“You spoke to Turek at Szerain’s shrine,” Mzatal said after a moment. “And so you know something more than you did when you arrived.” A whisper of frustration touched his eyes. I had a pretty strong feeling that he wanted to ask questions, but was constrained by the damn oath that prohibited talk of Szerain’s exile.

“I know Ryan is Szerain,” I said. “And I know Zack is Zakaar. But Ryan doesn’t know. And Turek says it’s dangerous for him to know himself.”

“Because Rhyzkahl will take more definitive measures to—” Mzatal paused. “He would take more definitive measures.”

“Is he…” I trailed off. I desperately wanted to know if Szerain and Ryan were at all alike, but I knew that Mzatal wouldn’t be able to answer me directly. “If, um, a lord were to be exiled,” I tried instead, “would their exiled persona be very different from their true personality?”

Mzatal’s whole body tensed as a deep anger seemed to flow from him, though I was fairly certain it wasn’t directed at me. “I cannot speak of this, of him,” he said through clenched teeth. “But I will speak of something else,” he continued, lifting the arm from my shoulders. “A mere story about possibilities with me and with you.”

The intensity in his voice sent a frisson of cold fear through me, but I had a feeling that if I didn’t find out all I could now, I might never know. And I need to know.

“Were I to diminish you,” he said in a low, dark voice, “to strip you of the ability to use your skills or to even maintain memory of yourself, there are many ways I could accomplish this. Some would leave you with nothing of yourself and some would leave you with more.” He lowered his head.

A chill crawled through me. “Go on,” I managed.

“One very particular way would leave you with all memory of yourself, but only the ability to express that which fits a certain predetermined model.” The tension returned to his body, and he breathed a word that was most definitely a demon curse.

The cold in my gut deepened. “S-so, I would be completely aware but trapped behind a wall?”

“No,” he replied, voice going even more intense. “That is far too mild of a description for how I would submerge you.”

My hands tightened into fists. “How would you do it?”

Mzatal turned to me, potency flaring. “How deeply do you wish to understand, Kara Gillian?”

I hesitated, then straightened, lifting my chin, though my heart pounded. “I need to know. Show me what was done to Szerain.”

He shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. “I cannot speak of that, nor do that.” He paused, and the air around us seemed to grow heavy and charged. “I can show you precisely how I would submerge you were I to do so to bring about the greatest torment.”

My mouth went dry as my resolve wavered. It’s only a demonstration, I told myself. I can trust him. I dragged in a careful breath. I’d survived Rhyzkahl’s torture. I could endure this submersion for a few minutes. And I needed to know, for Ryan, and for myself.

“Yes,” I heard myself saying. “Show me that.”

A faint smile touched his mouth but didn’t reach his eyes. I trust him, I told myself again. Right?

Mzatal drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. I braced myself and tried to prepare for…I had no idea what.

When he opened his eyes, it was like looking through a window into a nightmare. Moving with demonic lord speed he seized my head between his hands, face abruptly and coldly vindictive and purposeful. The nightmare behind his eyes flooded out to inundate me, and I sucked in a breath, recoiling.

“No, wait!” I struggled against his hold, then cried out in shock as Gestamar moved swiftly in from the main chamber and wrapped an arm around my waist from behind. “No. Stop!”

Mzatal didn’t move, but I felt the stab of potency slide through me in a surgical strike, and in the next instant I went limp in Gestamar’s hold as Mzatal stripped my physical control.

But only the physical. I still had full awareness, still felt Mzatal’s hands on my head. I could still silently yell at myself for being the biggest goddamn moron who’d ever walked the Earth. I fought to move, to twitch, anything.

“Fool,” Mzatal snarled in a voice that was his, yet not his. “It could have been so easy for you.”

My body couldn’t move, but my Self jerked in shock as what felt like a viscous goo began to rise around me. It wasn’t physical—there was nothing I could see or taste or smell, but it was cold. So incredibly cold. The arcane constriction continued to rise around my essence, everything that was me. I panicked as fully as if it was a corporeal substance threatening to drown me. My Self thrashed and flailed, but the advance was inexorable, and I couldn’t find any purchase.

Mzatal’s lip curled. “All in our grasp. All.” His teeth clenched harder. “And you choose—choose—to withhold it from me.” He pushed me lower while I thrashed and fought the submersion.

I felt the reyza’s strong grip, his hot breath on my neck. I hung limp as Mzatal held my head, while within I fought the unrelenting push.

