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."
Rennard had visions of more and more sacrifices made
in the name of Morgion ... all deaths for which he would be
accountable.
More shadows to haunt him.
"I do not come to you . . . but FOR you!" Acting
instinctively, his anger deluding him into believing he was
flesh and blood, Rennard leapt at the unsuspecting
Nightmaster, grappling for the man's throat.
The ghost's hand touched cloth and flesh.
The discovery was so shocking that he almost lost his
grip on the Nightmaster. The man's hood fell back as the
ghost dragged his captive forward. His pale, ravaged face
was almost as horrible as the ghost's, but Rennard was well
used to such sights from when he had been one of them.
Slowly and carefully, he spoke, his voice as chill as death.
"There is no Morgion. The god of disease has indeed fled
us." The ghost felt his pain ease. "There will be no more
sacrifices."
The leader of the cultists shivered and, at first, the ghost
thought that the chills were from fright. Then he saw the
man sweat, saw the patches of inflamed skin that gave the
scarlet plague its name.
Rennard had transmitted his accursed disease to the
Nightmaster . . . and like a flame on dry kindling, it was
spreading rapidly.
"Please!" the man begged. He knew what was happening.
No one understands poison better than the poisoner. "Let
me go, before it's too late!"
A grim satisfaction filled Rennard. "You wanted Morgion.
Here is his legacy. You should be happy, Nightmaster."
He threw the infected cultist into the remaining
acolytes, who were staring, frozen in fear
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