"There is where Iblis sits dreaming of those broad, rich days before Suleiman--may wild hogs defile his grave!--learned the Word of Power. Stand by, brethren!" commanded Zantut. They formed in a crescent before the image. Zantut advanced, bearing in each hand a torch which he planted at either side of the image. Then, taking from his belt a small copper mallet, he tapped the image in various spots, each tap sounding a different note; and as he tapped, he listened carefully. Over and over he tapped, here and there; then finally announced, "The third arm; the second hand; the fourth head." Three stepped forward, each grasping one of the members named by Zantut. "Ready?" demanded Zantut. "Ready, master," they replied. "Now!" exclaimed the master. And as each adept twisted the member he grasped, the copper image, pedestal and all, swung noiselessly aside. "Follow me!" directed Zantut. The dark-robed devotees of Iblis, torch in hand, filed after the master, stepping in unison down the smooth, black stairs. "The Sura of the Darkness!" commanded Zantut. "One.... Two.... Three!" In deep, resonant tones they chanted as they advanced into the abysmal blacknesses of the vault, swaying their torches in cadence: "Lord of many brazen hells, Lord of the Painted Fan, Prince of the Outer Marches, Prince of the Borderland, Iblis, 'tis Thee that we adore, Just and logical God!" Flight after flight they marched, chanting as they descended into the depths, until finally, arriving at the foot of the winding stairs, they halted at the entrance of a great hall whose floor was paved with tiles of lapis lazuli. The master halted and lifted his left arm. His followers ceased chanting and, following Zantut's example, removed their shoes before entering the sanctuary of Iblis. "Lord and Master," intoned Zantut as he made a swift gesture with his left hand, "we Thy faithful servants bring Thee reverence and worship." Then, with heads bowed and arms crossed, Zantut and his followers advanced across the blue tiles toward the Presence that sat cross-legged on a lofty dais at the farther end of the hall. When within five paces of the dais, all except Zantut halted, and kneeling, formed a semicircle. Zantut advanced to the first step, knelt, and carefully scrutinized the approach to the high place. With his finger tips he caressed the polished stones. "The holy place has not been defiled," he announced. "The dust of the weary centuries has not been disturbed. The Master sits dreaming of the Night of Power; and his sleep has not been broken." Then, raising his head and lifting up his arms, Zantut gazed full at the Presence. "Hail, Iblis, Lord of the Outer Darkness, Malik Taûs, Prince of the Painted Fan!" he saluted, and bowed his head once more to the paving. "Servants of Iblis," he announced, "you may lift up your eyes and gaze at your Prince."