Du Rosenwyn poured himself another quaking glass of port and downed it in one gulp. With a wistful glance at the empty glass, he took another drag straight from the bottle. His velvet waistcoat was open, and his silk shirt was stained from the spills. He sat in a large, soft chair for a moment to calm his nerves. His hands were still wringing the golden pin-striped fabric of his voluminous trousers, though. Cold sweat was gleaming on his balding forhead.

His wife really had gone too far this time. He had tolerated her little ...hobby for many years, and had even taken advantage of it occasionally in the intrigue of Cassant's courts. The risk of discovery was always minimized, even though it would be devastating, but the gains were too substantial to pass over unused. With her divinations, her summonings, her judicious use of a carefully selected spell, he had managed to thwart his rivals time and time again. He even watched disturbed as his wife's mind was slowly warped and changed � a mere mortal could never hope to unleash powers that were beyond the scope of a mortal mind and return unscathed. But that was a price he was willing to pay. Little did he realize what price it collected from him as well.

But now, this step was too brazen, too bold. He had indulged her too long, he had taken too many steps, too many risks until he was out on a limb from which he would never be able to return. Viscountess Merewenna Tamzen du Rosenwyn had been given too free a rein when he should have monitored much more closely how she used her misbegotten knowledge and skills. Now, the Earl of Delennyk was dead. Not just dead, but a blackened, dried and withered husk, found in his room which was locked from the inside and had no windows. According to the note he just received, the Earl's palace was already swarming with the Watch and even Inquisitors, investigating the obviously occult murder. Worse, his name had already been heard in the hallways as the prime suspect. How his wife had done such a thing, he was unable to understand. He had hounded his rival with minor spells for years now, but to literally kill him, to murder him and steal his very soul... the thought made him shiver. Clearly it was time to cut his losses with his wife. She would certainly burn for this at the hands of the Inquisition, but he would make sure that he did not.

Slowly his shaking stopped. He gathered himself together. He had a plan, he could play ignorant, be the victim himself, if everything worked out.

"Keuran, my good man," he called out quietly. His stately butler approached silently and bowed slightly. He wore a velvet tunic of pale gray, matching trousers and high boots, as befitted his station. Keuran was an older man, what hair he had was short and as iron gray as his uniform. But he was still strong and sturdy. He was good enough for the job at hand. "Keuran, come with me, if you please," he said calmly. Inwardly his mind was in turmoil. He thought nothing of sacrificing his wife to maintain his own position; she was always nothing more than an asset to him, and now that she was a liability he was only too eager to shed her. But he hoped he could pull it off and still maintain his position. It would take a very skillful plotter to wade through the inevitable storm. But, he reasoned, his chief rival would be gone, and he could hope to weather the storm and yet be the chief nobleman in the court of King Lugotorix. His spirits rose slightly as he tossed the idea around in his head. And with his wife gone, he would have to remarry � the thought of making an alliance with the Vindomarucius family was attractive. He thought they had a daughter � a plain girl if he recalled correctly, and that would only make his proposals all the more attractive. After all, he could seek the pleasure of beautiful women anywhere; he hardly needed that in a wife.

It took several minutes to reach his wife's quarters, and when he got there he threw open the door, making an act of having recently discovered her dabbling in witchcraft. But before he could say a word, his face went slack and his knees buckled pitching him to the decorated carpet. His wife was naked on her bed, her legs spread wide, and her eyes half-closed as if in a drug-induced stupor. Kneeling before her was her maidservant Angaret, the cursed girl who first brought the occult into his house. She had changed, though � ram-like horns curled from her head, and huge wings with black feathers, like raven's wings, sprouted from her back. Her tongue was extended several feet; writhing like a slippery eel, burying itself in his wife. It popped up suddenly, and he could see that it had a toothy maw on it's end like a lamprey. It hissed in anger at the intrusion.

Something in du Rosenwyn's mind snapped at the sight of the blasphemous creature desecrating his wife. With a strangled cry he reached blindly for the first thing he could grab, a heavy candlestick, and rushed the monster. His wife sat up startled at that and tried to stop him, reaching forward to block his blow. But his rage had blinded him, and he pounded forward with the candlestick, raising it and bringing it down with a smash over and over again in defiance of the unnaturalness before him.

When the red haze left his vision, he saw his wife's body on the floor, blood from her smashed head dripping slowly in a widening puddle at his feet. She was no longer naked. Keuran behind him seemed rooted to the spot in horror at what his master had done. And the unnatural creature that was Angaret; he saw merely the maidservant as he had always seen her, a frightened little girl, weeping in horror at what she had just seen. She was huddled on the floor, desperately reaching towards the Viscountess then withdrawing her hand in horror over and over again. Du Rosenwyn sank to the ground heavily, confused and in the grip of a powerful headache. What had just happened? Had he imagined the entire diabolical scene? Had he truly just murdered his own wife, and in front of two witnesses? Keuran had fled the scene in a panic, and the sounds of the household up in arms were starting to drift through the open doorway.