THREE BALD VULTURES DANCED in the cloudless skies as Israfel received notifications from his [Subservient Infernal System]—S.I.N.
The evening was fading, twilight ending the day. The hot mists of the desert had began to leave the sands. The sun was gone down behind the mountains now and the wilderness was in that brief moment of pale dusk.
In front of the bronze gates of Caer Mullhen, the small village stronghold of Lord Zaftig's camp, only Israfel and the Sandwhale were visible in the scape; spots of shadow in the vast plains. Two little dots.
Rafel's harem of three delicious women and the princess of Caer Mullhen stood along with plenty of the city's folk on the tower ramparts—where they had watched it all. They still stared.
Aya Naamah's voice was just receding from Rafel's head when Peitho entered the [psyche bridge]. As if to beat the siren-like intonation of the blue succubus in her Host's subconscious, the S.I.N made her own voice extra velvety.
