23rd Day of Sunsebb, 565 CY
Wizard's Guild, Willip, Furyondy
Zelhile did not respond but continued to scowl at the two wizards seated across the conference table from him.
Zantac was not unduly disturbed by this. Having spent two years in the guild under the leadership of this man, the Willip mage knew both his personality and his quirks. The Guildmaster was not a man to fidget or indeed, to do or say anything that he might consider extraneous to the subject at hand. And he was certainly not the type to try and introduce humor into a grim subject in an attempt to defuse the tension.
By Boccob's staff, Zantac realized suddenly. He's just like Aslan!
To the Guildmaster's right, his second-in-command Thormord sat quietly, having taken no part in this conversation beyond initial greetings. Thormord's ledger sat open upon the table with the scribe's magical quill standing alight on top of it, but as no one was currently speaking, the quill remained motionless.
Thormord was trying to appear neutral in this matter, but unlike his master could not hide his restlessness, hoping this conversation might move along at a brisker pace. While he kept his hands folded on the table in front of him, he was twiddling his thumbs and his emerald green eyes occasionally darted around the room- or below and to the side.
The bright red carpet which covered the entire thirty-foot diameter of this room lay underfoot as it always did. At the moment, it did not appear to be moving.
You never know, though, thought Zantac.
He glanced to his right, catching Cygnus' eye for a moment. The tall wizard's expression bespoke a silent but slowly building frustration. Despite the importance of their mission here, Zantac knew his fellow arcanist was rapidly approaching the point where he would just declare the whole thing a loss and concentrate their efforts elsewhere.
"So," Zelhile said at length, as the quill resumed recording, "just to be certain there is no misunderstanding, you are accusing one of my members of being in league with the Emerald Serpent."
"Yes," replied Cygnus with an obvious forced patience.
"And you claim the Emerald Serpent himself- or herself- to actually be some form of a previously unknown snakelike race?"
"Yes," said Cygnus, again. "At the least, unknown to us."
"And this selfsame Serpent is; or rather, was, in league with the fiendish creature known as Chic, slain some months back?"
"Yeeesss," Cygnus responded, his own voice sounding rather like a hiss due to his drawing out the word in exasperation.
The Guildmaster raised an eyebrow.
"The same Chic that my supposedly compromised guild captured?" he added, leaning forward now.
Cygnus took a deep breath.
"We believe that the Emerald Serpent betrayed Chic, and thus allowed him to be captured."
"Why would they do that?" the Guildmaster asked, his own question coming so fast on the heels of Cygnus' statement that they almost overlapped. "Was he not a useful ally?"
Cygnus glanced over at Zantac, and then back at Zelhile. His shrug had a forced quality to it.
"We don't know," he admitted. "He'd also allied himself with the Socman Atlanter of the Sea Princes. Perhaps Chic was drawing too much attention to himself."
Zelhile fell silent again. His gaze shifted to look over Cygnus' right shoulder and uncharacteristically, a brief expression of reverie came over his chiseled features.
"Aimee," he said.
His hazel eyes flashed over to Zantac.
"I'm somewhat surprised you're making this accusation, Zantac." Something vaguely resembling a smirk appeared on the Guildmaster's face. "I had thought you and Aimee had gotten… close on a few occasions during your tenure here."
Now it was Zantac who was fighting to contain his temper.
"Aimee likes to get close to quite a few guild members, as I recall," he said. "Especially when she can obtain useful benefits from it."
Zelhile's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Zantac did not flinch. He was no longer under the Guildmaster's jurisdiction. For better or worse, he had left that part of himself behind and he could read, even in that stony face, that Zelhile knew it too.
"If our Succubus is indeed in league with the Emerald Serpent," the Guildmaster retorted, "why would she set up that meeting with you at the tavern that you mentioned, Zantac, and then tip you off about their plans?"
"I don't know." Zantac couldn't hide his frustration with that very thought, and it had been bothering him for months.
Possibly because none of the answers he could think of were to his liking.
"Maybe she's playing both sides," Zantac had to admit. "Waiting to see who'll triumph, and then throw in with the winner."
The Guildmaster considered.
"That sounds like our Aimee," he said after a moment. "But nothing you've yet told me is conclusive, and certainly doesn't warrant any action on my part. The Barony of Willip; and by extension this guild, has coexisted for years with the Serpent. Tell me why you want me to risk everything to upset that karafruit cart."
