INTRODUCTION 1 page

Russell Davis

In the movie The Return of the Jedi, at the climax of the film (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT‑IF YOU ARE ONE OF THE TWELVE PEOPLE ON EARTH WHO HASN’T SEEN THIS MOVIE, THE FOLLOWING MAY WRECK IT FOR YOU), with Luke Skywalker is on his back, the Emperor standing over him and shooting cool bolts of Force lightning into his body. Darth Vader stands nearby watching his son die. It’s over for the Jedi and the Rebel Alliance. Evil has won. Then Vader allows sentimentality to get the better of him and he picks up the Emperor and throws him down a bottomless pit to his death.

I have to admit that when Vader grabbed the Emperor, one of the first thoughts that ran through my mind was, Don’t do it, you fool! You see, the sad truth is that I kind of like rooting for the bad guy.

I have a strong background in role‑playing games, particularly fantasy role‑playing games, and as a player character, I’ve crossed paths with innumerable bad guys, often in the guise of an Evil Overlord. They’re always doing the same kinds of things: crushing the peasant population; ravaging a beautiful, young princess; stealing and taxing and in general making life as miserable as possible. It’s hard not to enjoy their antics. (Fortunately, I’ve also played Evil Overlords, so I have some sense of how to face them. And have yet to have been bested by one, though I suspect that they didn’t have the advantage of reading this anthology.)

The concept of a list of things one might consider doing should one, in fact, become an Evil Overlord has been around a long time. It’s been one of the longest running jokes on the Internet, forwarded via e‑mail and found on numerous Web sites. Many of these lists touch on fantasy, science fiction, even mystery and thriller tropes and cliche’s that speak directly and humorously to those who enjoy role‑playing games and novels in these genres.

It’s worth noting that the “Evil Overlord List” by Peter Anspach is certainly the most popular and widely known of these lists, though by no means the only one, nor even the first one. In the dim, dark year of 1984, a group of friends and I developed a very similar list called “The Rules of Oblivion,” which took to heart such statements as, “Take nothing for granted. That rabbit may be armed.”

For this anthology, we challenged fourteen of today’s best authors to come up with a story about an Evil Overlord and what he or she (not all Evil Overlords are men) should consider doing to protect themselves and their dark realms. Many writers, such as Esther Friesner and David Bischoff, came through with enjoyable tales featuring familiar characters and offering plenty of laughs. Others, like David Niall Wilson and Steve Roman, took a more serious approach‑which has, I admit, left me wondering what they might be plotting next.

But no matter how a writer approached the subject, as the editor (the ultimate Evil Overlord in this anthology, one might say), I got the pleasure of reading and reviewing them all… and now I get the added pleasure of sharing them with you. In short, the pleasure is all mine, but I hope it will be yours, too.

Funny how being an Evil Overlord in the publishing field has these little perks, isn’t it?

Enjoy!

– Russell Davis

Sierra Vista, Arizona

IF LOOKS COULD KILL by Esther Friesner

“O h, shut up,” said Prince Lorimel, tossing his long, golden hair in a peevish manner.

It was a bad idea, under the circumstances. The manacles holding his slender‑yet‑powerful arms were ancient oxidized relics of the previous owner of Castle Bonecrack. (In fact, up until the moment of Prince Lorimel’s incarceration, they had held the last few skeletal remnants of the previous owner of Castle Bonecrack, per orders of the current management of said premises.) They did their job well enough, but the wear and tear of centuries‑to say nothing of the corrosive teardrops of a succession of luckless prisoners‑had roughened the iron with colonies of thorny rust that snared any soft and silky thing unfortunate enough to brush against them.

Case in soft‑and‑silky point: A handsome elf prince’s glorious, gossamer hair.

Result: “OW! This is all your fault, Gudge.”

