Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

are now, and more yet….”

Ischade looked down silently at what the light, the silver morning, the

irresistible joy beating in the air, had made of her. Long she looked down, and

lifting her hands, gazed into them as if into a mirror. Finally she lowered them

and said, calm as ever, “I prefer my way.”

Mriga looked a long moment at her. “Yes. Anyway, thank you,” she said.

“Believe me, you’ll pay well enough for what I’ve done for Harran.”

Mriga shook her head. “Down there-you knew everything that was going to happen,

didn’t you? But you were trying to spare us a disaster, trying to spare

Sanctuary one. Without looking like it, of course, and spoiling your

reputation.”

“I should have hated to lose a goddess who will be creating such wonderful

disturbances hereabouts in the near future,” Ischade said, her voice soft and

dangerous.

Mriga smiled at her. “You’re not quite as you paint yourself, Lady Ischade. But

your reputation is safe with me.”

The necromant looked at her and smiled a slow, scornful smile. “The day it

matters to me what anyone thinks of me, or doesn’t think … even the gods …

!” she said.

“Yes,” said Mriga. “And whoever raises the dead but gods? Let’s go in.”

Ischade nodded, holding the gate. Mriga went in, and with true sunrise, the

influences of the underworld died away and let day reassert itself: grimy,

pallid dawn over Sanctuary, reeking with smoke and the faint taint of blood

ghost-haunted, dismal, and bitter cold as befitted the first day of winter. At

Ischade’s back, the White Foal flowed and stank, filmed here and there with ice.