The Venom of Luxur

by J. Steven York

  The instant he was through, she snatched her hand back. “Why are you doing this, snake-lover?”

  He wondered if he should tell her. He wondered if she would even believe him. Ultimately, he took the coward’s way out. “I have my reasons to attend your comfort.” He glanced at the door reflexively, cautious that they might be overheard. “I want to help you.”

  She laughed harshly. “Help me? Likely this is just more clever torture. Build up my hopes, then dash them with violence and cruelty!”

  He looked at those strangely familiar eyes, and knew what he had to do. “I’m going to help you escape.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “Why would you do that?”

  He looked into her eyes. This chance might never come again. There were things he had to know. “What is your name?”

  She hesitated, then seeing no harm in it, answered. “Paniwi.”

  He smiled slightly. “That is a good name. I am called Anok Wati, but once, I had another name. I was called Sekhemar. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head, and from the lack of recognition in her eyes, he was sure she was being truthful. There were many things he could tell her, but she might not believe.

  There was one thing he could show her she could not help but believe. He removed the iron medallion he had found in the altar from his bag, pressed it between his palms, and with a few skillful twists snapped it open.

  Her eyes went wide with shock as he showed her the empty inner compartment. “How did you know?”

  He handed her the medallion, then removed its twin from under his robe. “This was given to me by your father.” He hesitated, the words hanging in his throat. “My father.”

  Her eyes went wide with shock.

  “He gave it to me, and with his dying breath told me to take it to my sister. A sister I never knew I had and, perhaps until this day, never really believed existed. Yet you are real.”

  She stared at the medallion, clearly wanting to ask the next question, and unsure if she could trust him enough even to ask.

  He took the medallion between his palms and quickly opened it as he had the other. He turned it so that she could see the Golden Scale nestled within.

  She glanced at it, in an instant pleased and alarmed. She snapped the medallion shut. She looked around furtively. “Do they know? Does the priest know?”

  “I have hidden it from him. I do not serve him, though it appears that I do. I am no friend of Set or his cult. I seek only to do them harm.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “Then why did you use your magics to lead them into my temple? They why did you deliver to them my Golden Scale?”

  He frowned at her. Ungrateful! “To save your life! It was the only way! I did not know you would be here, did not know you were my sister until I looked into your eyes and saw my father looking back!”

  She frowned and sighed. “I would have died gladly to protect the Golden Scales from the Cult of Set. Yet I can see you meant well, and at least he only has one of the three.”

  Anok looked away nervously. “Truth be told, he has two.”

  “What!”

  “It was sold to him by pirates some months back. I do not know where they got it.”

  “It is said the third Scale was thrown into the sea ages ago to keep it from a demon. Perhaps it washed up on some beach, or some creature of the depths found it and brought it back to the world of men. Set must not have the third Scale. You said our father told you to give me the Scale. Help me escape, and I will take it far from here, where Set’s minions will never get it.”

  She tried to take the Scale, but he would not let it go. “No! I will help you escape, but you must leave the Scale with me. I have been able to mask the Scale from his mystic senses, but if you leave with it, he will know, and he will call forth every army of Stygia and every magic at his disposal to track you down. If you leave empty-handed, you will have a chance to escape, and perhaps I will be able to give it to you some other time.”

  “If you protect the Scale, then you must come with me!”

  He shook his head. “Such treachery would not be allowed. I fear he would hunt me down, and you as well. Then he would have the third Scale anyway. But if I stay here, I will thwart his plans and scatter the three Scales so they cannot be used again.”

  She leaned back against the wall and drew up her knees to her chest. “If I cannot take the Scale, then I cannot go. It is my sacred duty to protect it with my life.”

  “You must go! I may not be able to protect you!”

  “That changes nothing. I must take that risk to guard the Scale.”

  “I could guard it better without you.”

  “I doubt that. But we will see what we will see.”

  She is stubborn and willful! But he couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps she really is my sister.

  19

  TEFERI LOOKED UP from his reading as Fallon entered the front door of the villa. From the rips in her clothing, the bruises on her arms, and scratches on her cheek and forehead, she’d been in another bar fight. From the smug grin on her face, she’d won.

  He chose not to comment on the bruises. Since swearing off strong drink, she’d gotten much of her old confidence back, and he did not want to make her self-conscious of the fact. She had confided in him that when the urges became too strong, she would enter a tavern, order water, wait for the inevitable insult or comment, and promptly trounce the offender. It was, he had to admit, an interesting tactic, though word was getting around Kheshatta, and uninformed targets were getting harder to find.

  So, instead, he greeted her casually. “Welcome home. There is fresh bread and fruit in the pantry.”

  “I ate at the Boar’s Head not two hours ago. I heard gossip.”

  He pushed his scroll aside. “Then what news, sister?”

  “Some of the metalworkers were eating there. It seems their task is done, and they have been released. They spoke Iranistani, and so did not fear being overheard.” She grinned. “Fortunately, the tongue is not unknown to me.”

  Teferi leaned back in his chair. “Few are, it seems.” He admired her Cimmerian gift for picking up language. He had heard a story that King Conan could curse in every language ever known to man, though as with most tales of the barbarian king, there was always some doubt.