“Aw, now, Master m’lud Lorimel, don’t ’ee be takin’ on so, naow.” The coarse yet good‑natured voice of Prince Lorimel’s companion‑in‑shackles (though not comrade‑in‑arms) echoed through the foul dungeon. It was this same voice, nattering about how stone walls did not a prison make, that had provoked the prince’s outburst, with concomitant hair‑tossing, in the first place. “I di’n’t do nowt t’ yer Worship’s purty hair, nay. See, ’tis as I told yer Reverence’s noble pa, lo these many turns agone, ‘The best thing a wise elf prince can do fer hisself when it so happens as he’s misstepped matters and ended up in some evil overlord’s dungeon is bide his time all still an’ quiet‑like, waiting fer what must come.’ Yer Eminence’ll notice that still part, as means yer not to move more’n needful, ’cos squirmin’ about’ll only‑Well, I expect yer Highness has found that out fer yerself already, what with yer purty goldy hair all of a tangle and‑”

“Gudge?” Prince Lorimel interrupted.

“Aye, m’lud?”

“Shut up. ”

Sweet silence descended upon the drear and dreadful dungeon once more.

It was not to last, of course. Prince Lorimel was an elf, right enough, and as such, immortal. The long lines of the years spilling into centuries and even eons gave the elves the rare ability to wrap the glowing silence of their own deep thoughts around them like the comforting warmth of a well‑loved blanket. Also, most elves ran out of really interesting conversation before they hit their three hundredth birthday.

But the prince’s retainer and fellow captive, the being known as Gudge of Willowstone‑Thickly, was not an elf at all. What he was, was open to some debate among those wizards who found fascination in such blood‑and‑breeding puzzles. Evidence pointed to the short, fubsy, somewhat swarthy fellow having a mix of troll and brownie ancestry, seasoned lightly with a bit of pixie (on account of his ill‑governed tongue), and perhaps a soupc¸on of goblin. All of this, however, was strictly on his unknown father’s side. His mother was a full‑blooded human girl who really should have been a bit more circumspect in her choice of Midsummer’s Eve companions. From a midnight frolic between the rows of barley, Gudge of Willowstone‑Thickly took his life’s beginning, and from a subsequent amorous alliance of his mother’s with a slumming elf lord came his introduction into the court of the Lofty Elves.

The Lofty Elves were, of all the elf tribes ever to skim the surface of Intermediate Earth, the fairest, the oldest, the wisest, and the most jaded. They had seen it all and been it all and after they were through, they complained about it all at some length, in verse, accompanied by the tinkle‑ploing‑dingle that passed for elfin music. (That effete doodle‑oodle‑hey‑lally‑lally‑moo was what came from an orchestrative tradition relying on altogether too many harps and not enough bagpipes.)

And so, when His Awesome and Devastating Unspeakableness, Lord Belg of Castle Bonecrack, decided to stop torturing puppies and start conquering as much of Intermediate Earth’s prime real estate as he could get his scaly paws on, it was an occurrence greeted with a loud shout of outrage but also with covert mutterings of delighted anticipation by the bored‑out‑of‑their‑pretty‑skulls‑till‑now Lofty Elves.

Prince Lorimel had one such pretty skull, but at the moment the odds did not favor his continued ownership thereof. No sooner had word of Lord Belg’s evil schemes reached him in his father’s forest palace, than he had sworn a mighty oath to sally forth and defeat the Evil One single‑handed. He then promptly conscripted Gudge to accompany him as his squire, valet, dogsbody, and drudge‑of‑all‑work, because single‑handed was a romantic concept in theory, but in practice it meant wash your own socks.

There was a delectable irony behind the fact that Prince Lorimel and Gudge had been captured by one of Lord Belg’s troll patrols while the prince was excoriating his servant for doing such a piss‑poor job of washing said socks.

Now, socks were the fourth furthest thing from the elf prince’s mind. His thoughts had turned to matters of far graver import, matters that well might determine the fate of worlds!

“My hair,” he whined. “My beautiful, beautiful hair!”

