The deva heard the threat in that last and his brow furrowed.
"We are not enemies, creature," the celestial said.
He closed his eyes briefly and attempted to cast a spell, likely a divination or sending, but the casting failed, as Vhostym had known it would. The deva opened his eyes.
"Your binding prevents me the use of any magic," the deva observed.
Vhostym did not bother to reply.
"What do you want of me then, creature?" the deva asked.
Vhostym saw no reason to lie.
"I want all of you, celestial," he answered. "You will not leave this plane."
Positive energy, a manifestation of the celestial's anger, flared in a rosy-colored halo around the deva's bald head. His downy wings fluttered in agitation.
"Your confidence is unwarranted," the deva said.
Vhostym did not bother to correct the celestial's misapprehension.
"I will fight you," said the deva as he took up his mace.
"It will not avail you," replied Vhostym, waving a hand dismissively. "You could not harm me even if you were free of the binding."
"Allies will seek me," Phaedriel said. "They will avenge me should I come to harm."
"They will not find you," replied Vhostym. "And even if they could find you, they would dare not come."
Nothing short of a god would risk confrontation with Vhostym. In his time, he had single-handedly slain flights of dragons, annihilated entire faiths, left worlds in flame behind him. But he had been young then, and rash.
"You belong to me now, Phaedriel," Vhostym said. "But fear not. Others of your kind will join you. You will not die alone."
"Why?" the deva asked.
The radiance from his skin dimmed somewhat, and Vhostym almost smiled. He too had asked such questions once. Only after millennia of existence had he finally realized that the question had no meaning. The multiverse was infinite, unforgiving, and random. There was no why, not in the sense that the deva meant.
"Because I will it," he answered. "Will is the only why in the multiverse."
The deva's eyes narrowed and he clutched his mace tightly.
"You are mistaken," said the celestial.
Vhostym almost laughed, but instead said, "Am I? Where now is the god you serve? Where the planetar to whom you report? You think yourself a being of good, a servant of justice. Yet I tell you that there are no such things as good and justice. What is, is. In the multiverse, there is the will of the powerful and nothing more. Consider: If the multiverse was just, how could you be fated to this end?"
The deva stood up straight and fixed Vhostym with a steady gaze. Its radiance returned.
"You will not cause me to question my faith, creature."
Vhostym frowned, sad for the doctrinaire deva, and replied, "Then die a fool, Phaedriel."
The deva tensed, preparing for a fight, no doubt intent on expending his last breath in noble battle. Vhostym would give him no such chance.
The Sojourner moved his hands in a complex gesture and spoke words of power. His will flowed along those words, penetrated the binding, and entered the deva, attempting to dominate his mind. The celestial gritted his teeth and went rigid. Every sinew in his beautiful form was visible. He resisted admirably, but even the deva's will was no match for Vhostym's magic. The spell rooted in the celestial's mind. Phaedriel could still think for himself, but he could not resist obeying Vhostym's commands.
"Relax your body and remain still," Vhostym said.
The deva did just that.
Vhostym lowered the magical binding that encased the celestial and flew to the summoning platform. Gently, so as not to aggravate the pain in his bones, he lowered his feet to the granite slab.
"Shhh," Vhostym said, though Phaedriel had said nothing.
Vhostym placed his hands around the deva's head. Concentrating briefly, he made his mind into a knife and entered the celestial's mind.
The deva attempted to resist him, but his own psionic power was paltry compared to that of Vhostym. Systematically, Vhostym began to destroy the connections between the deva's mind and his body, allowing the celestial to live but preventing him from moving. It took only moments. Vhostym began to withdraw from Phaedriel's mind.
Before he got out, the deva asked in a small voice, Will I experience pain?
Vhostym answered truthfully.
Yes, he said.
CHAPTER 2
TREADING THE BLACK
With no sun by which to gauge the passage of time, Cale felt as though they had been splashing through the swamp forever. Time seemed to have frozen. There was no color, only fetid water and gloom. Cale recalled Magadon observing that the terrain actually moved. He wondered if, beyond the limits of their vision, the swamp was rearranging itself around them so they would never get free of it.
The guide stayed a full ten paces ahead, to ensure they'd avoid any pitfalls or other mundane hazards. His knucklebone eyes looked ghostly in Jak's bluelight. Mud caked all their cloaks and boots. Cale marveled at Magadon's pack, which was so large it looked as though he was carrying another person on his back. The guide must have been stronger than he appeared.
"We'll need food soon," Magadon called back.
Riven and Jak didn't even raise their heads in response, merely grunted in the affirmative. Cale too signaled his agreement, though he wasn't hungry. He simply wanted to engage in something ordinary, to take his mind off the plane, to take his mind off himself.
"It's taking longer than I had hoped to clear the bog," the guide continued. "So we must start rationing our supplies as of now. No one is to eat or drink anything native to this place unless it becomes absolutely necessary." He waited for them to catch up. "Let's inventory our stock. What do each of you have for food and water?"
"A few days of rations," Cale said. He squeezed the waterskins at his belt and added, "A skin-and-a-half of water."
He'd carried out of Starmantle only enough rations to get him to the Gulthmere and back. The starsphere and the book he had taken from the Fane of Shadows were the heaviest things in his pack.
"About the same," Riven said.
Magadon frowned, obviously troubled, and said, "I've got more than that, but not much more. We'll need-"
"Rations are not an issue," Jak interrupted. "I can conjure food and water with a spell. Anything I want, whenever we're hungry."
Magadon's raised eyebrows indicated both his surprise and pleasure.
"Jak, that's more useful than you know. I feared we'd have to drink the water here. Even after boiling . . ." He looked to Cale then continued, "Let's find a dry spot, make camp, and eat something conjured by our chef." He grinned at Jak. "With luck, we'll get out of the bog sometime tomorrow."
Cale agreed and they did exactly that.
"What do you need for your spell?" Magadon asked Jak, after setting up the two canvas tents he carried in his pack. The guide seemed to carry more in his backpack than would fit in the extradimensional space of a magical bag of holding.
"Just put that pot on the ground," Jak replied, indicating the large, beaten-metal cooking pot that Magadon carried with his gear. "And our waterskins too."
They piled the pot and their waterskins on the ground before Jak. The halfling held his holy symbol pendant over the pile and intoned a prayer to the Trickster. The pot filled with a thick, steaming stew. The waterskins swelled to capacity.
Magadon gave an appreciative whistle and said, "There's many times I could have used you in the bush, Jak." The guide knelt, dipped a finger into the stew, and tasted it. "Potato," he said with a smile. "And tasty."
Riven snorted irritably and glared at the halfling.
"Potato?" he grumbled. "Nine Hells, Fleet. You can make anything you want and you settle on potato stew? What about some meat?"