Whenever Cyric's rage reached its peak, the Dark Sun Prince reverted to his mortal appearance. Beneath his coarse clothes and handsome thief's features, his face grew stiff, blood-red, and withered. The flesh vanished from his fingers, leaving only sharp bones.
His black robes concealed the mutations that had followed his ascension. The pale Dark Sun had already realized that even the Phaerimm, his trump card, could not deal with Aaron, a mere sorcerer.
Yes, a sorcerer.
The Dark Sun let out a piercing laugh, as painful to hear as fingernails scraping across glass.
"Releasing Kozef the Chaos Hellhound would be an extremely dangerous decision, Your Majesty." Jergal's tone remained measured throughout. The Lord of the End strove to change his master's mind. "It would leave us at a disadvantage. After all, no one knows what Kozef might do."
The God of the Dead sat coldly upon his throne. He had no intention of telling Jergal that he had just fought that bitch Midnight, successfully injuring the Goddess of Magic through deception and an apparition of Lyla.
Injuring Midnight had also cost Cyric dearly-the Goddess of the Weave had unilaterally cut off his access to the Weave. Cyric could no longer use magic.
"What about Kelemvor?" Carefully concealing his loss of magic, Cyric responded impatiently to Jergal's objections.
"I am stepping up the search," Jergal said slowly.
"Spare me the nonsense! I only asked whether you'd found him!" Cyric snapped with manic fury. "Have you found him or not?!"
"No, Your Majesty."
"You, Jergal, Ancient God of Death, Lord of the End-I have only one assessment of you: something of a joke." Cyric roared, pointing Godsbane at his steward. "You promised to accomplish this, Jergal. I didn't focus my attention here because I believed your promise. Should I take this failure