The dungeon door screeched and groaned on its hinges as the troll who served as Lord Belg’s chief turnkey entered. He chuckled with foul glee when he saw the mare’s nest that Prince Lorimel’s struggles had made of his gorgeous tresses.

“Awwww, diddums elfy‑welfy gettums purty hair all snarly‑warlied?” he asked in a voice like treacle and carpet tacks. (His penchant for taunting Lord Belg’s prisoners with baby talk was why the Evil One had not needed to employ a full‑time torture‑master nor, in some cases, an executioner.) “Izzums elfy‑poo gonna cwy now his hair’s gotta go all snippy‑snip bye‑bye?”

“Here, now!” Shackled as he was, Gudge lunged at the troll. “Doan’ ’ee be sayin’ such vicious cruel things t’ me Master, nay! We been through worse’n this, him ’n’ me, an’ let me tell ’ee, just gimme a bucket o’ water, a fistful o’ soapwort, an’ a light cream‑rinse afore ye goes talkin’ ’bout cuttin’ off his Worship’s hair, aye!”

The troll guard blinked, taken aback by his first confrontation with someone who had a more annoying speech pattern than himself.

“Hunh!” he snorted. “Save yer breath; ’tain’t up t’ me if yer precious master gets shorn or not. Lord Belg’s daughter’s heard tell that there’s a pointy‑eared princeling locked up in Daddy’s dungeon and now ’tis but a matter o’ time before she comes down here to… take care of him. Heh, heh, heh.”

Up until this point, Prince Lorimel had been doing his best to ignore the cumbersomely picturesque conversation between Gudge and the guard. Now, however, he perked up the aforementioned pointy ears and took a keen and sudden interest it what had just been said.

“A daughter?” He tensed like a well‑bred bird dog in an aviary. “Did I hear you say that Lord Belg has a daughter?”

The troll turnkey smirked and gave the elf prince the once‑over before replying, “An’ what’s it to ye if’n he do, Snoogums? Or do the very thought o’ His Aweseome an’ Appalling Vileness doin’ the Goblin Twist‑an’‑Tickle put ye off yer feed?”

“Doin’ the what?” Gudge wanted to know.

Prince Lorimel made an impatient sound. “The carnal act of which yon odious troll speaks is that which we Lofty Elves more delicately refer to as ‘making the bogle with two backs.’ ”

“Nah, thass not what I mean.” The troll shook his head. “ ’Cos Lord Belg did make a bogle wi’ two backs once, only the poor thing di’n’t know was he comin’ or goin’ an’ so we had to‑”

“Ohhhh!” Light dawned on Gudge of Willowstone‑Thickly, albeit a foggy, heavily overcast light. “ I gets it now. You mean Lord Belg was doin’ the Haystack Ramble; the Weasel Bounce; the Three Apples in a Gunnysack Shimmy; the Naked Morris Dancers‑”

“Gudge, shut up!” Prince Lorimel shouted so loudly that pale green veins stood out in high relief from his alabaster skin. “Or do we have to have another little talk about oversharing?”

“Scoop me hollow fer a pun’kin pie, nay, ” Gudge replied in haste. “I ain’t got th’ bruises healed up from th’ last ‘little talk’ we had, bless yer gracious Grace’s strong right arm.”

“Y’know, if ye two blatherboxes don’t care no more ’bout Lord Belg’s daughter, why don’ I just be on me way?” The troll guard was miffed at being ignored by his prisoners.

“Nay, good lump of loathsomeness, stay!” Prince Lorimel exclaimed. “Speak more to me of Lord Belg’s daughter. We of the Lofty Elves had no idea that the Evil One was a father as well as the slaughterer of untold thousands of our kin. It gives him an unexpected air of domesticity.”

“Oh, he’s a father, right enough,” the troll replied, licking his lips in a lascivious manner. “An’ no wonder, as many times as he’s taken purty young wenches as captives t’ slake his unnatural appetites. I’m only s’prised as His Direness don’t have more kids’n what he’s got.”

