Death of an Adept

As the black priest sidled closer, the chalice ready to catch the spilling of Adam's lifeblood, Raeburn slowly raised the dagger, his face contorting in a look of fervid exultation, lips moving in an offertory invocation that seemed to deepen the silence all around. Closing his eyes, Adam commended himself once again to the Light and braced himself to render up his spirit with courage, if this was indeed how he was destined to die.

"Goddammit, visibility's getting worse," Harry muttered, night-vision goggles giving him an alien appearance as he strained to see through the perspex of the chopper's windscreen. "We must be getting close, though. We passed Hawick five minutes back."

He was sitting in the co-pilot's seat of the chopper, next to Kinsey, the senior SAS pilot. Crouching behind them, McLeod and Duart were likewise scanning the darkness. Below them, a powerful searchlight beam from the chopper was illuminating a narrow, snow-edged road meandering southward along Whi-trope Burn, another sweeping the countryside off to their left. According to their maps, the Nine Stane Rig lay somewhere in that direction, perhaps half a mile off the road, just past the place where an unpaved track joined the road they were following. In the dark, following a road was the only way to find what they were looking for - and even this way seemed woefully inadequate, as half a dozen pairs of eyes continued to search ahead and to either side.

"I'm not seeing anything," Duart said, scanning with infrared binoculars. "Noel, are you sure they'll be out in the open?"

"No, I'm not," McLeod replied, braced between the two pilot seats. "And if they aren't, I doubt we have a prayer of finding them."

"Then, let's concentrate on finding what we can see," Duart said. "If they're outside - which follows, if they're using an ancient site like the Nine Stane Rig - there'll have to be some lights showing where there shouldn't be lights - which means just about everywhere out there that isn't on a road - and there aren't many roads out here. This isn't a highly populated area. But I sure don't see anything near where the Nine Stane Rig should be. Do you have any idea how big it is? Stonehenge size?"

"I haven't a clue," McLeod muttered.

"Could they be at Hermitage, then?" Peregrine asked. "That's certainly associated with Soulis, and it's only a mile or so further on. If it's ruined enough - no roof - lights inside might show. And we can find the castle by following the road."

"I can have you there in two or three minutes," Kinsey said over his shoulder. "Do you want to check it out? There's nothing out here."

Raeburn's satanic offertory was drawing to a close, its cadence quickening with Adam's racing pulse. But stretched helpless upon that unholy altar, all in the sinking space between one heartbeat and the next, Adam suddenly sensed another presence looming opposite Raeburn - felt icy dread clutch at his heart with paralyzing force, even as something far worse began to probe at his soul. In a vain attempt to throw off the assault, instinct arched his back in violent denial - visceral reflection of his inner revulsion as he felt what shreds of spiritual defense he yet possessed being sounded with irresistible strength.

The instant of penetration was more brutal than any physical violation - and over almost before it began. It drew a scream to his lips that could find no voice as, still quaking, he forced his lids apart to behold the soul-destroying smile of William de Soulis.

In that stunned instant of eye contact, while a shocked part of Adam noted that Soulis apparently was no longer constrained by Raeburn's triangle, a more dispassionate part of him sensed that he was in the presence of a black Adept more powerful than any he had ever encountered - far more powerful than Raeburn, though it was doubtful that Raeburn recognized as much.

And Adam was certain of one thing more, in that shivering infinity before he wrenched his gaze away. Whatever bargain Soulis and Raeburn might have struck, Soulis was merely awaiting the chance to dishonor it.

But Raeburn was finishing his offertory chant, his hand behind Adam's neck thrusting the throat upward even as his blazing eyes followed the slow, glittering descent of the ancient blade sweeping downward to deliver the coup de grace.

Except that Soulis suddenly intervened physically, diverting the death-stroke with a decisive sweep of lolo's forearm "Hold!"

The tone stopped Raeburn as much as the word or the outstretched arm. Panting with frustrated bloodlust, he glared at Soulis with hot eyes.

"Hold? Why?" he rasped.

Soulis' response was cool, but colder still was the hand he brought to rest atop the lynx medallion around Adam's neck, the fingers wide-splayed to caress the symbols painted on the chest of his chosen oblation.

"I find the body of this man better suited to my needs than the one you chose for me. I will have it - or none. Render another to the Prince of Darkness."