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“Fear not for your own future, however, my sister,” Yyrkoon continued. He chuckled. “You shall still be empress and sit beside the emperor on his Ruby Throne. Only I shall be emperor and Elric shall die for many days and the manner of his death will be more inventive than anything he thought to do to me.”

Cymoril’s voice was hollow and distant. She did not turn her head when she spoke. “You are insane, Yyrkoon.”

“Insane? Come now, sister, is that a word that a true Melnibonéan should use? We Melnibonéans judge nothing sane or insane. What a man is—he is. What he does—he does. Perhaps you have stayed too long in the Young Kingdoms and its judgments are becoming yours. But that shall soon be righted. We shall return to the Dragon Isle in triumph and you will forget all this, just as if you yourself had looked into the Mirror of Memory.” He darted a nervous glance upwards, as if he half-expected the mirror to be turned on him.

Cymoril closed her eyes. Her breathing was heavy and very slow; she was bearing this nightmare with fortitude, certain that Elric must eventually rescue her from it. That hope was all that had stopped her from destroying herself. If the hope went altogether, then she would bring about her own death and be done with Yyrkoon and all his horrors.

“Did I tell you that last night I was successful? I raised demons, Cymoril. Such powerful, dark demons. I learned from them all that was left for me to learn. And I opened the Shade Gate at last. Soon I shall pass through it and there I shall find what I seek. I shall become the most powerful mortal on earth. Did I tell you all this, Cymoril?”

He had, in fact, repeated himself several times that morning, but Cymoril had paid no more attention to him then than she did now. She felt so tired. She tried to sleep. She said slowly, as if to remind herself of something: “I hate you, Yyrkoon.”

“Ah, but you shall love me soon, Cymoril. Soon.”

“Elric will come . . .”

“Elric! Ha! He sits twiddling his thumbs in his tower, waiting for news that will never come—save when I bring it to him!”

“Elric will come,” she said.

Yyrkoon snarled. A brute-faced Oinish girl brought him his morning wine. Yyrkoon seized the cup and sipped the stuff. Then he spat it at the girl who, trembling, ducked away. Yyrkoon took the jug and emptied it onto the white dust of the roof. “This is Elric’s thin blood. This is how it will flow away!”

But again Cymoril was not listening. She was trying to remember her albino lover and the few sweet days they had spent together since they were children.

Yyrkoon hurled the empty jug at the girl’s head, but she was adept at dodging him. As she dodged, she murmured her standard response to all his attacks and insults. “Thank you, Demon Lord,” she said. “Thank you, Demon Lord.”

Yyrkoon laughed. “Aye. Demon Lord. Your folk are right to call me that, for I rule more demons than I rule men. My power increases every day!”

The Oinish girl hurried away to fetch more wine, for she knew he would be calling for it in a moment. Yyrkoon crossed the roof to stare through the slats in the fence at the proof of his power, but as he looked upon his ships he heard sounds of confusion from the other side of the roof. Could the Yurits and the Oinish be fighting amongst themselves? Where were their Imrryrian centurions? Where was Captain Valharik?

He almost ran across the roof, passing Cymoril who appeared to be sleeping, and peered down into the streets.

“Fire?” he murmured. “Fire?”

It was true that the streets appeared to be on fire. And yet it was not an ordinary fire. Balls of fire seemed to drift about, igniting rush-thatched roofs, doors, anything which would easily burn—as an invading army might put a village to the torch.

Yyrkoon scowled, thinking at first that he had been careless and some spell of his had turned against him, but then he looked over the burning houses at the river and he saw a strange ship sailing there, a ship of great grace and beauty, that somehow seemed more