Had he been given a choice, Elymas would have suffered a bout with shadows, embraced the woman with the boar’s head, allowed blood to squirt from his ears. If this woman were who she said she was (and he had no choice but to believe her), pitting his power against hers was like lighting a flame in the wind. He cleared his throat.

         “What interest could one of your exalted position have in me?”

         “None, personally. You are a worm.”

         “I’m the—” 

         “Yes, a worm,” she continued, and he didn’t interrupt. “Even so, your doings have attracted the attention of the Dark.”

         What? He’d known himself to be great in his own world, but never did he expect the Dark to intrude.

         “The Curse Blessed?” he croaked.

         “Who did you think I meant?” Her voice sounded far away. Perhaps that was because the cold fingers were again at his throat. He was beginning to realize she didn’t like questions. “Yes, the Curse Blessed, and the Tu’el, who is my master.”

         The squeezing stopped, and he fell from the chair onto the dais, trembling. Even if she ordered him to stand, Elymas knew he couldn’t. 

         “You’ve stepped into the realm of the Dark, only to muddle. The formation of the Red Robes, the killing of the Nawabs, the vats . . .” Repeating his intrusions made her tremble with rage. Elymas thought of begging, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. He knew what was in her as she knew what was in him.  She’d enjoy it. 

         “Tell me everything you’ve done, and don’t lie. If I put the vise to you again, you’ll probably die.”