Conan looked at the old wizard. Had the man lost his senses? He shook his head, but waved Vitarius back to give himself room to swing the bag. What was the old man trying to do? Likely the bag would burst on impact, giving the thorn tree a free drink of water, nothing else.

It was, perhaps, fifteen paces from where Conan stood to the tree. He whirled the rough goatskin around his head, flexing the sinews of his arm and shoulder. With a final hard spin Conan heaved the water container.

The skin seemed to move slowly, almost like a falling leaf. It hit the ground a few feet from the tree, and skidded toward the trunk. The seamstress who had st.i.tched the bag deserved credit, for the bag held firm.

The next thing to happen did not seem to be slow at all. Three branches snapped downward from the tree, as if they were whips plaited of bullock leather. A dozen finger-long thorns stabbed the goatskin like tiny spears, and water sprayed in sudden fountains. When the bag lay drained of its contents moments later, the tree branches snapped away as quickly as they had descended.

Conan turned to Vitarius. There were startled expressions on the faces of Eldia and Kinna; he hoped his own face was less revealing.

"I mentioned that the flora in these woods was strange. Behold the Kiss-of-the-Lance tree-hardly one you would wish to pa.s.s unsuspecting, eh?"

"I see how the bones come to be there," Conan said.

"Movement over the root system triggers the branches to attack. The tree feeds on blood and other fluids from its victims, absorbed by the same roots. The bigger the prey, the more branches it uses to hold the victim."

Kinna shuddered.

"How are we to pa.s.s it?" Conan asked.

Vitarius turned to face Eldia. "Child?"

The girl nodded. She dug her heels into the side of her horse and started toward the sandbar.

Conan reached for her mount's reins as Kinna said, "No!"

Vitarius said, "She is in no danger! Let her go."

Conan looked up at the mounted child. She nodded. "He is right. I shall be safe."

Conan released the animal's reins.

"Conan! No!" Kinna urged her own mount forward, but Vitarius blocked her path. She had to pull up her horse or run the old man down. "She is a child! You saw what that-that-thing did to the goatskin-!"

The trio turned to watch as Eldia reached the opposite sh.o.r.e. With the first touch of her animal's hooves upon the ground, the branches of the tree quivered-and burst into flame! The whiplike branches, encrusted with long thorns, waved frantically, but this only served to fan the flames higher. The burning wood crackled like fat dropped into a cooking fire.

Vitarius pulled himself up onto his horse. "A small fire, not much power. I do not think it will notice us now."

The detour cost them nearly two hours. When the trail became too dark to see, Conan halted the party. He turned to Vitarius, who shook his head. "We are still better than an hour from the edge of the wood. Too dangerous at night."

"Then we camp here," Conan said.

Djavul crouched behind the bole of a tree, watching. He did not doubt that the White One would set his magical wards again. The way to avoid being detected by the spell was simple enough: He must be inside the perimeter when the mage cast the spell. On the road before, or in the plains after, that would be impossible without being seen. But here in the heavy woods it could be done if done carefully. That was why he had felled the tree. His quarry, the girl and the barbarian, were delayed long enough so that night caught them in the forest.

Moving with a stealth he was unused to, Djavul edged closer to the path. He was, he knew, nearly invisible in the darkness, but he still took care to move as quietly as possible. It was hard; demons had little reason to learn how to creep. This time, however, it was important that he avoid being detected. He was careful. No sticks snapped under his ma.s.sive h.o.r.n.y feet; no branches ruffled loudly as he pa.s.sed. It took him nearly an hour to move but a few paces. When he was done, Djavul was within two leaps of the man he had sworn to kill.

"My spell is cast," Vitarius said. "We can rest easily now."

Conan nodded, but he still distrusted any form of magic. He laid his bare blade next to where Kinna had placed their blankets. When the young woman came into his embrace under the wool shelter, however, Conan ceased to think about the dangers of the forest.

It was smell, not sight or sound, that awakened him. The stink of h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n filled his sensitive nostrils. Instantly, he knew that the demon he had faced before had somehow found them. Conan's eyes flicked open, and he reached for his sword.