"Jinella of the Valorous Church told us the only reason the Emerald Serpent was ever able to exist and thrive here was because of secrecy," Cygnus replied. "We have a chance now to expose them. From what Aslan told us, it seems likely that none of the other Serpent members know what kind of creature the Serpent itself really is. It stands to reason that could only be because the Serpent has some kind of personal agenda that none of the other members would agree with if they knew about it. They're all ruthless, vile, evil people; they wouldn't give a damn just because their leader has scaly skin. There has to be something more. A lot more."
"That's why we're moving against them now," added Zantac. "Elrohir and Aslan are with Lord Mayor LaSalle Main as we speak. Likewise, Argo and Nesco Cynewine are meeting with Baron Chartrain and informing him of the situation. By spreading the word around the entire county, we're hoping the other Serpent members will find out and thus abandon their leader."
"So what exactly would you have me do?" snapped Zelhile, the frustration leaking through his stoic demeanor again. "Surrender Aimee up to you; you who have no legal authority whatsoever? Expel her from my guild?"
"Merely permit us to bring a cleric here from the Church of Heironeous and question her in your presence under the influence of truth-detecting prayers, since they have no arcane equivalent," said Cygnus.
Zelhile stared at the two mages again.
"I see," he said finally. "And you want me as her Guildmaster to order her to submit to this questioning."
He abruptly stood up before either Cygnus or Zantac could even nod their assent.
"Absolutely not," he stated flatly, in a tone of voice that Zantac knew from experience would brook no further argument. "Question Aimee all you like, but neither I nor this guild will have any part of this. Good day, gentlemen. I believe you both know where the front door is."
"Charming fellow," said Cygnus to his fellow mage out of the side of his mouth as they exited the conference room, staying back several steps from the Guildmaster, who was talking to Thormord as they walked along the narrow circular corridor that ran the tower perimeter.
"Look, I'm as disappointed as you," Zantac replied in an unusually serious tone of voice for him, "but a guild isn't a social club You join one to learn a trade. That's why I did and for all his faults, Zelhile is a powerful wizard and a good teacher. I learned a lot from him."
Cygnus stopped and eyed his friend.
"Regrets?"
Zantac shrugged. "Sure," he said.
"But who doesn't have them?" he continued, noting Cygnus' frown. "Doesn't mean anything. If I'd never left the guild, I'd still have a whole slew of regrets- only different ones."
Zantac smiled at the tall mage.
"Besides, what can match the fun of having people trying to kill you every week; twice on Freeday?"
Cygnus' countenance relaxed, but he didn't want to concede the point completely.
"Learned a lot more since leaving them, I'll wager."
"Yeah," replied Zantac. "I learned why guild mages think you freelancers are a bunch of nuts."
Cygnus raised an eyebrow.
"We freelancers, you mean."
He dug into his spell component pouch for something and then held out his palm to Zantac.
"Peanut?"
The staircase leading down to the tower's second level was located on the opposite side of the building from the conference room's door. As Zelhile (who had made a point of reminding his unexpected visitors at the outset that he had a class to teach in the second-floor classroom) and Thormord reached the top of the stairs, they grudgingly moved off to one side as Martan came bounding up breathlessly, looked around, saw Zantac and made a beeline for him.
"Zantac!" he huffed, nodding at Cygnus and pausing a moment to clutch at a stitch in his side. "I've found out something important!"
"About Aimee?" Zantac inquired.
"Actually, it's-," Martan began but then fell silent, looking between the two wizards.
Zantac glanced over his shoulder.
Aimee was standing about fifteen feet back, having just come around the bend in the corridor.
She had on her sweetest, most disarming smile.
The one Zantac knew so well.
The Succubus was not wearing any of her myriad revealing dresses this time, but rather undyed linen trousers and a loose blouse over which was a type of multi-pocketed brown workers vest; the same outfit that all Guild wizards wore when working in the building's magical workshop.
Her hair was currently a brick-red; a perfect match for the robes Martan was currently wearing.
That in itself struck Zantac as odd. Martan usually registered to Aimee no more than a piece of furniture would.
A quick glance forward revealed that the Guildmaster and Thormord had already descended the stairs and were out of sight.
Zantac was not nearly as happy about that fact as he would have been thirty seconds ago.
"Zantac. Cygnus," Aimee purred. "Always nice to see you again. I hope you're both well."
