Max Allan Collins

toe cymbals and chain-mail halters and loincloths; and the guests qui­eted, turning their attention to their host, clad in black leather armor.

'Tonight,' Memnon said, his voice notched to a volume suited to public speaking, 'is the first night of the House of Scorpio.'

Above, a bright nearly full moon sent its ivory fingers down to touch the courtyard. Memnon ges­tured to the glowing orb.

'When the moon is at its peak,' he said, his voice resonant, rolling across the guests, 'I will stand on that very altar...'

And now the warlord pointed to the wide steps to the altar constructed in the courtyard.

'... and the gods will reach down to me... and appoint me, anoint me .. .the Scorpion King!'

A hush fell across the assemblage. This had been a display of such megalomania, that the proper re­sponse was uncertain—to applaud might lessen the moment, to laugh would get one killed. And right now Memnon was casting a look of steel around the courtyard.

'And the very earth,' he said, his voice low, but every ear hanging on each word, 'shall crack at my feet.'

Another respectful, cowed hush followed, only to be rudely—surprisingly—broken, as a chair scraped the stone floor. Eyes flew to General Toran, who was standing.

'My lord,' the general said, 'all of that is well and good. .. but there is something I must share with you—something that is troubling our troops.'

The guests exchanged nervous glances. This was either foolhardy, or brave, of General Toran; whis­pered comments wondered if too much wine was involved....

'How distressing,' Memnon said, in a normal tone of voice. 'I am of course concerned—anything that troubles my men, troubles me. Please tell— what is it?'

Toran seemed uneasy by this seemingly off­handed response.

'My lord,' the general said, 'it has been said that the sorceress is no longer at your side.'

Memnon shrugged. 'Soldiers often fall prey to palace gossip .. . You have my word that she is safe.'

'With all due respect, my lord—if our men are to fight, to die, they may need more than that.'

The air seemed suddenly chill; a desert breeze ruffled the flames of torches and candles.

Memnon stepped down from his golden chair and walked, slowly, to the general; his expression seemed friendly, calm. When he reached the man, Memnon asked, 'My word—is it not enough?'

And now the general seemed to know how dan­gerous these waters were, and he began to tread them... yet he could not back down. 'It is not that—your word is unquestioned. It is just... the oracle is a symbol from which the men derive cour­age ... and symbols are most effective, my lord, when they are in full view.'

Memnon seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he said, 'It concerns me, general, that the men have so little faith that they—'

A voice cut him off—a feminine, familiar one: 'My lord? My apologies.'

All eyes turned, Memnon among them—he could not conceal his shock—as the lovely sorceress ... underclad in a sheer gown over shimmering golden halter and tiny skirt, long hair capped as usual with a gilt headdress ... strode regally across the court­yard.

When she reached Memnon's side, she said, 'I am here, as you requested—forgive my lateness.' She turned her placid, regal gaze to rest on the assembled generals. 'And gentlemen, forgive my absence,