The silence stretched on for so long Morne thought he had been frozen in time like those around him, but the CLACK of the Coltha's boney hands against each other dispelled that nonsensical notion.
"You, dear mortal, ask all the right questions," the Coltha told him, struggling to reign in his enthusiasm. His paper-thin lips stretched and contracted, the edges twitching and writhing as he slowly, carefully, closed his mouth.
Beside himself, Morne let out a short breath of relief. Gazing into the abyss that was peeked from behind the demon's teeth was like staring in the face of death itself.
Something he had enough of back in the Thorny Woods.
"You, my finite friend," the demon said with a clack of his finger on the table, his expression now a mask, "gain one thing. But I assure you, this deal is more than fair."
"What is this 'one thing,' demon?" Morne asked, hand wrapping around the handle of his tankard. With a disappointed sigh, he remembered it was empty. "I don't suppose it involves replacing the beer you magic'd away?"
The Coltha snorted a laugh at Morne's candor. "No, mortal. It's something far more precious than that. I will give you…
"The gift of Necromancy."
Even Morne raised an eyebrow at that. "I didn't know demons could give magical talent away."
"They can't. Not normally, anyway." The Coltha steepled his fingers, affixing Morne with a stare. "But during the Trade, many things are possible. You give me your Dusty Towers, and I shall give you a Mountain Chain's worth of talent in Necromancy.
"I'll also give you a tip as to how to extricate yourself from the predicament you currently find yourself in, free of charge. After that, you are on your own. I shall impede your flight no longer."
"There's that word again," frowned Morne. "'Dust.' You say it like it's important."
The demon merely smirked. "Even for an Infutim, you are remarkably ignorant of the ways of magic. But your ears are sharp and your mind sharper, to pick out such a detail."
"Just tell it to me in a way I can understand, will you?" Morne asked.
By now he had relaxed greatly. Now that he knew that his life wasn't in any danger, at least for the moment, he was entirely focused on this Trade the demon was offering.
"Very well," the demon said obligingly, gathering himself. "The lowest rungs of talent a Mage can have are Empty and Dust, with Empty meaning nonexistent. With a Dust Tower, you'd be lucky to make it to the peak of the Novice Rank of Mages; enough for parlor tricks, perhaps, but nothing to take you to the highest of heights."
"And Mountain Chain?"
"The highest Height a mortal's Tower can achieve through conventional means," replied the demon, unperturbed at the interruption. "But that is all I shall speak on this matter. My lord will grow angry if I reveal too much and spoil the fun."
"How is this fair for you?" Morne asked, narrowing his eyes at the thought of being deceived. "That sounds like an exchange weighed heavily in my favor."
The Coltha just grinned that toothy, hideous grin.
"Do you accept or not?" the demon asked.
Morne's brow furrowed as he thought about the proposal.
It sounded risky. Very risky. He knew well the stigma against Necromancers the civilized world held. That same stigma would make learning Spells for this School difficult, and finding them would be even harder.
If he had no method to use such talent, it was worse than useless.
But the alternative was to be sacrificed by a gang of cultists.
Even now, Morne suspected they were hot on his trail. He had only stopped because he thought he'd be safer in the city and desperately needed a drink, and now time itself was frozen, halting his pursuers in their tracks.
While the followers of Ilnchan were dull, they were also ruthless. As soon as this Spell wore off, Morne would be on a time limit to get as far away from here as fast as possible.
"Throw in a lead on learning some Necromancy Spells, and you have yourself a deal," Morne said after a while. "If I can't use this talent you're offering, there's no point."
"Deal," the demon agreed instantly, extending his bone-thin hand.
As Morne took it, he only now realized the strange proportions of the hand in relation to the rest of the demon's body. While the Coltha possessed a thin, if wiry, frame, and a somewhat full face, his hands were mostly skin and bone.
"My name is Brej-N'Ha-Frikt," the demon uttered, gripping Morne's hand tightly. "Speak your name, mortal, and let the Trade commence."
"Morne," the ex-slave said.
A dark fire blazed to life from the palm of the Coltha, spreading along Morne's fingers, up his arm, and engulfing him from head to toe.
Another flame, this one a rainbow of colors, flared from the human's hand and wrapped around Brej-N'Ha-Frikt like a blanket.
Morne grunted. It was uncomfortable, but it didn't burn as he'd expected a flame to.
But Morne's big mouth was clamped shut shortly after as the black flame roared loudly, digging into his pores and seeping into his body in an experience like that of being cut open with thousands of tiny knives, only for his wounds to be filled with boiling oil.
Morne howled in pain, but all the while, Brej-N'Ha-Frikt never let go of his hand.
As the black fire covered Morne's eyes, filled his nostrils, flooded his eardrums, and wracked him with pain, the eyes of the demon of Jiklok never left the Infutim.
The demon watched as a circle started to form on Morne's left cheek, forged of the very fire that was consuming him now. Within this circle, the still image of a skeletal hand formed, splayed open and palm up, as coins slipped through its fingers.
This Mark flared brightly before fading to nothingness, and the demon felt content as the flames of Morne's Towers flowed into him.
The Mark of the Anointed had been placed.
As the raging black inferno and the pained screams of the ex-slave died down to embers and whimpers, Brej-N'Ha-Frikt regarded Morne curiously.
He was interested to see how far this mortal would go.
The struggles of a mortal desperate to seek meaning in their fleeting existence, to fend off their inevitable end, were always quality entertainment.