Her gaze shifted back to Martan.
"Martan, could you help me out with the apparatus in the workshop?" Aimee asked, indicating the ceiling with a nod of her head. "The sealing spell from the Kwalish manual doesn't seem to be taking and there's no one else available. Zelhile is busy, but he'll still raise the roof if the project falls behind, so…" she trailed off with an imploring look.
Zantac turned back to his former Guild peer with an alarmed expression. Under no circumstances did he think Martan, or anyone else for that matter, should be alone with Aimee at this point in time.
Martan looked both flattered and frustrated but not, as far as either of the other two wizards could tell, nervous.
"Could it wait just a moment, Aimee?" he asked.
Aimee blushed, her brown eyes seeming to grow larger as she wrung her hands.
"It's just that," she paused, "that sealer takes at least twenty minutes to cast- you know that, Martan- and it'll expire in less than two minutes. Could you… please?"
Martan sighed and nodded. "All right, Aimee. I'll be right there."
"Martan-" Zantac began, but his friend cut him off with a hand on his shoulder.
"Zantac," he said, a serious expression on his face. "It's okay. I'll be all right. I know at least some of what's going on here now, and I know who to be careful of- and it's not our Succubus. And besides, it's not like either of you two would be authorized to help. Wait here, okay? I'll be back in just a few minutes and then we can all hit the Willow Tree for lunch. I'll tell you everything I found out."
He bounded off after Aimee, who had already gone back out of sight.
Now it was Zantac's turn to sigh in exasperation. It seemed to him that Martan's hurried gait bespoke more of the opportunity he would have to be alone with Aimee than it did the imminent expiration of any enchantment.
Not that he could really blame him, if truth be told. Aimee had not earned her sobriquet without cause, and Martan had always let Zantac know that he had felt hurt at being excluded from Aimee's choice of… partners.
He could only pray that Martan knew what he was talking about. He threw in a secondary prayer to Boccob that Martan's perhaps over-eager attempts to aid Aimee wouldn't result in another workshop explosion. Zelhile had a slow boil, but Zantac knew firsthand what it looked like when the Guildmaster was pushed over that line, and it wasn't pretty.
"Zantac," came Cygnus' voice, and the Willip wizard started. He'd forgotten the tall mage was still there.
"Are you sure it was wise to let him go?" Cygnus asked.
"I honestly don't know," Zantac replied, making no effort to mask the helplessness in his voice. "One minute ago I would have said no, but Martan seemed pretty sure about whatever it is he's learned, so I guess we'll just wait here until he comes back. Hopefully, it shouldn't be too long."
An awkward silence descended.
Barely audible voices, none of them distinguishable, wafted up from the classroom below.
Zantac shivered in his robes. The corridors of the tower were not heated by magic, and the cold Sunsebb air penetrated.
He was looking at the various paintings that adorned the outer wall, staring at a portrait of former king Hugh III without seeing it when he heard Cygnus clear his throat and, turning, saw the Aardian magic-user with a curious expression on his angular face.
"So," Cygnus said quietly, with a momentary nod towards the ceiling above them. "You and her, huh?"
Zantac didn't like the question, with all the mixed emotions and memories that it evoked.
"Just once, " he muttered, hoping his answer carried a tone of finality with it.
Cygnus seemed to take the hint. He gave his friend's shoulder a quick squeeze and said nothing more.
Zantac was about to ask Cygnus how much time he thought had passed- he himself hadn't a clue- when he though he saw movement out of the corner of his left eye, in the direction where Aimee and Martan had gone.
He whirled around, every muscle in his body instantly tense again; his right hand clutching his quarterstaff tightly while his left hand was on instinct already diving into his spell component pouch.
But there was nothing there.
Zantac frowned.
"Cygnus?" he said, not taking his eyes off that spot in the corridor. "I thought I saw movement but there's nothing there now."
"Yes," the Aardian mage replied softly, "there is."
Zantac turned, saw Cygnus indicating the area he had just been staring at with his own quarterstaff and again raked the area with his eyes, searching it in vain for any sign of movement. He was about to ask Cygnus what in the Nine Hells he was seeing that he, Zantac, could not when he saw the movement again as the dark green frog made another hop.
Even before he'd moved up to it, Cygnus right behind him, Zantac had recognized the bullfrog as Hemoth, Martan's familiar.
