Chapter 1

The sound of a gong, ringing three times, shivered through the incense-scented darkness. A man, asleep on a cotton pallet that was placed on the cold marble floor in a small alcove, wakened hastily at the sound. At first he stared at the small brass gong that sat upon the altar in disbelief, as if wondering whether he had truly heard its summons or if it had been part of his dream. The gong rang again, however, dispelling his doubts. Dressed only in a white cloth that he wore wrapped about his thin thighs, the man rose from the pallet and hastened across the polished marble floor.

Reaching the altar, which was made of pure gold fashioned in the shape of a ram’s head, the man lit a thick beeswax candle, then prostrated himself flat before the altar, his arms outstretched above his head, his belly on the floor, his nose pressed against the marble. He had anointed himself with perfumed oil before retiring, and his brown skin glistened in the dim candlelight. His hair had never been cut—so to honor his God—and it covered his naked back like a black, shining blanket.

The slender body of the Imam quivered as it lay upon the floor, not from the cold or from fear but in eagerness. “It is I, Feisal, your unworthy servant. Speak to me, Quar, O Majesty of Heaven!”

“You have answered the summons swiftly.”

Feisal raised his head, staring into the candle’s flame. “Do I not—sleeping and waking—live within your Temple, Master, that I may be present to carry out your slightest wish?”

“So I have heard.” Quar’s voice came from the floor, the ceiling, the walls. It whispered around Feisal; he could feel its vibrations caress his body and he closed his eyes, almost overcome by the holy ecstasy. “I am pleased by this and by the good work you are doing in the city of Kich. Never before has a priest of mine been so zealous in bringing the unbeliever to salvation. I have my eye upon you, Feisal. If you continue to serve me in the future as well as you have served me up to the present, I think the great church of mine that shall one day encompass the world could have no better leader than yourself.”

Feisal clienched his fists, a shudder of pleasure convulsed his body. “I am honored beyond telling, O King of All,” the Imam whispered huskily. “I live only to serve you, to glorify your name. To bring that name to the lips of the kafir of this world is my greatest, my only desire.”

“A worthy task, yet not an easy one,” said the God. “Even now there comes to your city an unbeliever of the most heinous sort. A devout follower of the Ragged God, Akhran, he and his band of thieves ride to Kich, their intention: to spy upon the city. They plan to attack it and lead the people to the worship of their evil God.”

“Akhran!” the Imam cried in a voice of horror such as might have shrieked out the name of a demon rising from the depths of Sul. Stunned by the shock, the Imam sat up, staring around the darkness that was alive with the presence of the God. The sweat that covered his oiled skin trickled down his bare breast. His ribs—all too visible from a lifetime of fasting—constricted, the stomach muscles tightened. “No! This cannot be!”

“Do not look upon this as a catastrophe. It is a blessing, proof that we are destined to win the holy war we fight, that we have learned of their perfidious scheme in time. Consult with the Amir, that you may devise together the best plan to deal with the unbelievers. And so that he knows you act by the command of Quar, you will find a gift from me upon the altar. Take it to the Amir’s head wife, Yamina the Sorceress. She will know what use to make of it. My blessings upon you, faithful servant.”

Hurling himself flat, Feisal pressed his body into the marble, hugging the floor as though he were physically clinging to his God. Slowly the rapture within him died and he knew Quar was with him no longer. Drawing a deep, shivering breath, the Imam rose unsteadily to his feet, his gaze going immediately to the altar. A sob choked him. Reverently he reached out his shaking hand, the damp fingers closing around the gift of the God—a small, ebony horse.