The structure was of black stone, of course, cut in triangular blocks and fitted together like saw-teeth in ascending rows, rising in a round cylinder half-again as high as the adjacent wall. The tower stood by itself in a walled courtyard of barren dirt but the gate and the door had long since been staved-in. There was no way to tell what the purpose of the place had been, but while the tall tower would have been a remarkable feature in most contemporary cities it was not unduly impressive within Vod’Adia.
The others discussed their intentions before venturing inside, all arming themselves fully and advancing with great care. A single chamber filled the ground floor, naked stone with alcoves and niches showing where objects had at one time been displayed. Fluted columns supported a high ceiling and an ascending stone stair wrapped around the outer wall. The party lit the lantern and some torches, leaving a couple in mounts on the columns as there were no windows nor even arrow slits on the ground floor. They relieved themselves of excess packs which they piled in the center of the room, and Nesha-tari had Zeb tell the others she would wait with the packs. Shikashe did not like the idea and seemed to order Amatesu to wait as well, but Nesha-tari insisted through Zebulon that the party was far more likely to need a healer than was she. At length Nesha-tari was grudgingly left alone and the party ascended the stairs, Shikashe in front with the Miilarkian girl Tilda right behind him, her bow drawn and eyes narrowed for any sign of a trap.
It was barely ten minutes before the sounds of combat rolled down the stairs; yelling, growling, the clash of weapons and the thud of bodies. Nesha-tari did not expect the others would run into anything they could not handle, and sure enough the sharp sounds of battle were soon followed by the six party members sounding off one at a time. A few minutes later, Zebulon came bounding back down the stairs bearing a torch and his axe, his face flushed beneath a layer of dust and his scruffy beard.
“We found four nasties,” he huffed as he reached Nesha-tari. “Third floor. Ugly little critters, all beaks and claws. Regular weapons worked on ’em. Tilda took one down with an arrow right in the eye!”
“Did the bodies disappear?” Nesha-tari asked.
“Disappear? Oh. No. They’re still up there, all right. Smelly and bloody.”
“Not devils, then. Minor demons or Hordlings of Hades.”
Zeb only looked puzzled.
“Are you stopping, or going on?”
“Oh, we’re still going up. Just thought we'd keep you apprised.”
“Don’t bother. If your head comes rolling back down the stairs I will know that something is amiss.”
Zebulon did not look very pleased with that image. He swallowed hard before turning and banging back up the stairs, ring mail jingling and axe knocking against the wall.
Nesha-tari waited another five minutes during which she further considered just what she intended to do. She still felt tremendously strong for Horayachus, now little more than three days dead, had been a man of great power. No trace of the Hunger had yet returned to Nesha-tari. Her head was clear and she could access her magic with little effort. Not the magic of what she was, but that which she had been taught in Blue Akroya’s service.
She left the tower briefly to check the street, looking both directions with her sharp blue eyes for the vision that was the mark of Akroya’s favor was the one sense that did not need the Hunger to make it exceptionally keen. There was no sign of movement in either direction. Back inside, Nesha-tari moved to the dustiest part of the floor far back from the front door, her boots leaving tracks across it. She stopped and took a jump forward, catching her balance and standing on an undisturbed section of floor. She knelt, closed her eyes, and pressed bare fingers into the dust.
Nesha-tari had not learned her magic in the manner of an Imperial Wizard. No Circle had neutered her mind, forcing false obstructions between her will and her power. To release an invocation like the lightning that was the attack form favored by her Master, she did not have to memorize spells and bind their release to meaningless words, gestures, and material components. If Nesha-tari wanted to throw lightning, she would bring it into being in her hands. If she wanted a shield against scrying magic, it formed unseen in the air around her. She could cast spells so long as she had the strength to do so, or focused just enough attention to maintain them. The sorts of incantations and rituals that the training of the Circle Wizards forced them to use for everything were only used by Nesha-tari for the purpose to which they had been originally developed centuries, if not eons, ago. The rituals were for casting spells too powerful for any single mage to manage. They bridged the extra-planar spaces to siphon strength from realms of energy, rather than from the physical world of matter.
Nesha-tari began to speak, quietly and rhythmically. The words were in the tongue called Low Drak, the first language that the Great Dragons had taught to men. When she felt the rising warmth in her chest and limbs, Nesha-tari’s boots left the floor. She began to turn in the air, trailing the fingers of one hand in the dust. Rather than leaving only runnels, the dust shifted and shook as though something crawled through it behind her hand, leaving as a trail two solid bands forming a circle. Between the bands, mystical runes and characters, symbols and signs formed, seemingly of their own accord.
Nesha-tari completed one revolution and lifted her hand. The head of the circle met the tail with an audible snap, and the whole glyph flared blue for a moment. Nesha-tari stood up in the middle of the circle and wiped the dust off her fingers. Her heart was beating fast but she took several long, deep breaths until it slowed. Then she faced back into the room toward the front door, and spoke a name three times, loudly and clearly.
“Balan. Balan. Balan.”
The torches flickered as an acrid breeze wafted across the chamber, moving the dust except for that immediately around Nesha-tari’s feet. The Devil Lord Balan stepped into being from behind a column and grinned at her, his teeth shining white against his gray countenance.
Nesha-tari could see the devil much better now as he approached, stopping only a stride short of the glyph on the floor. His single hoof was shod in silver and it struck up a spark each time it touched the stone floor. His other foot was in a soft boot. Balan’s creased trousers, vest, and waistcoat were all of dark gray trimmed with black, and a lavender boutonniere poked through a buttonhole. The flower’s aroma was obscured by a stony tang in the air, a smell like a coke furnace. His face was handsome in a decidedly diabolical way, with sharp, angular features and a chin beard meticulously trimmed to a perfect triangle. His jet black hair was swept back from his temples, and the devil’s smoldering red eyes had no pupils. The tip of the snaky tail swishing behind him was shaped like an obsidian spearhead.
“I was so hoping you would call,” Balan said, his smile very much like a leer.
“That is why you said your name, was it not?” Nesha-tari said calmly. The sharp smell in her nostrils made her want to flinch, though she did not let herself.