  She continued. “They talked much of ‘the cursed metal.’ It seems the man we saw killed was not the only one, and they were glad to be done with the job, despite the princely sum they were paid. None of them saw all of what they were building, nor did they know its purpose. But from the shape of the parts, they speculated that it was armor for a dragon or some great beast.”

  He frowned. “A beast? Not a man?”

  “I am almost sure that is what they said. The words are not the same, but a beast, or an unnatural monster, or a great creature of some kind.”

  “Can the priests of Set intend to bring forth some great demon to do their bidding?” He noticed suddenly that she seemed not to be listening, but that she was smiling at him.

  “What?”

  “You called me ‘sister’?”

  He was genuinely surprised. “I did?”

  “You did.”

  He felt flushed, then chuckled. “Perhaps I am reminded of the old days on the dangerous streets of Odji, united with my companions in deed and purpose. Truly I thought those days were over.”

  “I am honored.”

  He chuckled again. “Well you should be.” He stood, and as he did, noticed the blood-colored light of the setting sun streaming over the wall into the garden. “It will be time to begin the vigil soon.” He picked up the Kotabanzi from the table where he had left it. “Let us go guard our friend’s dreams.”

  THEY LEFT THE gutted remains of Nafri in flames. Paniwi was led on a black mare captured in the town, her hands tied. She kept her eyes directly ahead, not willing to look back until the carnage was lost to the horizon.

  Anok wanted to comfort her, but h
e could barely talk to her without drawing attention to himself, and he supposed his words would bring her little peace. After all, this was as much his fault as anyone’s. Without his aid, Ramsa Aál might have failed in his quest, and certainly he would have had more difficulty penetrating the hidden temple of Ibis.

  They traveled with the full remaining complement of soldiers for a day before dividing ranks. While the mass of soldiers returned to Kheshatta with their plunder, a few of the higher-ranking guardians, Anok, Ramsa Aál, and their prisoner, veered onto an even narrower, less-used road that branched and branched again, finally leading deep into a narrow desert canyon. To Anok’s surprise, Ramsa Aál had Paniwi blindfolded as they left the main trail. He wondered what secret they meant to keep from her.

  The canyon trail wound on and on, sometimes so narrow that the horses could barely pass. At last, after half a day’s ride, they came to an ancient temple, hewn from the naked stone of the canyon wall.

  Two great columns flanked the door, each entwined with a huge stone serpent, their heads looking out from the top. Over the door was a statue of Set, ten times as tall as a man. In appearance, it was somewhat like the one on the temple at Khemi, except the face was more snakelike, even less human. Scales covered his exposed arms and legs, reptilian claws on his hands and feet.

  In the middle of the steps stood a great slab of stone, which had clearly fallen from somewhere high in the canyon. It was speared deep into the steps, and the exposed part stood at an angle, leaning away from the temple, but still higher than a man’s head.

  More guardians, priests, and others from the temple awaited them, and clearly they were preparing for some ceremony on the steps of the temple. A wooden platform had been placed on the steps flanking the slab of stone, and torches on tall brass poles had been erected to keep away the gloom that would doubtless come early in this deep, sunless place.

  As they arrived, servants came to take the horses, and Paniwi’s blindfold was removed. The first thing she looked upon was the great statue, and she looked at it with dread.

  Ramsa Aál laughed. “Behold, Priestess of Ibis, the first temple of Set, where it is said our god first birthed forth from his serpent’s den, far under the world. Behold the home of your god’s most hated enemy, where today this one”—he clapped his hand on Anok’s shoulder—“will become a priest of our mighty god!”

  Anok did not know what disturbed him most, the news of the impending ceremony, Ramsa Aál’s lies about his loyalty to Set, or the look of anger and disappointment in Paniwi’s eyes.

  They walked toward the temple. Anok was so distracted, he did not notice a huge snake coiled on a boulder until he was almost upon it. Disturbed, it rose, spreading a wide hood, its mouth opening to reveal dripping fangs.

  Ramsa Aál showed no fear, walking up to the great snake, as long as two men were tall, and holding his open hand up before its face. Likely enthralled by the two Scales of Set he wore, the creature did not attack, but rather followed his hand in an eerie dance as Ramsa Aál waved it back and forth.

  The snake was unlike anything Anok had ever seen, larger than any cobra, its scales iridescent in red, black, and yellow, like some of the greater Sons of Set, the holy constrictor snakes of the cult.

  “Only here,” explained Ramsa Aál, “in this holy place, do the native cobras of Stygia and the holy Sons of Set interbreed. These snakes are unique in all the world, able to kill by deadly poison or crushing coil. There are none more deadly or rare.” He made a gesture, and the snake withdrew its hood and calmly slithered away. “Beautiful, are they not?”

  Paniwi said nothing, but Anok was close enough to see her shudder. She was led away by a pair of guards, and Ramsa Aál led Anok away to a tent set up near the temple, to prepare for the ceremony.

  He had expected robes, but although the other priests and acolytes were clothed in long robes of scarlet and gold, he was clad in only a red kilt and gold ceremonial jewelry, a wide belt, bands around his biceps and wrists, a band of gold around his head, and ornate sandals secured with golden serpents that curled around his ankles.

