Blackmage pulled the dirty blanket tighter around his thin body and shuddered. Menke hadn't allowed him a second's pause to get warm clothes before he was marched off to incarceration extraordinaire. He had nothing but the sexy p.j.s he always wore to bed. Now, they didn't seem as comfy as they had before.

There was a sound, metal scraping against metal, and he huddled back further on the little cot. It was just another aspect of his nightmare. A giant sewer rat come to gnaw upon his bones. Or worse, Menke.

Once or twice already the monk had traveled down into the dank basement of the courthouse, just to visit his prisoner. The delight in the human's eyes had stirred the first feelings of dread that Blackmage had ever known. After a full life of battle-magery and death-defying acts of heroism, he had let his knowledge of the arts of magic fade away without a whimper. Now he regretted that choice, and dearly.

The sound came again, but multiplied a dozen times. A golden light shone off the old stone walls, reflecting a ruddy hue that disturbed the jailed conjurer, though he knew not why.

It was over in a depressingly short time. They judged him, his enemies and friends, the cold light in their eyes harder than the stone upon which he was forced to stand.

Even Sidnee, who he had always thought would be easily swayed by his abundant charms, looked drawn and upset. His sentence was life imprisonment. At the news, Blackmage slumped to the floor, despair crowding his thoughts.

Two carried him back into the cell that was to be his home, another blanket was thrown in, as chewed as his present one. Their idea of mercy, no doubt.

Nadcorp looked like he was hiding something. Suspiciously Nyx watched him slink into the room, his hands behind his back like some ridiculous schoolboy.

"Spill it, Naddie." A sly smile was the only response. Closer he drew, moving in that way that completely fascinated her, a graceful walk that verged on dancing with the shadows that lay across his steps.

Something small and cold dropped down the front of her tight bodice, and she shrieked in outrage as the chill metal of the object came in contact with her warm skin. Nadcorp pounced on her, easily avoiding the angry blows of her hands.

"You bastard!" A knee came up, but he skillfully dodged it, his fingers quick upon the laces of her shirt. With a playful squeeze, he fished around for the object, and drew it out like a prize.

"The beach. Of course." Smugly, Nadcorp dropped the ring back between Nyx's breasts and heaved himself off her. For once, she was too happy to complain.

"So Wirinth is part of all this too!" The metal warmed against her skin with unnatural speed, she shook it out of her clothes and held it up to the dim light, her thumb fondly tracing the delicate scrolls. "But how did you find it? Daryth must have been drowned."

When Blackmage came to, disorientation made his head swim alarmingly. The walls loomed and blurred and generally revolted him until he closed his eyes tight and fought the waves of nausea rising up from his stomach.

Odd how he couldn't remember anything about the party. Too many firebreathers did that to a man's brain. But what a party it must have been! To find himself stripped near to nothing, bruised and aching and locked in a cell, Blackmage sighed. It must have been the bash of a lifetime.

The sound of metal scraping against metal set all the hairs on his neck on end, and the truth came crashing down, with no escape for the hapless man.

Forever was a long time, and Blackmage stared at the years through a tunnel of dark, cold stone. The sound continued, growing louder, but never changing. It was loud, a ringing clash of hard metal upon unyielding rock. Peering from between the bars, the convicted magi waited in trepidation.

The sound had come from her spurs, shining brightly against the damp straw on the floor. Like a dying man, Blackmage let his eyes gaze upon such a gift from the gods, and didn't ask what he had done to deserve it.

The leather chaps and tight vest covered just enough to be socially acceptable, but everywhere else the enraptured man looked, she was all smooth, tanned skin. The healthy, delightfully clad woman had no place in his tiny little dungeon. It was only then he noticed what she carried.

"All right you murderer! I'm Mimik, and if you even Think of escaping, I'll use this on you!" She indicated the whip by raising her hand and spat into the straw on the floor.

He was in that enviable position that few men ever hoped for, let alone achieved. He, Menke, had enough information and innuendo about her to blackmail her into anything. Sex, money, power. They would all be his, through her.

The bow tie was crooked. He straightened it and checked himself out. The half-sleeve suit showed off his muscles to best advantage. Menke was dressed to maim.

Siva was quiet as he strolled through her streets, as if the entire city lay crouched at his feet. It was a great feeling, one that did not fade as he knocked sharply on Valentine's door.

