There were priests in the temple, male and female both, but they wore no special costume to identify themselves, merely a silver neckpiece with Kami’s blatantly phallic symbol engraved upon it. He began to approach one, but suddenly hesitated. What was he supposed to say? Excuse me, I really need to talk to your god in private, could you arrange an interview? How did you make contact with a godling, other than through prayer? He flushed as he considered what manner of worship Karril might require, and for the first time since coming gave serious consideration to turning back. He even glanced back the way he had come, as if to assure himself that his way out was unimpeded—
—and the worshipers were gone. All of them. The walls had been replaced by tapestried hangings, and a cool breeze flowed between them. Even the priests were gone, and the buffet table that had been set up by the back wall banished as if by sorcery. Only the central fountain remained, and the wine that poured from its ornate spigots was no longer red but crystal gold, and smelled like champagne.
“Well, well.” The voice came from behind him. “Look who’s come to be a guest at our festivities.”
He turned around to face the source of the voice, a woman of thirty or so clad in a few meager bits of silk. A lot of woman, and all in the right places. Shaggy blonde hair half-obscured the priest’s necklace she wore, but-like her clothing-obscured little else. He found his eyes wandering of their own accord to vistas that were better left unstudied, and at last managed to focus on an ornate piece of jewelry hanging precariously from her shoulder. “I need to find Karril,” he muttered. Bright jewelry glittered on a bed of tanned flesh at her waist, on her breast, down her arm. “I need to talk to him.” Did he sound as awkward as he felt? Her perfume came to him on the breeze and he felt an involuntary stiffening in his groin; given the gravity of his mission here, the response was doubly embarrassing. What kind of power did this woman have, that so easily overbore his self-control, his fears for Tarrant, his revulsion for the very temple that surrounded them?
And then it all came together. The jewelry. The illusion. His response to this woman ... and the woman herself. He forced himself to look upward, to meet her eyes. It was no easy task, given the alternatives.
“Karril?”
With a soft chuckle the woman bowed; it was a precarious angle for certain parts of her clothing. “At your service, Reverend. Whatever that service might be.”
“I didn’t ... that is ... I thought you were male.”
“Neither male nor female, as humans know gender. And either one, as the need of the moment dictates.” Her eyes sparkled flirtatiously. “Given the Hunter’s attitude toward women, I usually avoid the feminine in his presence. Too distracting. As for you . . .” She glanced down at Damien’s crotch, imperfectly curtained by the hem of his shirt, and smiled. “Perhaps as a good host I should make things more comfortable. ...”
He never saw the change happen, though he watched it from start to finish. There was no surging of the earth-fae, as with Tarrant, and no melding of flesh from one form to another. One instant the woman was standing before him, and the next instant a man stood in her place. That simple. He was shorter than Damien, stouter, and slightly older. The tasteless brooches fastening his full velvet robe at the waist were the same ones the woman had worn, and jeweled rings flashed on his fingers as he gestured broadly to a couch some few yards away. “Will you be seated, Reverend? I can offer you refreshment, at least.”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled, trying to clear his head of the cloying perfume the woman had worn. “What about the others?”
“Who?” He saw Damien look around the temple—now empty—and he chuckled. “What, my faithful? They’re still there. Surrounded by curtains of illusion so fine that each one imagines himself truly alone, in an environment that caters to ...” He grinned. “Shall we say, to individual taste? I try to be an obliging god.”
“I saw them all.”
“You wanted to see them all, my dear Reverend. You needed to despise them—and me-in order to set yourself at ease here.” He shrugged. “As I say, I try to be a good host.”
He walked to the fountain and dipped a hand beneath its surface; when he withdrew, there was a chalice of finely engraved silver in his hand. “I would love to think you came here for a simple diversion, but, alas, I’m not so naive. Though the illusion is tempting.” He sipped from the chalice as if assessing its contents, and nodded his approval. “So what brings a Knight of the Church to this den of unholy indulgence? Surely not an attempt at proselytizing.” Again he chuckled. “My worshipers are too loyal for that game.”
He forced the words out somehow, past the knot in his throat. “Gerald Tarrant’s gone.”
The demon’s expression darkened. Damien thought he saw him stiffen.
“So?” His voice was low now, and quiet, and all humor was gone from his tone. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I need help finding him.”
Karril snorted, then drained the chalice of its contents and cast it into the fountain; it disappeared before it hit the surface. “I’m not a Locater, you know that. There are some in the town. Go to them.”
“I know what you are,” he said sharply. “And I know how close you were to him. Close enough that I’d think you’d want to help if-” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Dared not give the threat a name, for fear of making it real. “I’ve tried every Working I know, consulted everyone I dared. You would think with the channel between us, a Locating would be easy, but...” He shook his head. “Nothing, Karril. Nothing! What do I do? How do I find him? You’re my only hope.”
“Then I’m sorry.” He turned away. “I can’t help you.”
“He called you a friend.”
It seemed to him the demon winced. “Did he?” he whispered. “Shame on him. He was usually more careful with his choice of words.” His robes were black now, and the bright jewels were muted as if by smoke. “I’m not a friend to him, or to anyone else. Not as humans know the word. Friendship implies a full range of emotions, a wide assortment of bonding criteria. Humans can do that. Iezu can’t.” He looked at Damien; his expression was strained. “All I am, my dear Reverend, is the hunger for pleasure that resides in your own soul, given a face and a voice and enough knowledge of etiquette to mimic human interaction. That’s all. No love, no loyalty, only a ghost of self-interest in human guise. So you see,” he said, turning away again, “you came to the wrong place.”
“He didn’t believe that,” Damien challenged. “And I’m not sure I do.”
“Oh?” The demon’s voice was strained. “Is the Church claiming a monopoly on demon lore, now?”
“You came to warn us about Calesta,” he reminded him. “Was that self-interest? You said that you liked humankind, that its foibles ...” he struggled for the proper word, "... amused you. Was that just hunger speaking? I don’t think so.” He walked to where the demon stood and grabbed him by the shoulders, as he might any man; Kami’s “flesh” was comfortably solid, utterly human in temperature. "You saved Ciani’s life." He forced the demon to turn toward him, forced him to meet his eyes. “I don’t remember all the details of that incident, but I seem to remember you saying it wasn’t easy. You could barely stand the pain of it, I recall. Was that hunger that drove you then? Or was it something else? Maybe a more human emotion.”
For a long moment Karril was silent. At last he pulled himself loose from Damien’s grasp, and turned away; the priest let him go.
“He knew the risk all those years ago.” Was that pain in his voice, or some demonic emotion? “Knew it and accepted it. Let him go, Reverend Vryce. He made his own fate. You make yours.”
“Where is he?”