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All it waited for was the key—for a whisper that would unleash it on the world.

The realization that he had been left holding it slammed into Neil like a pile of bricks.

He raced after Sayyid, catching up to him on the stairs. “Hold on! You can’t run off!You’rethe one who has to use it!”

“Me?” Sayyid reared back from him in horror. “Absolutely not! You’re the one who found it! You use it!”

“I can’t!” Neil called back as they reached the hall.

“Why not?” Sayyid dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper as he cast a nervous glance at the fissure in the ceiling.

The answer washed over Neil with a strange and impossible certainty.

He started to laugh. The laugh was wheezing and slightly tortured, which at least kept it relatively quiet.

“What’s going on?” Sayyid pleaded. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it has to be in Egyptian,” Neil replied, his voice still strangled with hysteria. “The spells. You have to say them in Egyptian.”

“How can you possibly know that?!” Sayyid burst out.

“How do you think?” Neil choked back, wiping at the helpless tears escaping the corners of his eyes.

Sayyid’s face collapsed into lines of dismay. “I could tell you what to say!” he pushed back desperately. “You could just repeat it after me!”

“I can’t repeat it after you!” Neil wheezed, holding his aching gut. “I can’t say your bloodykhaa!”

“But you could…” Sayyid started. “If you tried a little…”

“Kaaaagch,” Neil demonstrated. “Aaeercgh.”

Sayyid grimaced. “That isn’t even close.”

“Awrrrchghk,” Neil offered.

“Just stop,” Sayyid pleaded, wincing.

“I’ll stop when you take the bloody thing from me!” Neil pushed the staff at him. “Krraaguuuff!”

Sayyid stumbled back from the arcanum and jabbed an accusing finger. “Wielding it would be a violation of the sacred tenets of my faith that forbid the use of magic!”

“It’s not magical—it’s holy!” Neil threw back. “It belonged to one of your prophets! Rauuuuch!” he added for emphasis, his throat gurgling. “Haaacghhtk!”

“Khalas!” Sayyid burst out—incidentally providing a perfect demonstration of the proper vocal fricative. He snatched the staff from Neil’s hand. “Just stop butchering my consonant!”

“Thank you,” Neil said with obvious relief, shoulders slumping as he shook out his tingling hand.

Sayyid awkwardly fumbled the staff, bouncing it from arm to arm while still wrangling the bronze scimitar. “It stings! Why didn’t you tell me it stings?”

“I did!” Neil protested.

“Well, does it ever stop?”

“Maybe?” Neil hedged awkwardly.

“What am I supposed to say?” Sweat beaded Sayyid’s forehead. “I can’t just shout anything and expect it to work—not if you are right about needing ritual words! Something from the Coffin Texts, perhaps? Or one of the prayers to Anubis? Or what about—”

“Just use the bloody curse from over there!” Neil pointed down the hall to the alabaster doors, which still hung ajar.