Despite persistent rumors to the contrary, Gnarl was not entirely without common sense. It was true that one balmy evening he had “borrowed” a fine, silken costume from a snoring grandee at the inn and disguised himself for entry into the masquerade at the Kamroth Estate. He’d intended to try his hand, as it were, at pick-pocketing the celebrants-but he was sidetracked by Armos Kamroth’s drunken mistress. He narrowly escaped from Telia’s clutching hands-and the mailed fists of the enraged Kamroth-but the getaway entailed Gnarl sprinting through the cobbled streets naked from the waist down. His harlequinade mask protected his identity until a couple of milkmaids recognized other distinctive features. His reputation as a slick operator had suffered grievously.

He was older now-all of three months older-and was moved to caution. “Sir, you are a great worker of magic-you must know someone better qualified.”

The warlock grunted. “I threw the seeing bones-they see you as favorable. Of all those I could reach from here, only you might succeed…” He broke off, his face twisting into a contortion that made Gnarl wince with sympathetic pain. “There is no one else suitable. Hence”-the warlock paused to gasp before continuing-“hence, your epochal opportunity. I am crippled, and I am dying-I have little time. You know me as Sernos. But I have chosen a greater name. Time runs short… that name must be fulfilled soon. Look here.”

He swept his bedclothes aside. Gnarl saw that all of the warlock’s body, below the breast, down to his knees, was tightly encased in metal, the interlocked plates incised with runes. It was like a partial suit of gray armor-one that was far too small for the tiefling. Beads of blood and purulence showed where metal compressed flesh; hideous purple swellings, like grotesque flower patterns in relief, marked his skin above and below the tightening metal sheath. As Gnarl watched, stomach twisting at the sight, he saw the enchanted sheath of gray metal contract further, moving of itself, the metal squeezing tighter by a few hairs’ width, making a little crick sound that had a certain smug satisfaction about it.