Time slowed to a crawl as the meager light from the one fat candle caressed his every curve, following him down, down into the deep sea of carpeting. The fallen knight lay dead, half hidden in the soft shag.

Sidnee laughed in delight and turned her attention back to the decimated chess board. Her eyes were triumphant as she surveyed the damage; half the white piece were gone, and the floor around her was littered with their bloodless corpses.

To each of her remaining opponents she gave an absently sketched face that glimmered dully in the flame's light. The black queen she grinned at, and her mirror image seemed almost to grin back.

More thoughtful now, the immortal gnome reached out and moved her black king toward a gaping hole in the white defense. Shrouded in false shadows, the tiny man stood facing the last unprotected pawn.

"A gift for you, little dark one." With a light chuckle, she vacated her chair, and the cozy chamber, in the space between one word and the next.

The candle flickered and bent low beneath the swirling fingers of mist that trickled toward the pieces upon the board. A supple boot came down lightly on the last buried knight, pressing him deeper into his ignominious grave. A delicate hand traced away the quickly fading shadows that cloaked the black king's wooden face.

"You still bear a mortal taint, my dear. It is time to set aside these things of your childhood." Casually the enshrouded figure retrieved a forgotten pawn from the floor and tucked it into the same square as its beleaguered colleague. Now two tiny men faced the black king.

Musing, Raist returned the slender tome to its resting place, wedged between a manuscript on the uses of graveyard soil in spells and the second history of the war for Edelmoed. His thoughts wandered downward through thick stone floors and dim, fear-choked halls, ever downward. To a casual observer the powerful magi might simply be entranced by the leaping flames of the roaring fire that raised the room's temperature several degrees.

Absently he noted the passage of the earth's surface, far above, but still he plunged deeper into the empty hole that the Tower filled. An underground lake made no notice of his crossing, locked doors held no bar to the master.

But wards did. A tracery of crimson fire licked at the door that he paused at, even in his substanceless state it flared an ardent warning. Raist thought a while, tangled in the shadow of his shadow, then he spoke. The whisper may have only been in his mind, or it may have rocked the foundations of the stones themselves. Either way, the flames receded slowly and reformed at the edges of a simple door, creeping eerily along the stonework with a mind of their own.

How ever four stone walls could hold such evil would be beyond the capability of any mortal to explain. Sometimes the Master himself was a little surprised at the efficacy of his own curses. Perhaps the blood of his victims had found soil already sown with hatred, for the room seemed more than even his powers could produce.

Carefully deposited in the corner of his private workroom, leaning against the farthest corner of the altar, a bag sat motionless. Slightly alarmed, Raist brought his attention to the glowering pentagram that hung, suspended by will, from the ceiling. Dark fires coursed along the lines of power, glaring sullenly in the darkening chamber.

As if of their own accord, the lines spewed forth a substance that was neither mist nor flame, but both. This stagnant mass coalesced into an apparition that flowed along the lines, but never set foot over them. Almost nervously the being seemed to move, constantly shifting eyes of fire towards the empty space before the door.

After a moment it spoke, its voice carrying overtones that whispered of joy in pain and ecstasy in death, "It is alive, as you commanded, dark one. But it has not moved."

The thing hung in the air a moment before sinking back into the nest of crossing lines and points etched in silent flame. With utmost delicacy, the bag of tortured souls spilled out its contents upon the bare floor. Fingers flexed over the stationary bundle, mere skeletons of the shadows.

Seven floors upward, through a tower's length of stone and space, Raist seemed to twitch slightly and wake himself. His frame relaxed back into the chair as hands came together and fingers steepled themselves beneath his chin. Thoughtfully he gazed into the fire, his skilled eyes picking out the elementals of fire that danced their desperation until they fell and other sprites took over.

The ground behind the two simple signs was overgrown with grasses and small shrubs. Roland had never given it a second glance. Now the assassin tramped around the quiet wooden markers set up to warn off the unwary, and knelt in the tall weeds.

There, in a slightly cleared space of ground, the earth seemed to sink, as if burdened by the weight of its master's evil. With a murmured prayer directed to no one in particular, Roland absently checked his daggers. Sharp as ever. Not even a god's blessing could make them more perfect. But it never hurt to cover all eventualities.