The sound of his own heart beating in his chest was suddenly very, very loud.
He scooped up the frog and examined it. It emitted a croak but did nothing else.
Zantac wracked his brain for what he knew about familiars. It wasn't much and he knew Cygnus knew little more than he did, both wizards having eschewed such things long ago.
The Willip Wizard knew that familiars were abnormally intelligent for their kind and that they could sometimes carry spells placed on them by their masters, to be discharged upon touch, but nothing had happened when he had picked the amphibian up.
It continued to stare blankly at him. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary about it at all.
Without a word, Cygnus reached over and placed on the index finger of his left hand on the bullfrog's broad, wet back. He then examined his fingertip closely.
Zantac couldn't understand what his fellow mage was doing. Bullfrogs tended to be wet, and he knew just enough about the project currently being worked on upstairs to know that there would be a fair amount of-
His brain seemed to freeze. Cygnus was staring at his friend now with a very rare expression on his face.
It was one of fear.
"Zantac," he said, his own voice coming out dangerously close to a croak now due to emotion as he turned his fingertip so that the dark reddish stain on it was visible to his fellow mage.
"This isn't water."
Zantac's entire universe seemed to have contracted down to only include the stone floor and walls in front of him as he bolted down the corridor, Cygnus on his heels.
He was no longer holding Hemoth and hoped he had placed the familiar gently back down on the floor as opposed to simply tossing it away as his body had exploded into action, but he honestly couldn't remember either way.
"Martan!" he bellowed as he ran. He heard no reply but doubted he'd have been able to hear one between his own voice and his heart, which now seemed louder than adjacent church bells would have been. He knew calling out was tactically a stupid move; some far-off part of his brain could hear Cygnus berating him for it even now, but he didn't think about that.
No one else he cared about was going to die because Zantac had left them alone even when his common sense had been screaming at him not to, or because he hadn't been strong enough, or wise enough.
A dagger slicing upwards through chainmail links.
The fluttering of wings.
Pink eyes.
The two magic-users charged up the steep stairs and began running counterclockwise, towards the workshop.
"Martan!" yelled Zantac again, but the voice that responded was not Martan's.
It was Aimee's.
"Zantac? What is it?" she said, standing just outside the open door to the laboratory as the two wizards appeared around the corridor. Her face was flush with alarm.
Zantac pulled up short, as did Cygnus.
It now occurred to him that for all his perceived heroics, he hadn't had the faintest idea what he was going to do when, as was blindingly obvious to everyone on Oerth except him, they would encounter Aimee again.
What was he supposed to do? Simply blast her with magic missiles? Beyond the inconvenient fact that they had no idea what had happened to Martan or who was truly responsible if anything had, Zantac now realized that, without Martan's bloody corpse lying at her feet and Aimee's unrestrained and cackling admission that she had indeed murdered him, there was no way by any of the planes that Zantac was going to strike first.
Even, he dimly remembered from his conversation with Aimee back at Dialamen's, if that would be an option.
"Where is Martan?" came the cold voice of Cygnus from beside him.
Zantac knew that the tall magic-user lacked his emotional connection to Aimee but couldn't decide whether to be grateful or ashamed by that.
It was probably an equal mixture of both.
Cygnus had his staff inclined forward and, like Zantac, had his left hand ready to withdraw any material components he might need to start spellslinging.
"He just left here," Aimee responded, with what certainly seemed like genuine concern on her face. She gestured back towards the workshop. "He managed to make the sealing spell work, just like I knew he could. I heard you yelling for him, Zantac. What's wrong?"
Actress, Zantac had to remind herself. She's a fantastic actress. Don't let your guard down.
Cygnus was already striding forward. "I suspect you'll be able to tell us that," he said coldly as he brushed by her and into the workshop. Zantac knew that as non-guildmembers neither he nor Cygnus were allowed into this room except by invitation, but he was sure Aimee would raise no objection. She did not but her deep brown eyes moved from Cygnus to Zantac as the latter followed, trying to look stern and suspicious but suspecting his face now showed only embarrassment.
The room, a circular chamber about thirty feet in diameter, looked much the same as it had during the two wizards' last visit here in Fireseek, nearly a year ago. Shelves ringed most of the wall, along with clothing hooks. A small cupboard, perhaps three feet in height, was attached to the wall underneath one section of shelving. A podium stood nearby, with an open spellbook upon it. A few small worktables were scattered about.