“I ain’t,” Gudge piped up. “A feller spends as much time as that’n does in th’ saddle, ridin’ all over th’ land on evil conquest bent, that’ll be causin’ a certain amount o’ damage to his‑”

“Gudge!” This time the elf lord yelled at his attendant so loudly that the sound waves rived the rust from the manacles securing them both. Prince Lorimel’s entangled hair was freed and immediately fell back into place in a gleaming flaxen flood.

Gudge gave his master a sidelong, sulky look. “I’m only sayin’ what yer thinkin’,” he grumped.

“Trust me, Gudge, the day I spend one wink of time thinking about Lord Belg’s, er, connubial apparatus will be the day I eat a badger sandwich. A live badger sandwich,” Prince Lorimel clarified.

“Ahuh,” said the guard. He took a grimy pad of paper and a pencil stub out of his belt pouch and made a note. “So I takes it ye’ll be wantin’ the vegetarian option fer yer dinner t’night instead?”

The elf prince rolled his eyes expressively. “Are you sure you two aren’t related?” he asked Gudge.

Gudge declined to comment.

“Listen, my good troll,” Prince Lorimel said to the turnkey. “Forget about my dinner‑”

“Oh, I intend to.” The troll grinned affably.

“‑and tell me more about Lord Belg’s daughter. You said that she knows I’m here and wishes to, as you put it, take care of me herself, is that right?”

The troll’s ugly head bobbed like a cabbage in a boiling stewpot. “Aye, that’s true. She’s allus the one as takes care o’ our prisoners. She’d’ve been here sooner, ’cept she just heard ’bout you bein’ here over breakfas’. That’d be ’cos Himself’s a selfish ol’ bastard as likes t’ keep his playthings fer his own use, exclusive. But now that the lass knows…” The troll’s voice trailed off suggestively.

“Oh, me poor master!” Gudge wailed. “An’ him so young! A mere slip o’ a lad what ain’t seen more’n two thousand eight hunnert an’ fifteen summers, aye. An’ what’s t’ become o’ poor loyal ol’ Gudge after that evil hussy’s gone an’ killed ’im deader’n dog droppin’s? Oh, woe’s me an’ alack the day, wurra‑wurra, lawks an’‑”

“Shut up, Gudge!” This time the troll joined sentiment with the elf prince. It was a pretty impressive display of interspecies cooperation. Clearly Gudge had missed his calling in the Diplomatic Corps.

“Aye, shut yer toad‑pie‑hole, ye big baby,” the troll continued. “Izzums scared t’ be left all alone after Lord Belg’s daughter sees t’ yer fluffy‑haired elfikin master? No worries: She’ll be sure t’ take care o’ ye, too!”

Somewhere in Castle Bonecrack, a great iron‑tongued bell cleaved the air with a doleful knell. The troll snapped his pad shut and stuffed it back into his pouch. “Noseweed break time! See you folks later, an’ by ’later’ I mean ’dead.’ Mwahaha!” With that, he swaggered off up the dungeon stairs and slammed the heavy door behind him. His exit was immediately followed by a litany of locks, bolts, and chains securing said portal, then by the sound of his flabby feet retreating in the distance, and last of all a deep and funereal silence.

It did not last. In less time than it would take a man to draw two breaths, the tomb‑worthy stillness was shattered by the sound of loud, exultant laughter.

“M’lud?” Gudge cocked his shaggy head in Prince Lorimel’s direction. The maniacal hilarity was tumbling from the elf prince’s rosy lips. “M’lud, are ye feelin’ quite, y’know, that thing what’s th’ opposite o’ slap‑assed crazy?”

Prince Lorimel shook his head and regained his self‑control, gasping for air between slowly abating gusts of chortles. “I am not insane, Gudge. I am merely mad with joy. Did you not hear what that troll said? A daughter! Lord Belg of Castle Bonecrack, scourge of a thousand kingdoms, menace of a thousand more, and evil overlord for all seasons, has got a daughter. And she is coming here, to this very dungeon, to take care of me. Do you realize what that means?”

