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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2000
"No creas en nada. No hay propósito en el nacimiento, ni salvación de la muerte en la vida, ni recompensa tras la muerte. Abandona las esperanzas y te harás libre, y con la libertad adquirirás el vacío."
[…] The utilities of the soul bottle are several. First, it creates a servant that lends the power of its essence to the maker of the charm, so that the maker is strengthened, both physically in his own body and in the force of his will. With each additional soul captured, the power is enhanced. A magician with five or six soul bottles has the strength of two men, and is easily able to compel with the force of his mind the obedience of spiritual creatures of the lesser kind. Second, the possession of a soul bottle allows access to the secrets of the dead. Whatever the captured soul knew during life, and whatever it learned after death, is available to its master, who only needs to question it.
The greatest virtue of the soul bottle is not these gifts, precious though they may be, but the suffering it inflicts upon the soul imprisoned within its depths. The torment of the bottle is greater than the torment of hell, even when the bottle is not heated over a flame to heighten the pain. A necromancer may use the soul bottle as a form of punishment upon his enemies. Those he could not strike down in life, he has the ability to torture after death. So long as the bottle remains intact, the agony of the soul remains unrelenting.[…]
[…] Cats have the second sight without any need to consume the white spiders of the desert. When a cat stops and stares intently at a place that seems empty, it is certain that it is looking at a ghost or other shadow creature that passes unperceived by men. Hence wherever a cat is present, no spirit may enter unobserved, and it is for this reason that sorcerers employ cats as watchers against intruders from the other realms. The wraiths of the night resent this attention, and are at enmity with all cats. It is true, also, that cats see through the glamours of magic, so that no wizard is able to mask his identity or pass invisible where a cat watches. Of all beasts the senses of this creature are most subtle. Though the eyes of a cat are not keener than those of a hawk, nor the ears sharper than those of a dog, a cat sees and hears things that lie beyond this material existence that neither hawk can see nor dog can hear.
Another talent possessed by this remarkable beast is the ability to walk into the land of dreams and out again as easily as a man enters or leaves a dwelling. Those lost in dreams are sometimes led back to our world by passing cats, who have a fondness for our race and are ever willing to lend aid when treated with dignity and kindness.[…]
[…] The steaming water was dark and thick as syrup with powdered Emerald Lotus. The sorcerer wallowed on his back in the sunken pool, his slight, wizened body half floating as he breathed the perfumed air through flaring nostrils and stared upward with dilated eyes. He leaned his shaven head back upon the sharp rim of the tub and idly created visions to amuse himself.
Suspended in the air above his prone form, a silver flower bloomed, its shining petals gleaming like polished steel. It rotated a moment and then burst into a compact ball of scarlet fire. The flame blazed brightly, then flew outward into a thousand separate pinpoints that immediately contracted, spinning into a miniature galaxy. The revolving disk of brilliant motes coalesced, gradually outlining the tiny, perfect form of a woman. Once complete, the fiery homunculus began to whirl in a wild dance, slowly shedding its flames until it was a diminutive but perfect image of the Lady Zelandra. Naked, the little figure writhed in erotic abandon before Ethram-Fal’s greedy eyes.
The sorcerer settled himself more deeply in the hot, lotus-laden water, feeling its power seeping into his bones. Above him, the homunculus caressed itself and thrust tiny hands out to Ethram-Fal in shameless supplication. Then, as he looked on, the figure began to tear at itself, rending its flesh with its own hands until it burst abruptly into a misty cloud of crimson droplets.
Ethram-Fal laughed, his mirth sounding metallic and inhuman in the closed stone room. The sorcerer rolled over, letting the image wink out, and turned his mind to more serious things.
He slouched low, letting the thickened water creep up to his lower lip, allowing a bit to slip into his mouth and savoring the bitter bite of it. […]