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I sighed. I sat back in the chair. None of it was surprising, yet to hear it confirmed at last, that was something.

"Think of the great Catholic theologians of the twentieth century," said Magnus. "They are poets of their own intoxicating belief systems. They swim in an atmosphere of vintage theologies, and weave new and airy systems for themselves wholly detached from the real world, the flesh-and-blood world--."

"I know," I whispered.

"Well, think of Memnoch as being like that. Think of Memnoch as finding in religion a great creative milieu in which he could define himself!"

"He tapped into the lost devotions of your childhood," said Gremt. "That is what he does. And now and then other souls go to his realm, wiser souls, and they seek out those who are trapped there and they bring them out and into freedom."

"How?" I asked.

"By alerting those trapped souls that they are prisoners of their own guilt and wretched disillusionment." Gremt looked at Magnus. "There are souls most skilled at such things, traveling the astral as they sometimes call it, and seeking to free the unwary human ghosts who are lingering in labyrinths from which there is no exit."

"That is too horrible to think about," I said. "That souls would be trapped in make-believe regions, when perhaps there is some other finer destiny awaiting them."

"And sometimes," said Magnus, "when those tormented souls are freed from such traps, they do ascend and vanish. And sometimes they do not ascend. They come back down, down to this earth, with their rescuers, and they linger earthbound, unfinished, restless. That is what you see in me, you see a ghost who has escaped Memnoch's Hell, and knows him well to be a fraud. You see one who would destroy every astral vestige of his kingdom, were it in my power to do so."

"You know all this, Lestat," said Gremt. "Your instincts told you. You fled from his purgatory, condemning him, rejecting him."

"Yes, exactly," I said. "How could I have shattered the place? How could I have freed them all?"

"Holy Saturday," whispered Magnus. " 'And He descended into Hell.' "

I knew full well what he meant. He was speaking of the old idea that Jesus after His death on the cross had gone down into Sheol or Hell to free all the souls waiting for His redemption, so that they could ascend to Heaven. I don't know if even the most devout Christians believe such things anymore, in any literal sense, but I had been taught them, centuries ago, in a monastery school, and I remembered the priceless illuminated manuscripts with their tiny pictures of Jesus awakening the dead.

"Memnoch is a liar," said Magnus. "I suffered in his Hell."

"And now you're free," I said.

"Free to be dead forever?" he asked.

I realized what he was saying of course. He was earthbound. He was not one who'd gone into the Light, as they say. He was a haunt of the material world. He blazed bright and beautiful in my eyes. A serene expression smoothed his face.

"If I were ever in your presence, Prince," he said, "I would be the strongest of ghosts, I think! By day, I'd lie atop your sarcophagus and dream, waiting for you to wake, and your rising at sunset would be sunrise for me in terms of power."

"Forgive me, Master," I said, "but you seem to be doing very well on your own, and to have your tomes to write, your poems, your songs. What do you need me for?"

"To look on me," he said softly, his eyebrows rising. "To look on me and forgive."

Silence once more. He turned to the fire. They all did. I put my head back against the hardwood carving, and gazed off thinking of all this, and remembering other ghosts I'd known, and a dark fear gripped me, a fear of being dead and earthbound, and then it seemed not unlikely that all intelligent beings of the whole world were locked in some sort of dance with the physical. Maybe those who rose into the Light simply died, and the universe beyond this world was silent. I could drive myself mad contemplating a great nothingness filled with a billion pinpoints of light and millions of drifting planets generating their myriad biological kingdoms of insect, animal, sentient witness.

"This is the point," said Gremt. "Memnoch waits and watches and he might not make his move again for a hundred years. But don't forget ever that he is there. And don't forget Rhoshamandes. Best do away with Rhoshamandes."

"No," said Teskhamen as if he couldn't stop himself.

"Well, why not?" asked Gremt. He looked at me again. "And don't underestimate the rebels out there who want to topple you for the sheer sake of doing it. And don't, don't ever underestimate Amel!"

A low moan came from Magnus.

"How at times like this do I wish I were a musician, because music is the only fit vehicle for the emotions I feel. I died the night I made you, and what a fool I was to do it, to die in that fire of my own making, and not to have had the courage to embrace you, love you, travel the Devil's Road with you, my ancient body the eager pupil to your lordly newborn strength! Ah, the things we do. What are we that we can make such great blunders without the slightest realization of what we are doing? What is man that he is so mindful of himself and knows so little of the consequences of what he does!"

He rose to his feet and drew near to me, and in a flash I again felt as surely as I saw it that he ceased to be the blond-haired male of perfect proportions and became the very image of the monster I had known.

It took all my resolve not to get up and move away from him. He came close to me, the vivid embodiment of the gaunt, wraithlike being he'd been on the night of my making, except for his clothes which were dark and ragged and shapeless, with leggings like bandages and his eyes fiercely black, black as his hair.

Scatter the ashes. Or else I might return, and in what shape that would be, I dare not contemplate. But mark my words, if you allow me to come back, more hideous than I am now...

I found myself standing some feet away from him. Not a sound from Amel. Just this creature with its back to the fire, his wavering figure surrounded by a halo of flickering light.