"And if that doesn't work?"

"I've another one memorized, just in case. Should I try it now?"

Pinch shook his head, almost hitting the onlookers in front of him with the great beak. "Not yet. Wait for a distraction."

Within moments, Pinch almost gave the word to go. Juricale presented the relics to Throdus, but the prince refused to rise. A wave of amazement soared through the crowd.

"Pinch, what's happening?" Sprite demanded, unable to see the thrones.

"Throdus has declined the test," the rogue answered with keen interest. Apparently Vargo's threats were working.

"Can he do that? What if he were the chosen one?"

"I don't know. It's his right, but no one's ever done it."

Bewildered, Juricale continued on to Marac. He, too, remained firmly in his seat. By now the audience hummed with speculation.

"Vargo's spread his threats well," the regulator said in admiration.

Juricale was visibly relieved when Bors stood to make his claim. The power of his temple resided in the ceremony, so any precedent that ignored it threatened his job. Pinch was amazed that Bors managed to recite the words of lineage, although it could have been done with a little magical aid from Manferic himself.

Now there were two candidates. Expectations mounted as the Hierarch returned to Vargo. Pinch held his hand lightly over Lissa's arm, ready to give the signal. If anything was to happen it must happen soon.

Vargo seized the knife, proclaimed the words, and boldly pricked his thumb. Carefully the underpriests came forward and caught the ruby drops in the golden cup. Another carefully poured a measure of wine. Swirling the two, the Hierarch returned the cup to Vargo's hand.

"Drink now, so that all may see if you are Ankhapur's true lord." The priest's voice boomed over the silent crowd.

Vargo raised the Cup high and then set it to his lips. A collective gasp seized the audience as everyone waited for the sign.

Nothing happened.

With one breath a sigh of mass tension blew like a wind across the hall. Carried on it were the faint grumbles of those whose hopes were lost and the smug pleasure of those who'd won. Bors, they knew, would be the rightful king. Others, wiser perhaps, looked to the doors, mindful that what Vargo could not have by right he would claim by sword.

Just as the Hierarch turned toward Bors, Vargo clutched at his throat, an expression of horror twisting his visage. His pallor changed to an icy blue. All at once he coughed up a gurgle of blood, his knees buckled, and he pitched to the floor.

"Poison! Manferic's cup is poisonous!" Pinch blurted, suddenly seeing the whole of the lich's plan. There was a stunned silence of panic, and that the rogue knew was the perfect diversion. "Now, Lissa, now!"

Jolted from her shock, the priestess unfurled the scroll and began to read. Pinch braced himself, though for what he didn't know. Sprite struggled out of his costume, the gargantuan head ill suited to action. If Lissa's spell worked, he'd be standing next to a confused and unhappy lich, not the safest place in the world.

Lissa read the final word and immediately leapt to the side, expecting the worst.

No waves of disorientation overwhelmed Pinch, no change of view came to his eyes. He was still trapped in Manferic's body beneath the layers of the raven garb.

"It didn't work!" he snarled.

A shriek from the audience broke his claim. "Look!" Lissa shouted, pointing toward the dais. There Pinch's body stood, where Cleedis had once been. "It's dropped his spell of disguise."

As if her words had been a sign, the Pinch on stage glared directly at them, pinpointed by the magic she'd used. "You!" he bellowed, seeing through their disguises. As the crowd erupted into a pandemonium of confusion and fear, the transformed lich raised his hands to work a spell. The energies began to form and swirl about him.

For Pinch there was no time to run, for Lissa no time for a counter-spell. They could only brace themselves to endure what must come.

Just as the lich reached the height of his casting, the energies dissipated, swirling away like wisps of smoke. The lich was left bare, uncloaked by his magic, staring in rage in the branded hand of the body it occupied.

"My hand-it's crippled. He can't cast his spells," Pinch shouted with glee. "Again, Lissa! Try again!"

Now it was the priestess's turn to conjure as the lich shrieked in frustrated rage. She wove the spell with rapid ease, and before Pinch was ready for the shock, she uttered the final prayer.

The world lurched, shut off its light, and then flared back on. Suddenly Pinch was standing over everyone, looking down on the crowd, looking down on the threesome at the lonely center of cleared space.

From the black-ravened one at the heart of that group rose a shriek of unholy rage. The mask flew off and the feathered cloak dropped aside to reveal the moldering fury that was Manferic.

"Janol, you bastard son-you will die!" the true lich roared. With a sweep, magical might blazed from his now-unfettered hands.

Pinch dove for the shield of a throne as a scorching burst of fire tore across the stage. Blinded by the orange-white heat, Pinch could hear the screams of the Hierarch and the princes caught in its blast.

Crap, what to do? How to fight a lich? Pinch hadn't a clue, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Trusting his survival instinct, the rogue darted from his thin shelter and sprinted for the main floor. The stage was too exposed for any chance of safety.

As he ran, others reacted. Vargo's swordsmen, to their credit, were charging for battle. The hall was a swirl of confusion-revelers stampeding for the doors, priests wailing on the dais for their fallen leader, and at the center of it all the single point of Manferic, a whirlwind of magical fury. In that confusion, Vargo's loyalists latched on to the only obvious conclusion, that the thing on the floor was their enemy.

If he had time, Pinch would have admired these warriors for their courage, as hopeless as their cause was. As the swordsmen broke through the crowd, Manferic struck them down almost as fast as they appeared. Magic flashed from his fingertips in a display of utter power. All Pinch had time for was a small amount of thankfulness that they occupied all of Manferic's attention.

It didn't last long. Once the first rush of the boldest fell, so fell the enthusiasm of those remaining. The lich was quicker than death, but he did not stop there. With a quick gesture, commanded chaos descended on the ranks that remained. Strong men dropped to their knees in confusion, and friends turned on friends in a bloodlust of killing. The company was caught up in itself, men slaughtering each other or wandering aimlessly, their weapons limp at their sides.

The next to try was Lissa. Just as Manferic broke the wave of swordsmen, she lunged forward and clapped her hands on his shoulders. Pinch couldn't hear the prayer she mouthed; it was drowned out by the screams and moans of those around him. Suddenly the lich stiffened with rage, its dead body insensitive to the pain, as Lissa's spell flowed through it. Its death mask contorted by rage, the lich whirled about and uttered a spell directly into her face. Between them materialized a titan's hand, as large as Lissa was tall. Its skin was puffy and smooth, and there were even rings on its fingers. The priestess gaped in astonishment and, in that stunned moment, the great digits closed about her and grasped her firm. Lissa twisted and squirmed but there was no escaping.

Manferic barely gave his prisoner notice, confident that she was trapped. "Janol!" he shouted, scanning the hall for Pinch. "Stand by me, my son. Together we can rule Ankhapur!"

Pinch, on the main floor, paused in his mad rush for the shelter of a pillar. Manferic's offer didn't stop him; he knew that was a lie. Now was the time to run, get to cover, and get away, but he wasn't moving. When the constables were coming, you didn't stay to gather more loot. You ran, and that's just what he knew he should do now.