Sythemis let out a weird shuddering sigh as he sheathed the knife. Behind her the stars seemed to grow brighter and the moon seemed to pulse for a moment like a living heart. She wrapped her arms around the thief, the motion oddly devoid of human warmth despite the soft and pleasant feel of smooth skin. “There are more sources of wisdom than that which is whispered by the stars,” she told him. The priestess opened her mouth and breathed, and something silvery and smelling of sharp spices came from her mouth like a hot breath on a winter’s morning. Amal had time to stiffen before paralysis locked his limbs, and his vision dimmed down to the dark pinpricks of her eyes before finally going black. When Amal awoke he was in a dungeon. Heavy iron chain had been fastened around his wrists with cunning locks. The cell was small and barred with rods of rusted iron. Festering straw, rank with filth and death covered the floor. Screams could be heard in the distance, the eerie repetition of them bespeaking madness rather than simple pain. Torches of rancid fat guttered and burned in the hallway beyond like snapping dogs. The Black Cells were immediately recognizable from legend, even if few had ever returned to describe them. The Emir’s personal dungeons, deep beneath his spire. “Awake is it,” a paunchy jailor asked. He had a lazy eye and a wound on his right cheek that constantly leaked some foul-smelling exudate. He cuffed at it with a filthy tunic sleeve. “The last two she brought down here died without waking,” the jailers told him conversationally. “I guess this means we will have some time to have fun with you before we take your tongue and your fingers,” he went on brightly. The plump man got up and hurled a chicken bone he had been gnawing on at Amal. It struck him on the chest and dropped to the floor. “That's your dinner, you should enjoy it while you still have teeth to chew,” the jailer advised, the pulled up his torch and headed off down the hallway, the light fading until Amal was left in near total darkness.