"Ahegi hath seen his treason unmasked," said Zimrilim, "and now shall ye see the same. This plan is but a mewling kitten before my intent. Ye wished to bring your god in to rule over Unther. I say unto ye that Unther needeth no new gods!"

He aimed the Alabaster Staff down at the corpse at his feet. A massive weave of supernatural energy reached forth and caressed the wrapped body.

"Arise!"

The oil-soaked bindings that wrapped the corpse burst asunder in a brilliant flare of light, flying apart with such force that shreds of the canvas flew across the room. Kehrsyn blinked several times to clear her eyes, and she saw the former corpse standing at Zimrilim's feet, shreds of oiled grave wraps still clinging to his skin.

He was tall, well over six feet, with a powerful, military build. Long, flaxen hair, limp and gray with dirt, hung in damp clusters over his shoulders, and a matted beard covered his chest. His skin was the pale blue of the dead and had a wrinkled, desiccated appearance.

His eyes were white and dead, yet even as Kehrsyn looked they began to glow with an evil inner light. Something akin to intelligence began to show through, even though the surface of the glassy eyes remained dull. As she watched, the animate corpse flexed his arms, and huge muscles rippled beneath the dead skin. A sound like creaking leather came as the large muscles strained against the skin, then the flesh covering the muscles split asunder and the undead thing-for he was clearly far more than a zombie-finished his flexing with a grimace that looked part pleasure, part pain.

He bowed his head and flexed his shoulders, and the skin split down his spine. Wherever the skin pulled apart, the layer beneath showed golden, glowing with a soft radiance. The thing groaned-there could be no other word for the deep, burbling utterance that came from his dead lungs-and as he straightened up, he seemed to have grown a foot taller and expanded to twice his original size.

The dirty, matted hair began to wave in an ethereal wind.

Kehrsyn stared in frank amazement at the creature's naked body. The powerful muscles rippled with crisp definition. The lines of the face, jaw, and brow were handsome, even beautiful, without a trace of femininity. Each move was executed with the grace of a dancer. He would have struck her down with desire, had it not been for the dead eyes and the slack, hanging mouth.

"Gilgeam!" hissed a dozen voices in the room, as the priests shrank back in fear.

The animate corpse of the slain god turned to face them, head swaying back and forth like a scenting tiger.

The moment for which he'd waited so patiently had, at long, long last, arrived.

Zimrilim felt better than he had in years, if not his entire life. No more need he mince his words and actions as the compassionate and sociable Massedar, merchant prince of Wing's Reach. Gone also was his need to imitate the treacherous Ekur, lurching around his conspiracy. The burden of his aliases was vanished. Better yet, the weight of patriotic duty and personal ambition had been taken from his shoulders. He felt light, even giddy, soaring upon his success. With the theft of the Alabaster Staff just days before, it had seemed that his very heart had been ripped from him forever, but, within just a few days, not only had he managed to retrieve the priceless Alabaster Staff, he had the added privilege of grinding his enemies' faces in hopeless defeat. Such a fine extravagance during his moment of victory.

Zimrilim looked at the assembled priests, held back by the zombies and staring in horror at the return of Gilgeam. A smirk crossed his features. He usually didn't like to show genuine emotion-he considered it a sign of weakness-but that day, of all days, he would indulge himself.

"Now ye ken why thy plans are paltry kittens," he said. "Unther needeth not Bane. Unther hath its devoted lord Gilgeam! And as the people make obeisance unto him, they shall be worshiping me, who maketh the god to dance at my whim."

To prove his point, he aimed the staff at Gilgeam and bent his will to force the dead god to dance.

"As the Empire of Unther drapeth the mantle of its faith upon Gilgeam, he shall yield it unto me, placing it at my feet, and I shall ascend to the divine, with Gilgeam-my avatar-at my right hand! And lo! the powers I shall unleash upon the Pharaoh of Mulhorand and upon the followers of Bane who darken the thresholds of the Untherites' doors shall be utterly without mercy!

"Gilgeam!" he shouted. He focused his energy on directing the powerful beast, and even with the ancient necromantic artifact, it was difficult. "Smite the heretics!"

Gilgeam raised his hands, fingers spread with thumbs touching, and launched a bolt of raw divine power at the thickest congregation of priests. The sound of a thunderclap drowned out the screams of Bane's devoted as they perished. The other priests stampeded for the ramp, their flight harried by the zombies that reached up and gripped at their ankles with a strength only attainable by the dead.

Let them flee, thought Zimrilim. They can flee neither far enough nor fast enough to escape my wrath.

He redirected the staff's energies toward the priests that Gilgeam had just slain, and they, too, rose up. Gilgeam paused in his destruction, but Zimrilim cared not. He chuckled as he watched his new servants rise.

Why, he thought, I shall send those who know the Zhents best to kill them, and therewith gain more to serve me.

He paused to survey the room. In the corners of the walkway, clusters of zombies struck and tore at groups of trapped priests. Several other priests, rather more brave than those who'd fled, called down the wrath of Bane upon Gilgeam, but the god-animate seemed only enraged by their efforts. He strode over and struck one of the priests with his bare fist, punching his sternum so hard that the breaking of a score of ribs resounded in the torture chamber.

The god-thing was acting without direction, but Zimrilim cared not. For a few moments-ages to the Banites, but less to him-Zimrilim let Gilgeam run unfettered by his authority. The priest swirled the staff to drag more corpses to a semblance of life and aim their directionless hunger toward the Banite priests. But then he felt the wrath of Gilgeam rising, threatening to erupt, and he felt the dead mind of the deity slowly turning his fury on him, the master. He applied his willpower against Gilgeam's, using the Alabaster Staff as a fulcrum. It was difficult, tasking work, but the outcome for one such as him was unavoidable, and Gilgeam was brought back to heel.

At that moment, Kehrsyn flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, grinding her pelvis into his hip.

"O my lord!" she cried. "Make me thy queen! I shall see to the safety of everything that is thine for as long as I shall live."

"What?" sneered Zimrilim. "Thinkest thou I have need of thy petty skills, when my apotheosis is at hand?"

Kehrsyn's eyes widened, and tears started to form at the corners of her eyes.

"But… but my lord, I thought you loved me-or at least found me attractive…"

Zimrilim snorted. "Prefer I my women cold and obedient," he said.

Kehrsyn quailed in shock and horror, but in the blink of an eye she abandoned her ruse, and, prying his middle finger back, she wrested the Alabaster Staff from his grasp with a move that was as fast and sure as an owl's strike. She turned to flee, but he seized hold of her thick hair and wrenched her around to face him again, yanking her head back to expose her jugular.

"Return thou the staff, whelp," he hissed, pulling her head farther back, "lest I raise thee to serve me more personally."

Kehrsyn whimpered in pain and offered the staff back to him with a trembling hand.