“My arm rejects me once again. Is there nothing to do? A demon to summon?”

“Master, even at the best of times it is difficult to entrap a demon. Since you exiled the one who worked on your leg, they have become even wilier in eluding my snare spells. Hasn’t the adhesive paste bonded the arm?”

“See for yourself.” Claybore thrust out his left shoulder. The arm had disconnected grotesquely and dangled by a few arteries and grey, stringy nerves.

“Please, master, come into my laboratory. I will again attempt the connection. The flesh has been separated so long that it has taken on a life of its own.”

“One of the penalties of immortality. The parts attempt to live by themselves. Damn Terrill,” Claybore exclaimed. Then the sorcerer chuckled and danced about, favoring his gimpy leg. “How should I visit Terrill and let him know that his plight will continue? How can I best instill hope and then dash it?”

“His madness prevents any such revenge, master,” said Patriccan fumbling with the arm. He frowned. The best of his magics failed to hold Claybore’s arm in place. Even Claybore had not been able to keep himself intact.

“Perhaps I shall lift the madness, give the promise of rescue-after letting him know what his life has been like for ten thousand years-and then cast him back into insanity.”

“A fitting end for him, master.”

“Don’t patronize me, fool.” Claybore jerked free of Patriccan’s fumbling examination. He stormed into the journeyman mage’s laboratory and perched on the edge of the green-tiled table, waiting impatiently.

Patriccan went first to a cabinet filled with vials and mixed a new potion. He chanted over it and activated it with magics barely under his control.

“This will keep the arm from slipping free of its own volition,” said Patriccan. He held Claybore’s arm in place, then swabbed on the frothy mixture he had conjured.

“My arm turns increasingly numb. No feeling and the fingers refuse to clench.”

“Master, this is the best I can do. Will you do battle with Martak soon? If I have time to experiment, perhaps then I can find some other way of mending your body.”

“The power is on me,” said Claybore. “Simply having all my parts again augments my ability. Spells long forgotten now return to me, and power? I have power!”

Patriccan looked skeptically at the mage. The bone white of the skull had been broken by the weblike dark fracture patterns. The flesh had been destroyed and the tongue now rested in Martak’s mouth. Patriccan did not understand how Claybore could be so sanguine about his chances when the reconstructed body that carried him into this conflict betrayed him at every turn.

“Come into the viewing room, Patriccan,” ordered Claybore. “I will show you the progress I make.”

Patriccan followed, feeling the aches in every joint; but compared to his master, he was in perfect condition.

“See?” said Claybore, pointing to the wall of moving scenes. “On that world the conquest is complete. A full score of sorcerers joins the effort. On this world, two of my strongest opponents are dead. Their magics availed them nothing.” Claybore chuckled when he saw huge mechanical juggernauts, magically powered by captive demons, lumbering forth to crush opposition. This world had proven especially recalcitrant. Only the most intricate of magics had allowed Claybore to topple its regime.

“And there,” the mage continued, rubbing hands together as he stood in front of one panoramic view of a world in ruins, “there my troops have captured a grimoire, that might allow me to complete the spell creating the Pillar of Night.”

“You would kill the Resident?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Claybore. “I am undecided. I rather enjoy gloating, and the Resident of the Pit is a captive audience this way. Still, I prefer having the power to permanently remove a god, if the mood strikes me. The legion commander on that world will deliver the grimoire to me within the week.”

“What efforts are being made by Martak? I cannot assume he bides his time.”

“There is evidence he penetrated all the way to the Pillar,” said Claybore. “I have not been able to contact k’Adesina and find out. The Lady Brinke holds Kiska behind a wall of magic.”

“You cannot break through?” asked Patriccan, astonished.

“Of course I can.” Claybore’s irritation made Patriccan cringe away. He waited for the ruby death beams. They never came. “I have been occupied with other things.” Claybore flexed his right arm; his left sluggishly stirred but did no more.

Patriccan, for the first time, began to doubt. His master took too many chances, made too many mistakes. While Claybore was ostensibly whole again, Patriccan knew how tenuous were the bonds holding arms and legs to the torso. The dismembered sorcerer gained much in strength by being reassembled, but all of the parts were not his own. Did that cause the peculiar overconfidence? Patriccan hoped not. The final confrontation with Martak required every skill Claybore had accumulated over a very long lifetime of sorcerous doings.

“It will all come together on the plains in front of the Pillar of Night,” said Claybore. “Martak will not stand a chance. And with his defeat, I will sap the power that makes him so powerful. I will suck up his essence and let it fill me. I will become the new god of the universe. None will dare oppose me!”

“None so dares now, master,” said Patriccan.

“Martak does. Look. There and there and there.” Claybore went from scried scene to scene, pointing. “All those worlds opposed me. They were crushed by might of arms. No longer will they even think of opposition. My very name will cause them to drop to one knee and pay me the homage I am due.”

“Those machines,” said Patriccan. “They come to this world? How? Surely, none will fit through a cenotaph.”

“They come,” said Claybore. “Using this, they will come.” He tapped his chest cavity where the Kinetic Sphere pulsed slowly.

Patriccan said nothing. He knew the immense power of the Kinetic Sphere, but the journeyman mage had to question the value of Claybore’s draining himself so before meeting Martak. The effort to move even one of those huge demon-powered fighting machines from another world had to be extreme.

He bowed and left the room. There were preparations to be made and perhaps he might even find the time to properly question a few prisoners brought him from another world. He had no desire for the information they hid; Patriccan desired only the painful questioning.

That would ease some of the strain he felt, he was positive.

“Why not just fly directly to the Pillar?” asked Ducasien as they disembarked from the demon-powered flyer. The warrior was still pale from the trip; it was his first experience with such a vehicle and the demon had berated him constantly for his airsickness.

“I tried that before,” said Lan. “The demon refused to go any closer than the edge of the forest. But I have a path well scouted now. The dangers of the forest are… minimal.”

All knew Lan lied. The sense of “deadness” within the woods reflected a closer appraisal of their chances. But Lan was able to use his spells freely enough now and that opened ways that were both more and less dangerous. The physical threat within the sterile forest would be small, but the attention attracted by the use of a potent spell might be unwanted. It was a risk that had to be borne.

“You leave me sitting here,” complained the demon within the flyer. “Just like that? After so many hours of faithful service? What kind of ass are you?”

“Be quiet or I shall eat you,” said Krek. The spider unfolded long legs from the cramped storage space of the flyer. One taloned leg tapped hard against the hatch plate behind which the demon crouched.

“Go on, you overgrown nightmare. Try it! I’ll give you such a case of heartburn you’ll never recover!”