and branding irons heating in smoking braziers, a rack in one corner, a
ring of wood and iron six feet in diameter suspended in the center of
the room, on which a man could be spread-eagled. A veritable bazaar of
torture instruments. Its door was of solid oak reinforced with
criss-crossed strips of iron, designed to dash any hope of escape.

Daoud sat in a thronelike chair painted black--Tilia said it had once
belonged to a pope--on a raised platform against a wall. If the damned
chair had a few cushions in it, it might almost be comfortable. This
place, Tilia had told him, was for patrons of hers who liked to
torture--or be tortured.

It was perfect for his purpose. But could he himself be as perfect as
the room? This was a hard and wily man he had to deal with tonight. It
would be difficult to dominate him.

Beside Daoud, a preparation of wine, hashish, and the distilled juice of
the Anatolian poppy simmered in a pot held on a metal tripod over a
candle flame. He sniffed the faint steam that rose from the warm potion.
He warned himself to do no more sniffing, or he would be unable to
conduct the night's proceedings with a clear head. He glanced down at
one broad arm of the throne, where a small brass bowl lay. In the dish
rested a steel needle as long as a forefinger, its tip covered with a
black paste.

A nervous anticipation tingled in the pit of his stomach, but he held
himself very still.

Daoud heard Lorenzo's voice, and a moment later the oak-and-iron door
swung open. A man stumbled through, his head covered with a black hood,
his hands tied behind him, his ankles chained close together with
hobble-gyves. Two of Tilia's mute black slaves held his arms. Behind him
walked Lorenzo, a broad-bladed dagger held at waist level.

Daoud sat straighter in the throne, resting his hands on the arms. The
door boomed shut, and at Lorenzo's command the slaves untied the
prisoner's wrists and pulled the hood off his head.

Sordello stood before Daoud, blinking and staring angrily around him.
Daoud watched, pleased, as the sight of the irons and chains and
scourges bore in on Sordello and the anger on the bravo's face changed
to alarm.

"Why have you done this to me? What the devil is this place?"

An appropriate question, Daoud thought. "You are in hell," he said.

Sordello squinted at Daoud. "And who are you supposed to be, Messer
David, the Prince of Darkness? Is this some sort of miracle play?"

The man's defi