Gudge thought about this long and hard. At last his brows unknit and he replied, “No.”

The elf prince uttered a heartfelt cry of utter exasperation, then drew himself up to as full a height as his manacles permitted and looked down his nose at his companion with supreme scorn.

The tales men tell by firelight of the elves recount how some tribes possess certain powers that mortals cannot hope to master. Some cause plants to thrive and fruits to mature out of season. Some can make such lovely music that fish of the sea and birds of the air are ensorcelled by the sound and whole deer leap into the waiting frying pan if the song so bids them. Still others have the gift of healing wounds at a touch, which is a talent frequently called for after one of those ill‑thought‑out whole‑deer‑in‑the‑frying‑pan incidents.

As for the Lofty Elves, their talent was neither song nor growth nor healing. Their talent was contempt. Indeed, in all the realms that might claim elf infestation, the Lofty Elves’ powers of condescension were famed in song and story. They could break treaties between nations with a simple lift of the lip. A raised eyebrow had toppled empires. It was even claimed that once upon a time, one of their kings rode forth alone to face an army, gave it a cool glance, clicked his tongue in derision and remarked, “Bitch, please. ” And while his faithful hunting bitch, Lady Liza, looked on, the entire army went into spasms and died of mortification.

This was all very well and good, but either the talent had grown wobbly with the ages, or else Prince Lorimel’s condescending gaze didn’t have quite enough oomph, or‑most likely‑it just didn’t work on Gudge.

“Beggin’ yer Gracious Glory’s pardon, but why ’ee be starin’ at me like a cat what’s got bowel troubles?” he asked.

Prince Lorimel sighed and sagged in his chains. “Gudge, if we can ever find a wizard capable of analyzing and reproducing the stuff your skull‑bone’s made of, we’ll be able to create armor that nothing can pierce; not even common sense. Listen to me: Even the densest dunce knows that there are certain rules that govern the lives and behavior of all evil overlords ever spawned. You may have the same faith in these rules as you might put into universal truths such as Elves are always beautiful, The sun always rises in the east, Elves are always graceful beyond the power of speech to convey, Water always flows downhill, Elves are always sexually irresistible to young women who are still living with their parents, The South always votes for ‑”

“Aye, m’lud, aye, ’tis just as ’ee says, elves allus flows downhill, right enough,” Gudge interrupted. “But what’s that got t’ do wi’ our predictament?”

“Merely this, my fine bean‑brain: An evil overlord’s daughter will always be as wicked as she is beautiful, but she will also invariably fall passionately in love with her father’s handsome, heroic captive. The girl can’t help it. In fact, given how handsome I am, I’m rather surprised that she hasn’t fallen in love with me already.”

“She ain’t even seen ’ee yet, m’lud,” Gudge pointed out.

Prince Lorimel dismissed this quibble with a wave of his dainty fingertips. “Bah. You know nothing about these matters. It is now only a matter of time before the foredoomed damsel comes into this dungeon, sees me, and betrays her own father before you can say snap. She’ll free me from my shackles, fetch me a sword, lead me straight to Lord Belg’s chambers via a secret passageway known only to herself, stand by cheering my name while I skewer her father like a bunny on a roasting spit, and provide me with a high‑spirited steed, a casket filled with priceless jewels, and a picnic lunch before I go galloping back to the lands of the Lofty Elves, mission accomplished.”

Prince Lorimel smiled blissfully over his own words. Gudge, however, drew his bushy brows together and chewed over his master’s lesson like a dog with a mouthful of nougat.

“ ’Tain’t me place t’ be pointin’ out things ’ee says as are misspoke, m’lud, nay, but hasn’t ’ee made a boner er two wi’ yer Exaltation’s pronouns?”

“My pronouns?” Up until now, Prince Lorimel hadn’t suspected that Gudge would know a pronoun if it bit him on the dangling participle.

