youth, and his sorties upon the bloody roads of life had been colored by those
encounters: he yet bore the curse of one of their number, and his hatred of them
was immortal. He had thought that even should he die, his despite would live on
to harass them-he hoped that it were true. For to fight with enchanters of
skill, the same skills were needed, and he eschewed those arts. The price was
too high. He would never acknowledge power over freedom, eternal servitude of
the spirit was too great a cost for mastery in life. Yet a man could not stand
alone against witchfire-hatred. To survive, he had been forced to make a pact
with the Storm God, Vashanka. He had been brought to collar like a wild dog. He
heeled to Vashanka, these days, at the god’s command. But he did not like it.
There were compensations, if such they could be called. He lived interminably,
though he could not sleep at all? he was immune to simple, nasty war-magics; he
had a sword which cut through spells like cheese and glowed when the god took an
interest. In battle he was more than twice as fast as a mortal man-while they
moved so slowly he could do as he willed upon a crowded field which was a melee
to all but him, and even extend his hyper speed to his mount, if the horse was
of a certain strain and tough constitution. And wounds he took healed quickly
instantly if the god loved him that day, more slowly if they had been
quarreling. Only once-when he and his god had had a serious falling-out over
whether or not to rape his sister-had Vashanka truly deserted him. But even