As Conan and his friends rejoiced in the wizard's humble hut, the night was filled with laughter in distant Shadizar. In the great hall of the palace, Osric, King of Zamora, made wassail. His seers had informed him that Conan had reached the Mountain of Power and penetrated the recesses of its most secret temple; now the king looked forward to the imminent return of his daughter.
  His age-worn frame was decked in robes of glittering brocade, his bent fingers glowed with splendid rings; he sat on his throne proudly, sipping rich wine from a cup of beaten gold. In the cheerful light of many candles, some as tall as a five-year child and as thick as a man's thigh, lordly courtiers strolled in all their finery or gathered near the monarch to renew friendships long grown cold. At Osric's feet, slavegirls in loose trousers of bright transparent gauze reclined on purple and crimson cushions, reminding those with long acquaintance of the warrior-king of bygone years, before the cult of Set had infected the land with fear and loathing.
  Yet even here in the throne room itself, the king did not feel safe from the assassins of the cult leader Doom; thus, grim-faced guards stood in pairs at every portal and at each open window to secure the monarch from stealthy footsteps in the night.
  Osric broke off his unwonted banter as the chief chamberlain approached the throne, candlelight flashing from the polished curves of his silver mace of office. "Sire," he said, "I desire a word with you."
  The king beckoned the official to come closer. "What is it, Choros?"
  "Sire, he has come again - Yaro, the black priest of Doom. He begs a private audience with Your Majesty on some high matter of state."
  The king bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. "Begs, you say. Demands, like as not. Well, bid the dog back to his kennel, and leave me to my rare moment of pleasure."
  "But, Sire," the chamberlain persisted, "he has imparted to me that the matter concerns your daughter, the Princess Yasimina."
  The king 's face turned gray; his eyes grew dull. "Very well. But have the fellow searched most thoroughly. Do not overlook his rings, brooches, or other ornaments. These snake-worshipers are cunning men and treacherous. In their hands, the most unlikely object may become a deadly weapon.''
  As the chamberlain bowed and withdrew, Osric beckoned to the captain of the guard.
  "Clear the room. Tell my guests affairs of state press in upon me. I want no witnesses, save only Manes and Bagoas, my most trusted guards. Have each stand behind a pillar, ready to emerge in case the black dog attempts treachery."
  "Aye, aye, Sire," said the captain.
  "And as they go, bid the servants extinguish the larger candles. The light does hurt my eyes."
  The captain bowed and turned away, repeating the royal wishes to those about the throne. Soon courtiers, guards, and slave girls bowed and withdrew, all save the two stalwart soldiers who took their stand behind a pair of massive pillars near the royal seat. As the candles were snuffed out, long shadows crawled like serpents across the marble tiles.
  Osric shuddered and wet his lips. But he sat upright still, concealing his apprehension behind a regal mien. He drained his cup of vine and tossed the goblet aside, forgetting that the servant who would have caught it had issued from the chamber. Like a gong struck by a mallet, the vessel hit the marble and, clattering, rolled to the feet of Yaro.
  The black priest had entered the audience chamber on noiseless feet and now, with slow and measured tread, approached the throne. Standing impassively before the king, he folded his arms upon his breast and inclined his shaven pate in a fleeting nod. Osric regarded him silently, but there was fear and loathing in his hooded eyes.
  "Sire," the priest began.
  "Well?" demanded the monarch, a false bravado strengthening his quavering voice. "You desired words with me. To what import?"
  "Great import, Sire," replied Yaro taking a step doser to the throne. "My Lord, Thulsa Doom, the true prophet of Set the Eternal, wishes to honor your house by marriage with your daughter, the Princess Yasimina."
  "Honor my house!" cried Osric shrilly. "Honor! You abuse the word, sir, and my patience."
  "Sire, marriage is an honorable estate..."
  "Monstrous! You have the insolence to corne here and say that?" The king clawed at his beard with a shaking hand. "Your effrontery surpasses all belief!"
  "No effrontery was intended," said Yaro tonelessly. "The honor that Doom would do you extends beyond yourself. It is the Grand Master's wish that, by this alliance, Zamora shall become the true kingdom of Set, and the center of an ever-expanding empire."
  Quivering with fury, Osric rose. "Enough!" he cried. "Whilst I am king, I shall never sanction this monstrous union, this hellish corruption of the marriage vows. Guards!"
  The two massive bodyguards stepped from the shelter of the marble columns. Yaro looked them over. In a soft, expressionless voice he said: "You promised that we should be alone, in private audience, King Osric."
  The king's laugh was the bark of an angry dog. "Think that I would trust myself alone with a human viper of the serpent cult? I have not lived this long by offering my naked heel to the fang of a crawling snake."
  Yaro bowed with mock servility. "O wise and mighty King." Then, turning to the two armed men, he said: "If I were to ask you, would you slay this infidel for our master, Thulsa Doom?"
  Like men walking in a dream, the guards drew their swords and advanced on the king, who stood, trembling, on the dais of his throne. "Help! Murder! To me, loyal guards..." Osric cried in vain; his feeble shouts could not penetrate the heavy doors, firmly shut at the old king's command.
  As the sound of the heavy blades chopping into flesh supplanted the monarch's frantic cries, Yaro turned his back and made his way down the darkened immensity of the audience chamber. The two guards wiped the blood from their blades on the dead king's robe and followed him.