  To his displeasure, he had no choice but to remove his father’s medallion. The tent was a simple shelter with no floor, and left alone for a moment, he lifted a flat stone to find a hiding place. As he did, a squirming fistful of baby serpents, like the crossbreeds that he had seen earlier, hissed up at him.

  With care, he placed the medallion in their little nest, even as he used a bit of its magic to calm them. “Care for this, little ones. I will be back for it.”

  As he waited he was able to examine the temple more closely. It became obvious why the ceremony was being held on the temple steps. Through the great front door, he could see that the interior of the temple had long ago collapsed. One look revealed only a jumble of boulders and broken stone columns that left a relatively small opening in the middle, like a cave.

  As the participants waited, the guardians and servants gathered before the steps to watch. He saw Paniwi there, a look of disgust and disappointment on her face.

  The ceremony began just after nightfall, as several guardians began to pound out a rhythm on large kettledrums. The priests assembled in rows flanking the platform and began to chant in old Stygian, keeping time with the drums: Set, oh god of dark power

  We praise thee and thy works

  We praise thee and thy works

  We offer you this, our servant

  Enter him into your work!

  Two guardians in ceremonial armor and long crimson sashes stepped up and led Anok toward the stone slab. As they stepped around it, he saw for the first time the metal hooks that had been set into the stone, and that they matched grooves on the armbands he had been given. Before he could resist or protest, he was lifted and hung by the wrists on the slab. He struggled, but his own weight held the bands down on the hooks, and they were far enough apart that he could not use leverage against one to lift himself off the other.

  Again, they chanted:Set, oh god of dark power

  We offer you this, our servant

  May you shape his soul to do your work

  Give him the gift of corruption

  That he may wield dark power in your name!

  Far within the depths of the temple, something large stirred. He could hear large stones scraping against each other as it began to move.

  He struggled again, looking for some way to free himself. Again they chanted:Set, oh god of dark power

  We offer you this, our servant

  That he may become your servant

  Bring forth your sacred son

  That he may receive the gift of venom!

  Within the darkness of the temple, he could dimly see something move. Then two eyes appeared, big as soup bowls, the color of molten copper. A great, red tongue flicked out. The head appeared, wider than a man’s shoulder, the scales glittering in firelight, three colors: the black of night, the yellow of gold, the red of blood.

  A length of body, easily ten paces long, thrust itself out of the passage, barely wide enough for its passing. It reared up, the cold, flicking tongue tasted the air, metallic eyes scanned those assembled, as a man might study a banquet table.

  Then its attention seemed to center on Anok. Hungry eyes focused on him, the slits of its pupils narrowing. Its wide slash of a mouth parted just a little.

  It hissed, and Anok could not help but shudder. Desperate, he tried to call on the Mark of Set, but something about the ornate gold band around his wrist blocked it. Or perhaps it was simply that its power would not work against Set himself. It did not matter. He was helpless!

  Then Ramsa Aál stepped away from the other priests and put himself between Anok and the great snake. He threw back his hood, and held his arms aloft. “Great Son of Set! Great son of Stygia! Hear me!”

  The snake’s head suddenly shot down, so quickly that Anok thought it would swallow Ramsa Aál in one gulp, and even the priests around him gasped.

  Instead, it stopped, its scale-cove
red muzzle but a few feet from the priest’s face.

  Of course! With the two Scales of Set, his command of the great serpent would be almost absolute. “Oh, Son of Set, know this, our servant. Until this day he has been called Anok Wati, ‘I am rebel.’ Now, I give him a new name in your service, Anok Kamanwati, ‘I am dark rebel.’ May it please you!”

  Ramsa Aál stepped to one side, turned half-toward Anok, and swept his arm toward him.

  The great snake undulated forward, the head dropping to loom, looking down on Anok, the eyes intent and unblinking. The mouth opened more fully, the fangs, twice the length of Anok’s hand, slowly unfolding from its upper jaw, glittering yellow drops of venom at their tips.

  It drew back and plunged down, the tips of the fangs stabbing into the flesh on either side of his neck, just above the collarbones. He screamed as the venom filled him like liquid fire.

  He was dead.

  He was dead.

  He was dead.

  He wanted desperately to call on the Mark of Set to heal him.

  It called back, through the veil of pain. “Set me free! Let us become one, in Set’s name. Come to me Kamanwati! Let us be as one!”

  That was it! That was the purpose of the ceremony! To force him to surrender to the Mark of Set!

  I will die first!

  But he did not want to die.

  Help me!

  I will help you, Kamanwati!

  No!

  The voices in his head all mixed together. He no longer knew which one was his own, which was the Mark of Set.

  Help me!

  Only I can help you!

  But there was one other. He fought against the killing venom no more.

  He let it take him.

  Down into darkness.

  There was no one here to help him.

  There was help only in—

  Dreams—

  20

  THE MAGIC OF the Kotabanzi swept Teferi up out of his body, and into the dreamworld. He strode across the globe, each step carrying him half a day’s ride through the surface of the world, the clouds stirring like fog around his feet.