“You know what this is?” The Lady asked him, voice unnaturally calm.

Lute bowed his head. “I do. I beg leave to remind the most gracious and noble Lady that, fried, I am of no use to her.”

“How is your hand mended? It was broken beyond praying for—Kat?”

“It was, Noble Lady,” his voice boomed over Moonhawk’s head. “You know me!”

Lady Drudae nodded, eyes flicking to Moonhawk. “You. How comes the magician’s hand to be whole?”

Moonhawk met the mad blue eyes steadily. “I Healed him.”

“So.” The eyes widened. She lifted the tube. “Do you know what this is?”

“No.”

“Then I will show you.” Her voice rose. “Arto! Bring the nemrill!”

The Lady backed away, tube lowering. The mountain shadowed the door arch, a bundle of fur swinging from a huge fist.

“Throw it in and stand away!”

The bundle hit the dirt floor, rolled into a puddle of sunlight and came up spitting, fangs showing, tail fat with fury, claws at ready.

This nemrill was none such as they had at Temple, pleased with the world and themselves. The ferocity of this creature startled the Healer; its fear pierced her.

Lady Drudae laughed, pointed the tube and pressed the thumb-stud.

There was a zag of lightning; a stink of ozone. The nemrill was encased in a nimbus of flame, shrieking in mortal agony. Moonhawk reached within; saw Lute start forward while the Lady laughed and—pop!

The nemrill was gone.

The stink of scorched fur and frying flesh reached Moonhawk and she gagged, sagging shamefully in her captor’s grip. Lute turned to her; was halted by a shake of the tube.

“Now, magician, listen closely. Open the bag—or she fries. You see?"

He laid a hand on the bag; withdrew it. “It is a long process, Noble Lady; and fraught with peril. I have not eaten in some time—a simple oversight, no doubt! My strength is not sufficient to the task. If I err, we may all fry!”