"Dave Hanson! By the power of the true name be summoned cells and
humors, ka and id, self and--"

Dave Hanson! The name came swimming through utter blackness, sucking at
him, pulling him together out of nothingness. Then, abruptly, he was
aware of being alive, and surprised. He sucked in on the air around him,
and the breath burned in his lungs. He was one of the dead--there should
be no quickening of breath within him!

He caught a grip on himself, fighting the fantasies of his mind, and
took another breath of air. This time it burned less, and he could force
an awareness of the smells around him. But there was none of the pungent
odor of the hospital he had expected. Instead, his nostrils were
scorched with a noxious odor of sulfur, burned hair and cloying incense.

He gagged on it. His diaphragm tautened with the sharp pain of
long-unused muscles, and he sneezed.

"A good sign," a man's voice said. "The followers have accepted and are
leaving. Only a true being can sneeze. But unless the salamander works,
his chances are only slight."

There was a mutter of agreement from others, before an older voice broke
in. "It takes a deeper fire than most salamanders can stir, Ser Perth.
We might aid it with high-frequency radiation, but I distrust the
effects on the prepsyche. If we tried a tamed succubus--"

"The things are untrustworthy," the first voice answered. "And with the
sky falling, we dare not trust one."