"A word of advice, though," the assassin said, crossing over to loom near Kovrim's head, a smug smile on his face. "Fight the transformation. It won't make a difference, but I can imagine the desperation you'll feel while it's happening will be truly agonizing. So resist it with everything you have, just for me."

Kovrim gave a throaty shout at the man standing over him, but Junce backed up a pace or two, spoke a phrase, and vanished. When he had gone, the old priest broke down, sobbing in his loneliness and fear. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was terrified of becoming an undead thing. Watching Hort rise up from the floor and stare with glassy, unrecognizing eyes straight ahead as he shuffled off to join the other zombies was the most difficult thing the old priest had ever had to witness.

And he knew he would be joining his longtime companion soon, transformed by the magical plague into another mindless, disease-spreading creature, part of Junce's new army. It sickened him, made him want to retch. He began to thrash again, fighting the restraints that held him on the table.

A door opened, and Kovrim twisted his head around, trying to peer in that direction to see who it was. A man strode into the chamber where he lay, but his face was hidden by a deep-cowled hood, part of a long robe he wore. There was a strange glow radiating all around the stranger, and Kovrim guessed that it was some sort of protection against infection from the plague.

"You see," the stranger said, his face turned away from Kovrim as he stood at a workbench, doing something Kovrim couldn't see, "my cousin doesn't want to have to battle the armies of Reth and the Emerald Enclave at full strength. In truth, he doesn't want to have to fight them at all. He would much rather let the ravages of disease take their toll, and Chondath can arrive with healing magic and save the day, allowing Reth to return to the fold, where it rightly belongs."

Kovrim listened to the man's cryptic words, not understanding them, but not really thinking about them, either. It was the stranger's voice that captivated him. It was vaguely familiar, someone he had known, many years ago. But he couldn't quite place it.

"Of course," the man continued, "my cousin must make certain that Chondath is not seen as having released the plague itself. That's everyone's worst fear, that Shining Arrabar will bring the Rotting Plague back. So he developed a plan. The plague would come from elsewhere, and he would be seen as a savior rather than a devil. And who better to release the plague upon a hated city than the druids of the Emerald Enclave? When they begin to track the zombies' origins and head down into the sewers, they will find the bodies of two promising young wood folk who both gave their lives so that the 'hated city folk' could be devoured in disease."

At last, the man turned to face Kovrim, holding a small alembic, which contained a thick, yellow substance. He approached where the old priest lay, holding the alembic well away from himself. "It was a long plan, a slow one, and one that I didn't have much say in," the man said. "But then, that's always the way my cousin operated, so I guess I should feel fortunate that I was included at all."

Kovrim wanted to scream, not because the man was about to pour the thick, sludgy substance onto his face-that in and of itself was too horrible to contemplate. No, the old priest's anxiety reached a fever pitch because he remembered the face, knew the man.

Slowly, as the man let a bit of the disease-ridden pus slide out of the alembic and dribble around Kovrim's mouth and nose, he lost his faculties, his mind seeking shelter by receding from consciousness.

Rodolpho Wianar finished the application of the disease to the priest and smiled.

Emriana held her breath, trying to hold perfectly still. It was hard, hanging as she was with her knees drawn up and hooked over a timber and her torso folded in half, both hands clinging to that same beam along either side of her knees. She would have pulled herself up the rest of the way and found a more comfortable perch, but there hadn't been time. She felt very undignified with her rear end jutting downward like that.

Below the girl, a lone guard stood in the midst of the room, his head canted slightly to one side as though listening. One hand rested on the hilt of his short sword while the other gripped the scabbard. Emriana knew that any movement on her part would disturb the dust coating the top of the beam, causing it to sift downward-right on top of the man below her.

"Anyone there?" the guard called out, uncertain, craning his neck to peer into the shadows of the library. There was no answer, of course, because when Emriana and Pilos had entered the chamber to flee the guard and his companions, it had been perfectly dark.

Which is why I managed to bump into a shelf and knock over a whole stack of books, Emriana recalled. Oh yes, Emriana Matrell, you are a first-class sneak, she silently taunted herself.

She wanted to throw up from fear.

From the shadows beyond the guard's torch, there was a slight scuffling sound.

"Who's there!" the guard demanded, more forcefully.

A cat appeared, its eyes reflecting the torchlight, a mouse caught in its teeth. It let out a low growl as if to warn the human away from its meal, then slunk back into the shadows.

The guard snorted and his shoulders sagged, obviously relieved. "Stupid cat," he mumbled, turning to go. "Scared the demons out of me." He stomped out of the library, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving Emriana in blessed darkness. She heard the click of a lock turning, and all was quiet.

The girl sighed in relief and thanked Tymora for the luck of a cat. She then eased herself back down from the timbers in the ceiling, dropping to the floor. She began smoothing her dress in the darkness, knocking the dust from it, just as Pilos reappeared, dispatching himself from the nearby wall. His pendant still shone with a soft, pearlescent light. The glow had vanished when the guard had first interrupted them and the young priest had magically melted into the wall. The way in which he had done that fascinated Emriana.

"I need to cast spells like that," she muttered as the young man moved beside her. "I bet you were a lot more comfortable in there than I was hanging half upside down."

Pilos grinned. "You looked like you were having fun," he said wryly. "I thought for a moment that his torch was going to scorch your backside."

Emriana groaned at the possibility. "I guess it's a good thing the ceiling's so high," she remarked.

"Or that he was so short," the young man came back.

Emriana chuckled then took a deep breath. Her heart was still pounding. "Where are we?" When she saw the glint in her counterpart's eye, she added, "And don't say a library. You know what I mean-how close are we?"

Pilos paused with his mouth open then nodded as he let his grin fade. "Close," he said. "We're at the right depth, at any rate."

"Why would there be a library down here, so far below the surface?" Emriana wondered aloud.

"Maybe the guards in the prison get bored and need something to read," Pilos quipped. Emriana shot him a glare. "I'm sorry," he said, straightening his features once more. "I'm very nervous. I tend to joke when I feel that way."

"It's all right," the girl said, understanding all too well how he felt. "But it won't be very funny if we get caught."

"I know" he said, and she could sense that his seriousness had returned. "Truthfully, if Lord Wianar is as powerful a wizard as the rest of Chondath fears, the Generon is probably loaded with libraries, all filled with spellbooks."

Emriana had been about to reach for one of the musty tomes on the closest shelf, but upon hearing the priest's comment, she jerked her hand away.