"Looking for something?" The metallic grate of the demon's voice was close, almost on top of Conan. He rolled from the blankets and came up, to see the giant red demon standing not two paces away. And the demon held his sword.

Behind him Kinna stirred. "Conan? What is it?"

Djavul grinned at the Cimmerian. He mocked the woman in his deep rasp: " 'Conan? What is it?' " Djavul tossed Conan's sword into the night.

The fire had burned down some, but there was still sufficient light for Conan to see his enemy well. "I am death, Conan, come for you. Not immediately, of course. I have some little entertainments for you first. "

Kinna sat up. Conan gave her only the smallest bit of his attention.

His sword was gone, but there was the curved knife of Lemparius back near his blankets. If he could get to it-

"Conan! Where is Eldia?"

Conan spared a glance at the girl's blankets. Empty.

Djavul's toothy grin increased. "I have moved her. It would not do that she and the old White One should splash her Fire upon me before I have a chance to finish my business."

Vitarius stirred. "What is-oh!"

"Come, wasp," Djavul said. "Grapple with me so that I might tear an arm or leg from you for my breakfast."

Conan dived for his blankets and seized the knife. He rolled up, clutching the steel fang, to face Djavul.

"Your stinger has shrunk, wasp." Djavul laughed. "Come and match it against my one hand." Djavul's nails flicked back and forth in the firelight like small daggers.

Conan edged forward.

Djavul leaped. He grabbed Conan's knife hand with his own remaining hand and wrapped his other arm around the barbarian's back. Conan felt the stump of the demon's wrist batter his spine. He drove his knee at the demon's groin, but hit the rock-solid flesh of a mighty red thigh instead. The two tumbled to the ground, locked together like wrestlers.

As strong as he was, Conan felt like a child in Djavul's embrace. The knife was wrenched from his grip and flew into the darkness. A moment later Djavul tossed the big youth away as a man might toss a loaf of moldy bread. The Cimmerian hit the ground hard, his wind knocked from him.

Djavul leaped the intervening distance to tower over Conan. "You make it too easy, wasp!" He bent over, reaching for Conan.

The Cimmerian saw Kinna then, swinging her staff. The heavy wood, as thick as her wrist, whistled in the night air. She smashed the rod across Djavul's back at kidney level. The bra.s.s-bound staff splintered and cracked, so hard did she wield it. The impact brought a grunt from Djavul, but only staggered him. He turned, swinging his open hand. He hit Kinna on the shoulder, knocking her flying.

Conan regained his feet. At the same instant he heard Vitarius yell.

"Conan! Catch!" The white-haired wizard tossed something at the younger man.

Conan twisted, expecting to see a knife glittering in the firelight.

What he s.n.a.t.c.hed from the air was no blade, however. It felt like grease over crackly parchment, both stretched over wood. It had several points on one end, like small daggers. In an instant Conan recognized what he held: Djavul's severed hand!

Then the demon spun to face Conan. Firelight reflected from his white fangs, and slime dripped from his open mouth as he reached to grab the man. He must have expected the man to back away, but the Cimmerian did the opposite. He lunged at the monster. He had one chance, and he used it. He gripped the severed hand like a sword, and, with all his strength, he jabbed the taloned fingers at the face of their former owner.

The partially mummified fingers were spread. The forefinger and middle finger stabbed into Djavul's eyes and sank in to the third joint.

The demon screamed, a sound that shattered the night air. Conan's ears rang, deafened, as Djavul staggered back, clutching his dead hand with his remaining live one. He tugged at the instrument of his torture, but it now seemed a part of his face, immovable. The demon dropped to his knees, still screaming. A strange crackling orange light surrounded his face. As Conan watched, the light expanded to cover Djavul's entire form. When the light had bathed the demon from head to toe, it stopped abruptly, winking out. Djavul fell over backward. His body ran like heated wax, losing form, then bubbled into a puddle of redness that spread over the fir needles, until, at last, nothing remained of him save a damp spot on the ground.

In Castle Slott a pentagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones of a certain chamber suddenly flared into orange flame. When the flames vanished, so did the pentagram.