Rhimaon squatted on the filthy kilim, concentrating. Smashing the tiger skull against the ground, she worked the mandible loose. The witches’ dreadful curse still ringing in her ears, she intoned the age-old spell with a hypnotic tenderness that caressed the psyche; it would set her sister’s soul free from the Casket of Death on the tripod. “Sheol, Hades, Gehenna...” Her friend Mayra had been murdered for apostasy; blood still oozed profusely from the gash in her neck. One infinitesimal second later, something impalpable, smelling of cinnamon, spewed out of the coffer... It was my soul. Now I own Mayra’s body.