Conan snatched up the copper bowl.  The heat remaining in it seared his fingers, but he flung the huge vessel to the first rank of the charging Witchmen.  They went down in a tangle of arms and legs.  Conan whirled in time to see the mighty black fade from view in a second flare of soundless green fire.  That magic, it seemed, could bridge the vast distances of space between frigid Hyperborea and far, jungled Zembabwei.  It was obvious that the adepts had used much the same method to travel here in the first place.

"Cimmerian!"

Something in the tone of that lisping voice froze Conan.  He turned his head.

The Kambujan was a sorry sight.  His fantastic jewel covered robes were black with soot, ripped and torn His gem-encrusted crown had fallen away, revealing his shaven skull.  His face was hideously blackened and blistered.  But through the seared mask his eyes blazed with deadly power into Conan's.

One hand, covered with burns, blisters, and glittering rings, was extended.  But a weird force flashed from the tense, quivering fingers to bathe the mighty Cimmerian.

Conan gasped.  His flesh numbed as if he had been suddenly plunged into the depths of an icy river.  Paralysis seized his limbs.

Setting his teeth, he struggled against the spell with all his might.  His face blackened with effort; his eyes bulged in their sockets.  Then the tension drained from him.  He was frozen into immobility, and all his giant strength could not break the spell.

Crouched amidst the coals, the little Kambujan smiled, although his burned face winced at the movement of seared lips.  Unholy glee blazed in his cold, ophidian eyes.

Slowly he extended his arm to its full length, mumbling strange words of power.

Pain ripped through Conan's mighty heart.  Darkness swept about him, sucking him down.

And then, with a sharp thud, the vaned butt of a crossbow bolt appeared, protruding from the side of Pra-Eun's shaven skull.  The rest of the missile was buried in the Kambujan's brain.  The cold black eyes glazed and went dull.