herself to the wizard. But he took the necklace he had made-a dainty clam shell decorated with his wemic clan symbol and hung on a string of freshwater pearls-and handed it to her.

Satarah took the bauble with glad, greedy fingers. For a moment the girl's face was bright with the pleasure of receiving a pretty gift from her father's hands, and the elven wizard was utterly forgotten. Then her eyes-eyes that saw nearly as much as a shaman's- settled upon Mbugua's uneasy face.