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"You
dare disturb the dead?" thundered an unearthly voice.
The Black
Warlock wheeled to face the skeletal sickle-wielding figure that every
man since the earliest days of the race had come to recognize as the
embodiment of the netherworld.
"Mitchell?"
Thalasi squeaked, his heart failing at the sight.
"Hardly,"
replied the specter. "You know who I am, Morgan Thalasi Martin
Reinheiser. I purposely assumed the form that you would surely
recognize."
After the
initial shock has worn away, Thalasi found himself more curious than
afraid. He stooped over a bit, trying to catch a peek under the low cowl
of the specter's hood. "Charon?" he asked, now more curious
than afraid.
"Charon,
Orcus, Arawn--my names are many," replied the specter.
"As are
your powers, by every reputation, attached to any of the names,"
said Thalasi. "So Death himself--itself--has answered my
call," he mused. "Truly I have outdone myself."
"Fool,"
retorted the specter. "Truly you have overstepped the bounds of
mortals. You are strong, Black Warlock, but I am blacker still!"
The specter uplifted its arms, its bony fingers reaching out toward
Thalasi. "Death has indeed answered your call, warlock--your own
death."
Thalasi
swung at the bony hands with the staff. The specter caught it in
midswing, but the contact between the embodiment of Death and the
perverted staff was not what either of the combatants had expected.
Black shocks of electricity engulfed both of them, cutting and tearing,
draining at their vital forces with a chilling eagerness.
"What
have you done?" the embodiment of Death demanded.
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