UNLIKE THE priests he led, High Priest Pluell lived in sumptuous splendor, with the richest appointments. While the lower priests’ cells were spare, devoid of all objects and ornamentation, except those few articles necessary to a minimum of comfort-a bed with straw-filled mattress, a stool, a rough table, a wooden bowl, a tallow candle-the High Priest’s apartment was hung with heavy tapestries, and carven chairs stood around a great table spread with expensive cloth and laid with fine silver. From golden candle holders burned candles made with perfumed beeswax. His bed was high and curtained, the mattress stuffed with eider down.

This, he told himself, was no more than his due-the perquisites of his position, the rewards of his rank.

High Priest Pluell and his visitor had been holding conference for many hours. The High Priest stared ahead dully, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, a deep frown cut over his arrogant features.

Old Nimrood watched him carefully from his seat, with gnarled hands folded beneath his sharp chin. He seemed the picture of a shrewd merchant who has just struck an extremely fortuitous bargain. The faint wisp of a smile curled his thin, bloodless lips.

“Then it is agreed?” asked Nimrood, breaking the silence at last.

Pluell raised his head slowly, a sneer twisting his mouth.

“What other choice do I have? Yes! It is agreed. I will do as you say.”

“See that you do and all will be well. You will save the temple; and what is more, you will hold the power of the kingdom. The realm will be yours and the King your servant. Think of it!”