Pool of Twilight by James M. Ward, Anne K. Brown Page B

everything about the powers of darkness that might be useful one day to hunt those who had killed Marcus and injured the erinyes. When Sirana was nine, she had tested her daughter’s progress in a magical duel. In the course of the battle, Sirana had slain her mother, gaining the erinyes’s power for her own. Neither regretted the outcome of the duel. Even as she lay dying, the erinyes had presented the memory box to Sirana and made her take a vow of vengeance.
    For years, Sirana had bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to enact her revenge. And then a wondrous opportunity had presented itself. She discovered a fantastic new source of power that made her stronger than she had ever dared to hope. A plan unfurled in her mind. Not only would she kill those who had slain her father, she would also regain the precious Hammer of Tyr the city held so dear. Without the hammer, Phlan would never be healed of the vice and corruption that had come to plague it since the hammer was lost. Then she would ransom the hammer to one of the many dark gods who despised Tyr. In exchange for the relic, she would demand to become a demigod, just as Marcus himself, her father, had once dreamed. Her vengeance, and her destiny, would be complete.
    The iron door of her spellcasting chamber flew open with a boom, shattering her pleasant reverie. She scowled, snapping shut the memory box. A cruel light shone in her dark eyes. Yes, she would have her revenge, and she would become a deity. This minor setback at the temple meant nothing at all. But first she had some tedious business to take care of.
    “We have dealt the imbecile clerics of Tyr a blow they will not soon forget, Sirana!” a voice thundered.
    Slayer. The abishai strutted into her chamber, displaying dagger-sharp fangs. Several roaches scuttled about in terror. Unlike Slayer, they possessed an inkling of what was going to happen.
    The massive fiend stood before Sirana’s chair, breath reeking, the veins in its membranous wings pulsing with black blood.
    “It was a glorious battle,” Slayer snarled arrogantly. “The morons of Tyr will never stand another assault.”
    “Is that so?” Sirana crooned. “And what do we have left to assault them with, Slayer? An army of cockroaches?” She flung a small crimson ball of energy at one of the insects crawling by. When the smoke cleared, all that remained was a scorched spot on the stone floor.
    Slayer shrugged massive shoulders. “They couldn’t prove any worse in battle than your spinagons, mistress. Not that your army of thieves was much better. Despite their ineptitude, I almost got my hands on The Oracle of Strife. Then a blasted paladin I had set ablaze had the gall to collapse on the book. It was ashes before I could blink. Your idiot spinagons should have stopped him, but they had all perished at the hands of an elven illusionist.” The fiend’s scarlet eyes glowed hotly. “You didn’t tell me there would be a mage in the temple, mistress. Tch, tch! You should be grateful I am still alive to serve you.”
    A smile coiled itself about Sirana’s lips like a small ruby serpent. “Indeed, abishai, I am exceedingly grateful. And I feel I should grant you a reward for your accomplishments.”
    She lifted a hand. Slayer’s eyes flared suspiciously. Black flames encircled the fiend’s body. Layer after layer of magical protections wove themselves about the abishai. The fiend glared at its mistress smugly. It had nothing to fear from the half-breed daughter of a lowly erinyes.
    “You dare to raise a hand against me?” Slayer snarled. Drool flew from the abishai’s maw, pitting the stone floor where it splattered. “I am a prince among fiends. Your mother’s kind are insects to me, and your father’s most powerful spells could not so much have scratched my defenses. You summoned me into this world, Sirana, but do not for a moment believe that you will be able to hurt me.”
    Sirana feigned an impressed look. “I have