Gudge nodded. “Aye: I. Instead o’ we, y’know? Now th’ way ’ee tells things, ’tis only yer Altitude as’ll be gallopin’ away from Castle Bonecrack, back t’ th’ fair elfin kingdom what yer pa rules. ’Struth, ’tis only yer Superiorness as’ll be freed from these here chains, leavin’ me behind t’ rot in durance vile. I don’t so much mind that, seein’ as it come wi’ th’ job description, but after all that the evil overlord’s beauteous daughter’s gonna do for ’ee, like ’ee says, shouldn’t ’ee at least be ridin’ back t’ yer pa’s kingdom wi’ her along fer th’ ride?”

The elf prince chuckled and shook his head slowly. “Oh, Gudge,” he said. “Gudge, Gudge, Gudge, will your gentle and good‑hearted stupidity never cease to astonish me? Me, run off with the evil overlord’s beautiful daughter? Me, bring her home to meet my parents, just as if she were worthy of that inexpressibly high honor? As if she were worthy of me? Please. ”

“Then what’s t’ be th’ poor lass’s fate after ’ee’ve gone off an’ left her wi’ nowt but her pa’s body t’ bury an’ a dirty great castle t’ run all by her lonesome?”

“As for the castle, she’ll have no worries: As soon the Lofty Elves hear that Lord Belg is dead, we’ll overrun his realm, take back what is rightfully ours, and occupy those other lands which might not be rightfully ours but which will surely welcome our presence until such time as we decide they are ready to govern themselves democratically. We’ll evict Lord Belg’s daughter from Castle Bonecrack in the process, of course. She’ll be entirely free of her nasty past, and won’t that be a blessing? And wherever her vagabond’s life may take her after that, she’ll have the priceless memory of me to keep her warm. I might even kiss her, as a more than generous reward for her services.” He smiled complacently over his own boundless goodness.

Before Gudge could summon up the proper way to frame his reply, a loud rattle of chains came from the dungeon door, followed by the sound of at least three heavy wooden bars being slid aside and a good half a dozen locks clicking open.

“Ah, right on time,” Prince Lorimel said with a smug smile. He tossed his head ever so slightly, sending his lovely tresses into modest disarray. “How do I look? It’s very important to present the properly rumpled aspect, you know. For some reason, it drives the ladies wild. Of course for the full effect, it would be nice if I had a small bruise on my cheek, just beside my left eye‑left’s my good side. Gudge, I don’t suppose you could reach over and give me one?”

To his credit, Gudge lunged forward in his chains most eagerly, but came up short as to fist‑swinging range. “Sorry, m’lud,” he said, subsiding. “I can’t be reachin’ ’ee ’thout strainin’ me arm summat fierce, nay. It’d have t’ be comin’ outa th’ socket fer me t’ do yer biddin’.”

Prince Lorimel snorted. “Isn’t that just like you, Gudge: Self, self, self. I ask you to do one teensy favor for me and‑”

“Oh, b’lieve me, m’lud, if’n I could get loose o’ these here chains, I’d be givin’ yer fine face a bruisin’ that’d be th’ talk o’ Intermeejit Earth, aye.”

The elf prince’s aspect softened. “Why, Gudge, you do give a rat’s ass. How sweet. Consider yourself forgiven.”

“Oh, good,” said Gudge.

He dropped his head onto his chest and muttered something further which the elf prince did not quite catch but which he presumed must be a sequence of well‑deserved thanks and praise from his devoted lackey. Prince Lorimel might have asked Gudge to repeat some of the better compliments had the last lock upon the dungeon door not opened precisely then and the door itself swung wide.

“By the four hundred and twenty‑eight rings of ultimate power!” Prince Lorimel gasped. “What vision of loveliness is this?”

