The ancient bandages had, throughout the long decades, fused to his flesh. His face had melted into his death shroud so that the pattern of the wrap seemed to be one with the wrinkles of his age-worn countenance.
His eyes, though, were like two pegs off of which the sagging skin of his face hung, two pale, burning pegs. There was no color to his eyes. It had all faded away. There were only the tiny black pupils lost in a sea of white.
He sat on his golden throne, his worshiping slaves carrying to him their many offerings: They balanced plates the size of shields upon their heads, parading the produce of the field before him. As each passed, he would lift a withered hand, and whatever was in that golden plate would be suddenly consumed by decay. Little white worms would appear in the grain and devour it all away, or the ripe fruit would suddenly dry up—the worst was the pigeons, for when they were brought to him cooing and flapping, he lifted those boney fingers and they cried out and were silent. Their feathers fell away from them, and all that was left was bone.
Tale Told 