He forced me down. The only way to describe it was as if I was in a narrow pipe, with barely any room to twitch or move, and that pipe was filled with icy goo, and then a grate placed over the top and sealed down. I had less than an inch of “space” between the grate and the goo, forcing me to constantly scrabble for purchase, to press my face against that grate simply to exist.

Mzatal drove the “grate” fully down upon me until it felt as if I was a hair’s breadth away from being lost completely, then blatantly and clearly sealed the prison. “How long can you bear this?” he hissed. “How long until even you break?”

Panicked, I pressed my Self against the barricade. I wanted to sob, scream, anything, but all I had was the total quiescence of my body in Gestamar’s arms.

Mzatal held my head for another ten heartbeats, then released me and straightened, face returning to its normal Mzatal-ness.

“Kara, I have some matters to attend,” he said. “Wait for me inside.” He turned and headed off down the balcony.

Gestamar released me, and I straightened. I glanced up at the demon, then moved inside to Mzatal’s chambers. Pursing my lips, I looked around, then began opening cabinets, methodically searching. I knew it had to be here somewhere.

This is me, I realize. I scrabble and press against the barrier. The confinement is horrific, but the rest isn’t so bad, is it? He called me Kara. At least I’m still me. But what the hell am I looking for? I extend, desperately trying to understand, and as I do, it’s like sticking my finger into an electrical outlet as the jolt of connection slams home. I am fully myself, know myself, am myself, and I’m also this walking, breathing, thinking Pretender that seeks a confiscated bag of weed. I feel myself animating her through a slender tendril of essence that winds through the grate. Her thoughts, chaotic and irrational, tumble beside Mine in a confusing torrent, and I experience a new sort of drowning as they invade Me. Panic. I know her. Panic. I am her. Panic. I am myself. Panic. Who am I?

She found it in the bottom drawer and grinned. Not warded or protected in any way. She took the baggie to the table in the bedroom, sat, and began to expertly roll a joint.

Who am I? The Observer. Boundaries. Must set bound aries. I am myself. I am—she is—the Pretender. Thoughts are intimately entwined. I cling to mine and willfully keep hers at bay, still glaringly present, but separate. I witness the Pretender using my body. It’s been over fifteen years since I’ve done any sort of drugs. I know I can’t experiment or have one joint just for fun. She knows this as well, but denies it. Wake up! Don’t do this!

She moved to the balcony and leaned against the rail. She lit the joint easily with a quick sigil.

No. Damn it. I can’t smoke pot. I’m not going to go back to any of that shit. I know myself too well. I struggle against the grate, struggle to extend control through the connecting strand. It’s still my body! Surely I can stop me, her, us from doing this. But it’s like steering a car with my pinky while tied in the backseat.

She lifted the joint and took a long pull, then sighed out the smoke with a relaxed smile.

That’s what I needed. Her thought rolls over me. Damn it! I witness the Pretender abuse my body. I want to smack her.

She jerked in surprise as Mzatal reached and plucked the joint from her fingers.

“You have dishonored my hospitality, taken that which is not yours, and do not have the control to use such without succumbing to it.” He glowered down at Us as he incinerated the joint with a flick of his fingers.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She scowled up at the lord. “It was my damn weed in the first place. I was merely recovering my own property that you ‘confiscated’.” She made obnoxious quote marks with Our fingers.

Holy shit. I know this Pretender. I had that attitude when I was about nineteen or so. I was off the drugs by then, but She is the Me of then, still on drugs. I can’t live like this! I reach through the strand and it’s like fighting through a vat of tar, sticky, searing heat against the ice of my Self. Agonizing. Exhausting.

“And what the hell does it matter anyway if I smoke a joint?” she continued, rolling Our eyes. “This summoning shit is a pain in the ass and the pot chills me out.”

“I do not jest,” he replied in a hard voice. “For some it would not matter. For you it does. You lose yourself.”

He’s so right. Why won’t she listen? No, this isn’t me. This…this is a very small part of who I might have been. This isn’t me! I can’t do this.

“I don’t lose myself,” she said with a snort. “Oh my god, it’s just pot. And what the fuck do you care? You wanted a summoner. Well, here I am.” She gave a showy curtsey.

“Smoking breaks your agreement with me. This is of much relevance.” Mzatal looked to Gestamar. “Destroy the remainder of the herb.”