Gudge cast a dour eye at the doorway where stood a tall, svelte figure draped in a bloodred spill of silk from shoulders to ankles, the skirt thereof slit all the way up to both hips. This sensual confection was tightly cinched at the waist with a gold belt studded with rubies the size of rat skulls as well as a few actual rat skulls for luck. Glossy raven hair artfully obscured half of a piquantly shaped, violet‑eyed face before pouring down over creamy white arms, nor did it cease to pour until it reached a rump of such enticing curves and proportions as to make strong men weep.

“ ’Ee k’n stop weepin’ naow, m’lud,” Gudge said gruffly. “ ’Tis nowt but Lord Belg’s daughter, what’s as wicked as she’s beautiful, aye.”

The glorious apparition in the doorway turned back and spoke to someone as yet hidden from sight. “Are you sure this is the right dungeon, Turnkey? There’s no one in here but a man and his really ugly dog.”

The troll’s gravelly voice was loud enough for Prince Lorimel and Gudge to hear his reply: “Nah, that’s the elf prince, right enough. He’ll look better if ye take ’im out in daylight.” Here he laughed.

“Did I give you permission to laugh?” Something just outside the door went FOOM! Acrid smoke drifted into the dungeon, smoke that reeked of incinerated troll.

“So you’re the elf prince.” A dainty, sandaled foot crossed the dungeon threshold. “I’m Beverel. So pleased to make your soon‑to‑be‑brief acquaintance.” A laugh dripping with malice and unplumbed depths of cruelty bubbled from those full, red, delectable lips as the evil overlord’s offspring closed in on the helpless captives.

“Ah, sweet Beverel, if I must die, so be it.” Prince Lorimel lifted his head at an angle contrived to drop a come‑hither veil of golden hair across one eye. “Only swear that it will be your fair hand that rips the breath from my body, for it has already taken my heart.”

“Oh, gyarkh!” said Gudge, who had a low tolerance for artificial sweets.

“I think your dog’s sick,” Beverel observed.

“That is not my dog,” Prince Lorimel replied, glaring icy daggers at his companion. “If he were, he would be better bred and more useful. That is my servant, Gudge of Willowstone‑Thickly. You can slit his throat if he bothers you. I won’t mind.”

“ I’m not touching that thing.” Beveral drew back in distaste. “Still, I can’t say as I care to have… that staring at me so intently while I parley with you. It’s one thing to tell my victims exactly what sort of gruesome torments I’m going to put them through before death’s sweet release, but I’ve never done it in front of an audience before, and I can’t say I like it.” A faint blush tinged those alabaster cheeks. “I’m just the eensy‑beensy‑teensiest bit scared of public speaking.”

“Lovely idol of my soul, the only gruesome torment that I fear is losing sight of you.” Prince Lorimel opened his luminous blue eyes as wide as they would go, which had the incongruous effect of making him look dead sexy and very much like a lemur at the same time. “Can’t you get one of the servants to kill him for you?”

Beverel’s succulent lips pooched out in an adorable pout. “If Daddy finds out I got one of the servants to lend a paw, he’ll never let me hear the end of it. He thinks I’m soft.”

“And so you are, in all the most scrumptious places,” Prince Lorimel drawled. “But you know, you could always kill the servant, afterward.”

“Oooh, aren’t you the sweetie to think of that. But no, no, Daddy would figure it out. He keeps very detailed household accounts.” Abruptly, Beverel’s face brightened. “I know! I’ll get Vug.”

“Vug?” Gudge echoed. “Wossat, some manner o’ foul an’ lethal venom as yer Evility’ll try’n make me drink, aye?”

“Well, you got the foul part right. Vug’s my sister.” Beverel raised one elegant hand for amplification’s sake and shouted, “Hey, Vug! Get your fat butt down to Dungeon Seventeen now!”

A fresh magical FOOM! sounded from the corridor, followed almost immediately by the entrance of a short, plump young woman whose mousy hair was confined to a pair of untidy braids. Her round, plain face was distorted with distress and revulsion as she picked her way down the dungeon steps. “Beverel, what did you do to poor old Thungil? He’s nothing but a puddle of troll fat, and him with just one more day to go before retirement, too!”