with her two snakes-snakes which she’d given human form to guard him. Or sort of
human form-their eyes were still ophidian, their mouths lipless, their skin bore
an ineradicable cast of green.
The mage, his torso bound to his chair with blue pythons of power, had both
hands free and just enough free will left to give her a friendly wave: She had
him tranquilized, waiting out the time until his death day-the week’s end, come
Ilsday, if Niko did not return by then.
A little saddened at the realization that, if Niko did come back, she’d have to
free the mage-her word was good; it had to be; she dealt with too many arbiters
of souls-Roxane waved a hand to lift the calming spell from Randal.
If she had to free him, she’d not keep him comfy, safe and warm, till then.
She’d let him suffer, help him feel as much pain as his slender body could.
After all, she was Death’s Queen. Perhaps if she scared him long enough and well
enough, the Tysian magician would take his own life, trying to escape, or die
from terror-a death she’d have the benefit of but not the blame.
And in his chair, Randal’s face went white beneath his freckles and his whole
frame began to rock while, with every lunge and quaver, the nonmaterial bonds
around his chest grew tighter and the snakes (stupid snakes who never understood
anything) began querulously to complain that it was Randal’s bet and wonder what
was wrong as cards fell from his twitching fingers.
Strat was out at Ischade’s, where he shouldn’t be but mostly was at night, just