Thieves World 4 – Storm Season by Asprin, Robert

The red lights glowing above Vashanka’s altar winked out. The ground shuddered;

the altar stones tumbled to the ground. Wonderful, he thought. Just great. He

let his eyes slide over his men, asleep between blinks, and wondered how far the

spell extended, whether they were ensor-celed in their bunks, or in the mess, or

on their horses as they made their rounds in the country or the town.

Well, Vashanka? he tested. It’s your altar they took down. But the god was

silent.

Besides the two coming at measured pace across the ground rutted with chariot

tracks, nothing moved. No bird cried or insect chittered, no Stepson so much as

snored. The companion of the imposing man in the thick, fur mantle had him by

the elbow. Who was helping whom, Tempus could not at first determine. He tried

to think where he had seen that austere face- soul-shriveling eyes so sad, bones

so fine and yet full of vitality beneath the black, silver-starred hair-and then

blew out a sibilant breath when he realized what power approached over the

rutted, Sanctuary ground. The companion whose lithe musculature and bare, tanned

skin were counterpointed by an enameled tunic of scale-armor and soft low boots

was either a female or the prettiest eunuch Tempus had ever seen- whichever,

she/he was trouble, coming in from some nonphysical realm on the arm of the en

telechy of a shadow lord, master of the once-in-a-while archipelago that bore

his name: Askelon, lord of dreams.

When they reached him, Tempus nodded carefully and said, very quietly in a