83

Evidently satisfied by whatever he sees, the mage steps back and mutters a few words. Glowing ropes emerge from his staff—magical, not physical—and surround Tarquin, pulling tight until he gasps under the pressure, bare skin of his hands white around the edges of one of the lines of light.

“Can’t have you casting any of your spells, calling on demons or snakes or whatever it is you do,” he says. The thought of Tarquin casting anything is amusing, but the situation isn’t, so you file it away to tease him about later. If he survives. If you survive.

Then, the man pulls the mask off Tarquin’s face, earning himself one of Tarquin’s most incendiary glares.

“Got what you wanted? Then let us leave.” He sounds every bit the commanding Altus mage he absolutely isn’t.

“Not so fast,” the magister says, grin sharp like a dagger’s blade. “They can go. You stay.”

The mutinous look on Ashur’s face tells you that might be a hard sell.

• If you refuse to leave, turn to page 84.
• If you retreat to come up with a plan, turn to page 86.