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"You're a person of surprises," said Teskhamen agreeably. "Of course we'll come. And soon. But there are things now that must be addressed. I have another warning to give you."

"Warning?"

"Rhoshamandes," said Gremt. "You're underestimating him."

"He's weak," I said. "His lover, Benedict, left him and came to us. Rhoshamandes is crushed."

Gremt shook his head. "He hates you, Lestat," he said. "He hates you and wants to destroy you."

"Lots of people do!" I laughed. "But he's the least of my worries. He can't destroy me."

"And there are other rumblings in the great world," said Teskhamen. "Small collectives of creatures of the night who resent that anyone has claimed a crown among the Undead."

"Of course," I said. "How could there not be? And then there are the blood drinkers flocking in every evening. And they want a prince and they want rules. And I never dreamed how much." I sat back and put my left ankle on my right knee. The fire felt good because the icy draft had made it burn brighter. I went on. "Two hours a night we hear grievances and disputes over territory, this one demanding that we punish that one, this coven insisting 'it was there first' and wanting the other banished. This one asking for permission to exterminate an enemy. It's like the time of Constantine with quarreling Christians coming to his court to demand he condemn this or that heretic, and nail down the core doctrines of a creed." None of this surprised them.

Teskhamen smiled and laughed under his breath. "You may be the perfect prince, Lestat," he said. "You really do hate having authority, don't you?"

"You bet I do," I said with an irresistible shudder. "Rhoshamandes told me before he was banished that there is only one reason really to want power and that's to keep others from having power over you, and he and I hold that much at least in common."

Gremt was still riveted to me and even Magnus looked more collected and at ease. But there was still something wrong here.

"Do you want to speak to the spirit himself?" I asked. "Is that it? You want to speak to Amel?" I made an open gesture with my hands.

A low hiss came from Amel. He might have been a snake coiled at my neck and suddenly exerting a subtle pressure on my vocal cords and my breath.

I ignored him.

Suddenly he tried with all his power to make me rise out of the chair. He'd done plenty of this before, and I held fast without the slightest sign of what was happening. It was like holding still when one's limbs are cramped and crying in pain, but I outlasted him. And I hated him for doing this here, in front of this little group of merciless spectators.

"I can't make the spirit speak to you," I said, "but I can ask him to speak to you. I can surrender entirely to him and repeat only what he says. I've done this a lot of late for Fareed and Seth. I allow Amel to tell them anything he wishes."

"Traitor," said Amel. "Slut."

I tried to conceal my smile. I just love being called a slut. I don't know why. I just do. "Have at it, beloved numbskull," I mumbled without moving my lips.

"We can see how it is," said Gremt. His voice was gentle, and easy, but there was distrust in his pale eyes. "He's not at peace in you. Don't underestimate him. Indeed, I think your fault is that you underestimate others across the board."

I reflected for a moment. I wasn't going to talk about love to this group, but I wasn't above letting them know that now telepathically. I love this being. Don't try to understand it. And don't try to undermine it.

"Don't underestimate me," I whispered.

They didn't reply.

"Everything is about learning with Amel," I said calmly. "He told me that for aeons he could see and hear nothing distinct or separate from inside Akasha's body. He was flooded with sensations, echoes, vibrations, blazes of light and color. He had to learn to see, rather like a mortal blind from birth has to learn to see when sight is restored to him."

They were listening intently, and Amel was also listening.

"Well, now he can see and feel and taste," I said. "He can make these distinctions, and so what he's experiencing is wholly new. He speaks, but half the time he doesn't know what he's saying."

What, no response from my clever little friend?

There was no response from the three of them either. In fact their faces were concealing and almost hard.

"Please go on," said Teskhamen. "I want to hear more." He glanced at the others, but they remained fixed on me.

"What else can I tell you?" I said. "He isn't always inside me. But eighty percent of the time, he is. He wants me to take him places, inaugurate experiences for him, choose v

ictims for him, flood my senses with music for him or visual stimuli--like films, for instance, or attendance at operas and symphony orchestras. The plays. He loved the plays. He loved me performing Macbeth. He loves the very concept of me, with him inside me, becoming another person on the stage. He will talk about things like that for weeks. He's fascinated with symphony orchestras. He'll ask absurdly simple questions, then offer the most sophisticated observations. He says things like the orchestra is generating a soul, a collective soul, an entity. I ask him what that means. He says consciousness generates soul. But most of the time, he can't explain such statements." I shrugged. My great overused gesture. I've been shrugging my shoulders at the world for one reason or another since I was born. "That's how it is with him. He isn't longing to go anywhere."