“That looks kind of risky,” said Greyboar, frowning.
“Nonsense!” spoke the mage. “I admit my apprentice appears scrofulous, but I can assure you that I have always insisted on a regime of hygiene and cleanliness. The snarl is in no danger of contracting—”
“That isn’t what I meant!” bellowed the strangler. “I mean it looks risky for Shelyid. Look at the size of that—” He gasped in horror, for the snarl had just swallowed the dwarf whole. Shelyid’s peals of laughter could be heard faintly from within the monstrous jaws. But the strangler’s disquiet proved unbased. The snarl opened its jaws and Shelyid popped out, none the worse for wear. Actually, he was howling in positive ecstasy at the experience.
Eventually, dwarf and snarl ended their foolish rompery. Shelyid, now inspecting the beast closely as he worked to unfasten its collar, turned to the wizard and said shrilly: “Look, master, the snarl’s all scarred up and everything! He’s got”—a moment’s pause for examination, then:—”she’s got all these fresh cuts and sores all over her!”
The wizard nodded his head. “Yes, Shelyid, and I am not surprised. For look you!” Here the mage pointedly dramatically at a great cat-o’-nine-tails hanging on the wall behind. “Clearly ’twas part of Inkman’s trap! Not only to keep a snarl chained here in the chamber, but to keep the beast maddened by frequent scourgings. No doubt he also kept the monster on starvation rations! A shrewd man, Inkman, there can be no doubt of it. Anyone who attempts to pass through this chamber to the treasure room beyond must deal not with a snarl, which is bad enough, nor even a starving snarl, which is worse, but a starving snarl driven to the height of rage by torture and torment. Most ingenious! Most sagacious! Most—”
“He’s mean!” interrupted Shelyid. He flung the collar to the floor.
“Well, as to that,” spoke the mage, “ingenuity and sagacity have, in themselves, no moral character. Nay, fie upon such witless notions! Do we not have before us the splendid historic example of Borgia Sfrondrati-Piccolomini? Not to mention, of course, the—”
“Speaking of treasure rooms,” boomed Greyboar, “shouldn’t we be getting on with it?”
“Quite so, quite so,” admitted the mage. “Some other occasion, Shelyid, will be more suitable for this lecture. But be sure to remind me! ‘Tis essential, for your education, to discern with sure precision ‘twixt the higher faculties of Reason and the maudlin morass of Emotion.”
From the sour expression on his face, it appeared that Shelyid was not filled with anticipation at this promised lesson of the future.
Our heroes crossed the room and opened the door to the chamber beyond. The foursome entered—fivesome, I should say, for the snarl squeezed itself through the door after them. Greyboar looked back, paused, shrugged.
“Why not?” he asked no one in particular.
“Treasure room,” the wizard had called it, but in truth, the chamber was utterly bare save for a table in the center. Upon the table rested a small book, bound in green leather. Such were the only objects in the room.
Ignace advanced to the table, reaching out his hand. “That’s got to be it!” he exclaimed.
“Stop!” cried the mage. “Stop, you fool!”
Ignace looked back, frowning.
“What’s your problem, professor?”
“Dolt!” spoke Zulkeh. “Yon object is a great relic—ancient, potent beyond belief. Think you it is not guarded by fell wards and gruesome glyphs, guardian daemons and the like?”
“Well, maybe, but I don’t see anyth—” Ignace choked, then fell silent.
‘Twas not, one suspects, so much the size of the great wraith-like serpent which even now appeared, coiled above the book, which convinced Ignace that the wizard had reason on his side. ‘Twas probably not the coal-red eyes, nor the dagger-like fangs, nor even the drops of misty poison which fell from said fangs. No, one suspects it was the spirit-snake’s voice—throaty, sibilant, seductive—hissing the words: “Oh you stud! Kiss me! Kiss me, you stud!”
“More your line of work, this!” muttered Ignace to Zulkeh, as he beat a hasty retreat.
“Indeed so,” concurred the mage, examining the guardian spirit with an expert eye.
“Bah!” he oathed. “A naga!” Clear enough, Zulkeh was displeased.