Khalda's crime, it had been proclaimed, was that of high sacrilege. Not only had he sought through ancient and unwholesome magic the creation of artificial life, but he had spat upon the greenstone feet of the great idol in the market place, and asserted that the deity was impotent and its priests humbug. Perhaps this iconoclastic behavior was regretted by Khalda, since his destination was not pleasant to contemplate, but he gave no sign as the slaves led him through a series of connected chambers. Each of these dimly-lit rooms was more ancient in appearance than the one preceding, and after he had traversed some dozen, the very bricks of the wall were so slimy with old moss that they emitted a noxious odour. Likewise the passages grew steadily darker. Legend told of the things that lay beneath the palace, and of the Head Torturer Malyat that had dwelt in his crypt for untold years without being seen by man. It was said that his face was obscured from even his victims, by an ancient and grotesque mask. On this Khalda reflected as the guards paused to light their tapers at a sconce tipped by a pool of sulphurous flame that seethed and boiled endlessly. He wondered at this, for no tracks disturbed the settled dust, yet the torch was as if newly kindled. Guided now by this melancholy light, they descended again, their torch but little dispelling the gloom. In this manner they made their way toward the lower chambers. Khalda wondered at the labor that must have gone into chiseling these chambers from the rock, and at the ponderous ornamental masonry that remained yet immovable after so long a time. At length they came to an ultimate passage fronting a huge door of iron curiously decorated and covered with the patina of aeons. This appeared most formidable to the prisoner. It was upon this ancient portal that the guards smote with their clanging brazen swords and then retired, leaving Khalda alone. He wondered what evil thing would appear as he saw the door slowly opening. Then, in a terrible silence that his shrieks did not wholly dispel, a metal projection not unlike a tentacle rhythmically emerged, swayed a moment, and wrapped itself about him. And he was drawn into the chamber of Malyat. * * * * * Four cycles of the crimson moon elapsed before rumours found their way to the ears of the emperor. A tale was told of the last creation of the sorcerer, a masterpiece of malign sorcery, that had escaped destruction by the zealots of the greenstone god.