“Tristan...”
He turned, expecting to see her, but the whisper came from the wooden coffin on the dais. Utterly repelled, but still unable to resist the call of his former Master, Tristan crossed the room. He stepped to the edge of the box and looked down.
“Little Tristan.” Maggrai painfully rasped each word. “Beware. She is a demon, that Azothe.”
“Nay, Lord,” said Tristan, lightly. “We planned your death together.”
“Did you?” he wheezed. “Ungrateful little whelp. I loved you like a son.” A spasm of pain wracked his body, and he shivered and stirred in his comfortless prison. “Listen to what I tell you! She desires your death as well, so that she may rule this world alone.”
Tristan stood pitilessly above him. “I don’t believe you. Azothe has promised to show me the path to immortality.