Instead of pieces of the large tank that would eventually be assembled to hold the Child of Valente Chic, what looked something like a large barrel made of iron, perhaps nine feet in diameter and six and a half feet tall, now stood towards the far side of the room, about five feet away from the wall.
Zantac wasn't tall enough to see the barrel's lid, but he saw small, circular glass disks embedded in the side of the cask, running down two sides in rows. With his nautical knowledge, Zantac was reminded irresistibly of portholes in the hull of a large ship.
"Perhaps he took the other way around," Aimee suggested, gesturing back towards the door.
Zantac knew that was in theory possible; the corridor covered the entire perimeter of the tower, but to continue counterclockwise along the route he and Cygnus had come would mean Martan would have had to walk the extra ten feet or so past the staircase in order to turn and reach its apex.
"Martan's not one for taking the long way around if he can help it," Zantac said, trying to make the oblique reference to his friend's girth and avoidance of exercise not seem too callous.
Aimee conceded the idea with a nod, but Zantac noticed Cygnus sneering at him.
"He would still have heard you yelling for him."
Zantac chided himself for his stupidity. He was sure his face was now a brighter shade of red than Aimee's hair, which was still brick in color.
Uneasy feelings seemed to be almost visibly swirling around Zantac, and he felt like there were valuable clues lying around here, if he was only smart enough to see them.
He thought dimly if this was how Thorin had felt while sitting with them during that fateful session with Tojo over a fortnight ago. He wondered how Cygnus' son, who was now back among the elves of Hidden Jewel, was doing but then pushed that thought aside and started to examine the room, looking in vain for a pool of blood (perhaps with a convenient toad-shaped hole in it) but nothing looked amiss or at out of place.
He heard Cygnus casting and looked around.
The expression of concentration of the Aardian mage's expression made Zantac's knowledge of spellcraft unnecessary.
A detect. Magic, most likely, he thought.
Aimee was frowning but just considered to stand roughly halfway between Cygnus and Zantac, her gaze alternating between the two of them.
Cygnus' eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze onto Aimee.
"You're registering."
For the first time today, the Succubus's expression hardened in return.
"Oh, really?" she responded, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "A wizard radiating magic? How unusual! What magic will I find if I detect you? Perhaps we should bring the Guildmaster up here and see what he has to say about this? I'd be happy to get him!"
Cygnus hesitated.
"I want to find out what happened to Martan as much as you do," said Aimee, pressing her advantage, "but I'll admit I'm getting a little tired of your attitude."
"You'd be just as suspicious under the circumstances if our roles were reversed," Cygnus insisted.
"Please don't presume to speak for me," Aimee said, a hard, cynical smile on her face now that Zantac had never seen before. "You've already proved yourself a poor judge of that."
The two started to argue, which Zantac found surprisingly easy to tune out. At least the two weren't firing spells off at each other.
The Willip wizard continued his examination of the room. He walked over to the barrel, which when completed was to be an underwater exploration vehicle called an apparatus of Kwalish (presumably after the wizard who had first created one) and peered through one of the portholes. He could dimly see multiple levers, but no one was inside, alive or dead.
Zantac walked around the perimeter, trying to take in everything.
He had to be missing something. But what?
His eyes alighted on the cupboard.
The cabinet was left fastened when not in use by a leather strap attached to the side that was wound through a loop attached to the door and then tied off in a knot. It wasn't used to store anything magical in itself or particularly valuable but the fastidious Thormord, who usually supervised construction projects, was always a stickler for making sure everything was always in its proper place.
The door was closed, but it wasn't fastened. The leather strap was hanging down.
Zantac slowly walked towards the cupboard. His heartbeat, which had slowed to maybe only twice its normal rate over the past minute or so, began to ramp up again.
"Fine," he heard Aimee say behind him. "Keep scanning for magic. I'm going to detect for evil. Maybe between the two of us, we'll find something."
He heard her casting, and then silence. Both mages were undoubtedly concentrating now, so that was at least one distraction removed.
Zantac's hand began to tremble as he reached out for the door.
Stop being a fool, he remanded himself. That thing is three feet high at most and only a foot or so deep. Martan's corpse is not going to come tumbling out; he couldn't fit in that thing any more than an ogre could!
The thought of an ogre brought Zantac's mind around to Aslan; an image of him in the form of a giant humanoid that he liked to call Grock, after Argo's wardog.
