knew that the spirit there glowed with unnatural light and black force. Pol drew upon the negative energies already, and soon enough the priest would pass from the status of a mortal human to that of an eternally undead lich-lord. All the better, for Colvetis Pol was a useful servant to Hades.
Poxpanus noted that the priest was studying him, even as he gazed upon the man. Pol had the power to see clearly in darkness, and no shadows or even dweomered darkness could prevent his vision from working. It made the daemon a little uneasy to realize that the assessment, the weighing, that was going on was mutual. “The interference will be weakened. That is certain. And what is weak can be made to disappear.”
“What if your hound should fail, lord?” The priest was not inclined to take Poxpanus at his word.
“That would be my failure, and such a condition is not possible,” the nether-thing said with hauteur.
The mage seemed satisfied at that, but Colvetis Pol slightly raised one of his thin, sharply arched brows. “You can predict the unpredictable, know the unknown. I am impressed, lord.” His tone was perhaps the tiniest bit sarcastic.
“You will see in a short time, priest!” Poxpanus spat the words out in his anger at being japed at by even so powerful a man as this priest, for Pol was still but a human. There could be no doubt that he was also one who was growing overly ambitious. He would be dealt with to stringent fashion, Poxpanus assured himself, soon… soon. “Now I grow weary of this puerile banter. I shall retire to my private chambers.”
***
“Virgin’s blood, lord-fresh and warm.” The servant set a flask on the table next to Poxpanus and backed out of the room hastily.
Now within the deep enclave that was the special guest chamber of the temple, the nether-being was preparing for what he must do next. He quaffed the satisfying refreshment quickly, for it gave him the energy and power he would need to execute the task before him.
The words of the priest had caused Poxpanus to consider. His queries were too pointed. The daemon had spoken hastily, and now it was time to make certain that what he had said was no mere boasting. First there would be a sending of sickness. Although the daemon did not know exactly those whom it would visit, their locale and general descriptions were sufficient, for he was near and full of vigor. Some of that strength, however, had to be saved for the second part of his effort.
The ritual of the sending was similar to the complex incantations and conjurations often practiced by mages. Sigildark would have seen much he recognized. So would Colvetis Pol have recognized certain ceremonial portions used by those who invoked clerical powers. Poxpanus worked with speed and deliberation, but he did not rush. Even a netherlord could make errors, and the daemon knew that well. Soon enough the sending was completed, and then he turned his attention to Rheachan.
Although that creature served as his hound, Rheachan was his own offspring, a thing sprung directly from Poxpanus. The beast was therefore controllable, loyal, and totally predictable. If it drew upon the daemon’s own strength, it also fed him when it fed. The relationship was complex, symbiotic in a sense, an unbreakable extension of the vilest portions of Poxpanus’ mind and body too. Rheachan had never failed. Still, something in the priest’s words had made the daemon uneasy. The unknown was, after all, just that Better to be too cautious now. Cautious, that is, in assuring the strength of his hound-offspring as it did its work.
There was no mystery involved in Poxpanus’ calling down sickness and disease upon an enemy. Pol and others steeped in the arcane knew well that such powers belonged to daemons of stature. Rheachan was an altogether different matter. Something that was strength could also be weakness if enemies were aware of the resource. To avoid any possible spying on what he planned next,
Poxpanus noted that the priest was studying him, even as he gazed upon the man. Pol had the power to see clearly in darkness, and no shadows or even dweomered darkness could prevent his vision from working. It made the daemon a little uneasy to realize that the assessment, the weighing, that was going on was mutual. “The interference will be weakened. That is certain. And what is weak can be made to disappear.”
“What if your hound should fail, lord?” The priest was not inclined to take Poxpanus at his word.
“That would be my failure, and such a condition is not possible,” the nether-thing said with hauteur.
The mage seemed satisfied at that, but Colvetis Pol slightly raised one of his thin, sharply arched brows. “You can predict the unpredictable, know the unknown. I am impressed, lord.” His tone was perhaps the tiniest bit sarcastic.
“You will see in a short time, priest!” Poxpanus spat the words out in his anger at being japed at by even so powerful a man as this priest, for Pol was still but a human. There could be no doubt that he was also one who was growing overly ambitious. He would be dealt with to stringent fashion, Poxpanus assured himself, soon… soon. “Now I grow weary of this puerile banter. I shall retire to my private chambers.”
***
“Virgin’s blood, lord-fresh and warm.” The servant set a flask on the table next to Poxpanus and backed out of the room hastily.
Now within the deep enclave that was the special guest chamber of the temple, the nether-being was preparing for what he must do next. He quaffed the satisfying refreshment quickly, for it gave him the energy and power he would need to execute the task before him.
The words of the priest had caused Poxpanus to consider. His queries were too pointed. The daemon had spoken hastily, and now it was time to make certain that what he had said was no mere boasting. First there would be a sending of sickness. Although the daemon did not know exactly those whom it would visit, their locale and general descriptions were sufficient, for he was near and full of vigor. Some of that strength, however, had to be saved for the second part of his effort.
The ritual of the sending was similar to the complex incantations and conjurations often practiced by mages. Sigildark would have seen much he recognized. So would Colvetis Pol have recognized certain ceremonial portions used by those who invoked clerical powers. Poxpanus worked with speed and deliberation, but he did not rush. Even a netherlord could make errors, and the daemon knew that well. Soon enough the sending was completed, and then he turned his attention to Rheachan.
Although that creature served as his hound, Rheachan was his own offspring, a thing sprung directly from Poxpanus. The beast was therefore controllable, loyal, and totally predictable. If it drew upon the daemon’s own strength, it also fed him when it fed. The relationship was complex, symbiotic in a sense, an unbreakable extension of the vilest portions of Poxpanus’ mind and body too. Rheachan had never failed. Still, something in the priest’s words had made the daemon uneasy. The unknown was, after all, just that Better to be too cautious now. Cautious, that is, in assuring the strength of his hound-offspring as it did its work.
There was no mystery involved in Poxpanus’ calling down sickness and disease upon an enemy. Pol and others steeped in the arcane knew well that such powers belonged to daemons of stature. Rheachan was an altogether different matter. Something that was strength could also be weakness if enemies were aware of the resource. To avoid any possible spying on what he planned next,
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