grabbed the figure by the robe. "Look, you . . ."

And then he screamed.

grabbed the figure by the robe. "Look, you . . ."

And then he screamed.

"What the hell is that?" asked Loomis, staring at Modred over the back of the front seat. "That stone in

your forehead is glowing again."

"It's the necromancer," Modred said.

"What?" said Loomis sharply. "Where?"

"I'm not sure yet," Modred replied, "but he's close. We seem to be headed in the right direction."

"What do you mean, he's close?" Loomis said, frowning. "You said that stone responds to thaumaturgic

trace emanations."

"Yes," said Modred, catching himself. "Someone is casting an extremely powerful spell."

"How can you be certain it's the necromancer and not some other adept?"

"It's the strength of the emanations," Modred replied. "It has to be black magic."

Loomis stared at him through narrowed eyes. "Why do I get the feeling you know something you're not

telling me, Cornwall?"

Before Modred could reply, the radio in the car crackled to life. Screams had been reported in San

Francisco Street, in the vicinity of the plaza. Units were responding.

"Shit," swore Loomis. He turned to the driver. "Hit it!"

The driver turned on the flashing lights and hit the siren, then put the accelerator to the floor.

"It's only a few blocks," said Loomis, turning around. "We oughtta make it in . . . What the hell?"

The backseat was empty. Loomis and his driver were alone in the car.