Zantac wished Aslan was with them now, or even that he had placed the helm of telepathy's mental link on him or Cygnus instead of on Bigfellow.
Aslan, he thought.
Aslan the paladin.
He stiffened up.
Aslan the polymorpher.
Zantac grabbed the door of the cabinet and yanked it open.
Martan's corpse tumbled out.
Even as the shriek of horror caught in Zantac's throat, it still took him a moment to recognize Martan; at first he had thought it was a small child, perhaps four or five years old, dressed like him instead but as the body hit the floor and the unseeing face rolled over, Zantac recognized the adult features on his tiny face.
Reduce Person. Both he and Cygnus had copied the spell out of Wimpell Frump's spellbook, although Cygnus had only used the spell that one time and Zantac, never.
But he should have known. Should have been prepared. Zantac himself had sold this spell to every wizard in this guild to earn gold after their return from Suderham.
The blood on Martan's body was minimal; a dagger that now looked like a toy was buried in his chest up to the hilt; Martan's right palm was bloody; perhaps he had tried to pull the dagger out before collapsing.
And Hemoth? Had Martan's last act to been to release his familiar to warn the others?
Zantac knew only that he would probably never know.
The Willip wizard also didn't know how and why his leg muscles suddenly and inexplicably moved, launching himself off to the right. Back in Highport, facing the doppelganger, he seemed to somehow move without conscious thought, much as Tojo often did.
Marisee, he thought. Another traitor. You fall for them every damn time, you idiot.
Due to his sudden dodge, the slashing dagger strike only nicked Zantac's left side. He'd endured much worse.
But as he whirled around to see who was attacking him, just as in the fight with Marisee, his body suddenly started to shut down.
This was no searing pain and uncontrollable twitching, such as the ka plerth poison had generated, but his torso suddenly lost all feeling; no pain but no control either.
Within a second, his arms and legs began to go numb. The quarterstaff dropped from his hand. Zantac fell backwards and only remained upright because he had been next to the wall shelves.
Zantac could feel his heartbeat began to slow.
The cut in his side only showed a small slice of red that was almost completely obscured by a thick, black liquid.
"Deathblade poison," came Aimee's voice, as sweet as ever. "Outrageously expensive, but worth every drop."
She smiled at him; her face all too-familiar and yet somehow completely foreign at the same time.
"You have sixty seconds to live, Zantac."
Everything in Zantac's body that allowed him to move- and breathe- was slowly but surely shutting down.
In desperate panic, he looked over to Cygnus.
His friend was still standing where he had last seen him, but Zantac's cry was stillborn in his throat, even if he still had the strength to get it out, which was questionable now.
Cygnus was still standing there.
Standing absolutely and completely still; his right hand still clutching his quarterstaff, his left hand closed around something Zantac couldn't see.
Only his eyes, full of the same terror and panic that Zantac was sure was showing in his own, could move.
Hold Person, Zantac thought. I could have countered any of this, but, but…
Aimee lifted Zantac's chin with her left hand. Her right hand still held the poisoned dagger.
"I know," Aimee said, her voice oddly sympathetic and full of understanding as she gazed deeply into Zantac's eyes.
Somehow, he saw nothing familiar there.
"You're wondering," she went on, "if Martan was so completely wrong about me; thinking someone else was the traitor and all that, why did I kill him?"
She licked her lips in glee.
"Guess you'll never know, Zantac. Old Tubbo here sure didn't."
Zantac knew he was dead but that didn't mean that Cygnus had to die, too. Not because of him.
Dispel magic required no material components, and Zantac thanked the gods for that; his limp fingers would never had managed dipping into his spell component pouch. As it was, he didn't know if he could pull off one last spell, but he managed to raise his right hand and point at the tall mage. Maybe, just maybe, if Aimee was so wrapped up in gloating over Zantac's imminent demise, he could-
Aimee grabbed Zantac's right hand, ruining the spell.
She dangled something in front of Zantac's eyes.
It was Cygnus' spell component pouch.
"Guess you're not even going to get those sixty seconds, Zantac," she cooed at him.
She grinned ear-to-ear at him even as she placed the point of her dagger against Zantac's throat, just as he had once done to Slippery Ketta.
Aimee's face was less than twelve inches away from his.
He could see flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of her vest.
"The Emerald Serpent send his regards."
She pushed.