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spirit of the netherworld. The Moroaica is simply the queen of their insipid fantasies.”
    “No,” said Maglarion. There was no anger in his voice, no mockery. Only certainty. “She is the Moroaica.” The mockery returned. “Does that frighten you, Sicarion? Perhaps I can find an assassin who isn’t so unmanned at the…”
    Sicarion sneered. “Do not be absurd. I can kill anything. I killed high magi whose sorcery far exceeded my own. Where is she?” 
    “A warehouse not far from the docks,” said Maglarion. “I shall give you the location. She is conducting sorcerous experiments there.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Some folly about the summoning and channeling of elementals.”
    “Very well,” said Sicarion. “I will require half of the payment as a deposit. Once I receive the money, your ‘Moroaica’ shall die.”
    “I shall send one hundred thousand denarii to your seneschal at once,” said Maglarion. “Along with the ring you will need to bypass her wards. Good hunting.”
    Sicarion found Maglarion’s smug expression annoying, but there was nothing to be done about it. He would take his satisfaction in spending Maglarion’s money on wine and fine clothes and attractive slaves. 
    And, of course, in killing this madwoman who thought herself a demon from Szaldic myth. 
    He finished his wine and departed, stopping for a moment to admire his reflection in one of the inn’s windows. He was well past sixty, but thanks to judicious use of necromancy, he looked barely thirty. His fine clothes concealed not an ounce of fat, and his blue eyes gleamed below his thick blond hair. He had money enough to enjoy all the pleasures of the world. 
    But killing was the greatest pleasure of all. 
    It was time to indulge.

    ###

    Killing the so-called “Moroaica” was almost ridiculously easy. 
    She occupied a warehouse near the docks, and had guarded it with wards of remarkable power. Yet she had given Maglarion an enspelled ring to allow him to come and go, and with the ring Sicarion passed through the wards undetected. The gloomy warehouse was empty, save for a long wooden table heavy with books and scrolls.
    An old woman in a red robe stood at the table, pouring over the papers. She was gaunt, with iron-gray hair that hung in stringy curtains around her face. Sicarion sensed several active spells around her, wards of alarm and detection. But a spell of his own wreathed him in shadows, and he slipped past her alarms.
    Then he buried his sword between her shoulders, the blade erupting from her thin chest. 
    She croaked out a gasp and spun, falling against the table, her bloodshot eyes meeting his. Sicarion grinned. He enjoyed this part most of all, enjoyed watching the fear and the horror as the life drained from his victims.
    But there was no fear in the old woman’s eyes. 
    Only immense irritation.
    “We shall have,” she hissed, “to continue this.” 
    Then she went motionless, the last breath fading from her lips. 
    Sicarion let out a sigh of annoyance. He always enjoyed the fear.
    Well, no matter. He would enjoy spending Maglarion’s money almost as much. Especially since the pathetic fool could not even kill one mad old woman.
    Sicarion went home.

    ###

    He lived in a mansion not far from the Imperial Citadel itself, a mansion he had paid for through hired assassinations. His slaves rushed to take his cloak and weapons as he arrived, carrying out their duties flawlessly. 
    Incompetent slaves did not last long in the house of Sicarion. 
    “I shall be hungry later,” said Sicarion to a bowing slave. “Have dinner prepared. I will retire to my bedroom for a few hours.”
    The slave bowed again and hurried away. 
    Sicarion climbed the stairs to his bedroom, humming to himself. Killing always put a fire in his blood, a fire that he preferred to quench with one of his female slaves. An attractive eighteen-year-old woman could easily command a price of a hundred thousand denarii or more, but