"Brust,.Steven.-.To.Reign.In.Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brust Steven)

The two of them strive; and then they find that they can
communicate, and time means something now. And space, as
well.

As they work together, to hold onto themselves, a third one
appears. They find that they can bend the cacoastrum to their will,
and force shape upon it, and command it to hold, for a while. They
build walls at this place where the three of them are, and a top and
a bottom.

Cacoastrum howls, almost as a living thing itself, and seeks entry.
The three resist, and then there are four, then five, then six, then
seven.

And the seven finish the walls, and the top, and the bottom and for
a moment, at last, there is peace from the storm.

The Southern Wall of Heaven stretched long and static. It spanned
six hundred leagues and more, fading out of sight above, where it
met with the azure ceiling. Its length was unmarked; its width
unmeasured; its touch cool; its look foreboding and ageless.

The Regent had built it in the days of the Second Wave, and
expanded it in the days of the Third. He had built his home into it,
and out from it.

The foundations of the Southern Hold were deep into the bedrock
of Heaven, carved and scorched with the fires of Belial, made
immutable by the sceptre of Yaweh. Plain and grey like the Wall,
the Hold rose over grassland and stoney plain, even and unbroken
until its northern wall ended abruptly and became a roof that sloped
sharply up to the top. There it blended into the Wall, giving the
impression that the entire affair was an accidental blister from the
Wall and would soon sink back into it.

The only entrance was built into the northern wall of the Hold. Here
were placed a pair of massive oak doors, with finely carved
wooden handles.

A visitor to the Hold, no matter how often he had been there, would
be moved by the stature of the hard grey edifice—lonely, cold,
distant, and proud. Like the Regent of the South himself, some
said. But once inside, the illusion was shattered.

The visitor, a medium-sized golden haired dog, padded through
the hallway. Being a dog, and therefore colorblind, he didn't see
the cheerful blue of the walls. But he noticed the brightness of the
lamps of iron and glass, one every twenty dogpaces. The oil for
the lamps, pressed from local vegetation and refined in the