Time was wasting. A chill breeze kissed the back of his neck, and far away, he could almost see the writhing darkness that enveloped the tower. Nothing else moved.

Valentine felt quite stupid, a sensation that was rather new to her. Her would-be assailant had simply traipsed right into her open home and she was powerless. Defensively, she amended that thought to weaponless. It would be child's play to pick up one of the chairs and break it over Menke's thick skull, but she had no desire to damage the furniture.

Once again she cursed her own blithe idiocy. Her swords were safely tucked away with her day clothes, about two hallways north of the foyer, and the strong monk didn't appear to be allowing her the freedom to go back and pick them up.

"That's a good little faerie, Val... You just do everything I ask, and we'll get along fine." Menke advanced on her with a smug little smile, his beefy hands waving slowly, threateningly, in the air. She entertained a brief image of biting off one of those hands, but the idea of what it might taste like deterred her. The low shelf along the wall came up against the small of her back far too soon.

Now there was nowhere to go, and the slimy human seemed to realize that. His grin was half-revolting, half-alarming. For the first time in her life, Val found herself grumbling about the family's rules.

If she wasn't honor-bound to bring no weapons into the circle of the family's sacred fire, she wouldn't be caught defenseless like this. There was nothing for it but to use her bare hands. The tiny faerie just hoped her companion's slimy nature wasn't contagious.

A vicious chop sent his closest hand flying away from her, and her booted foot followed it as she spun lightly, throwing a great deal of momentum behind the booted heel that connected sharply with Menke's chin. His head snapped back sluggishly as she completed the spin, using her near-useless wings to slow her fall.

Valentine blinked, then swore, but silently. He was barely phased. Those muscles weren't just for show. She had only enough room and time to...

Heavy boots thudded after her as she skidded through the first hall. She spared a wince for the thought of the precious marble he was probably smashing. The crazy rhythm of his stride was right behind her as she grabbed hold of a rather ornate statue near one corner and used as a focal point around which to swerve. The second hallway stretched out before her like eternity staring back into her eyes.

"Got you now, you little-" With a grunt, the monk crashed into the opposite wall and started for her again, using an effective, but painful, method of stopping to round the sharp corner. They were both hampered by the mirror-slick floors.

She was so close. The quick faerie could almost see her swords, smell their sharp steel clanging pleasantly in her nose, hear the heavy silver as they quivered, ready for battle. A crash sounded behind her, and she went down as well, with an iron grip circling her ankle.

"Gotcha!" Damn! She fought, twisted around and tried to kick her rude guest in the face. He caught her other foot with a speed that worried her.

"DeSade..." It was only a whisper, a thoughtless string of sound. Val was surprised she had spoken it. But Menke was pulling her down fast, and he didn't look half as pleased as he had before.

"DeSade." Louder now, as the monk pulled her roughly to her feet and shoved her against the wall, making the pictures rattle alarmingly in their frames. The human's hand was going to his pocket, where something had torn just a little through the thick fabric of his tunic. Something very sharp. He snarled at her.

"He's been dead three years!" One of her hands worked itself free and caught his neck with a swift movement. If he had been any less muscular, those slash marks would have pierced his throat. Instead, they only further enraged the monk who was barely clinging to sanity.

There was a ripping noise as he tore the long, sinister knife from his pocket and aimed it at her, hands shaking in the grip of ecstasy and fury. "DeSade's dead, bitch! No one can save you now!"

Usually Valentine would have taken him to task sharply for such language. Dizzily she decided to let it pass this one time as the sharp sliver of death caressed her bones in a manner that was obscene in its knowledge of her body.

Suddenly it seemed like there was blood everywhere; sliding down her side from the deep gash in her gut just below her ribs, clouding her vision and making the room spin oddly. She could even taste it pooling in her mouth. In contrast, Menke seemed small and plain, not worth notice.

She slipped gently down the wall, still a little amazed at the feeling as her blood slowly dribbled everywhere. What a mess she was making. Absently she heard Menke's harsh breathing, like a particularly irritating insect. The faerie wondered if she could charge the damages to him.

The walls began to swim past her, faster and faster. Dreamily she followed, watching her feet float along. Menke was floating behind her, but he couldn't seem to go as fast. Idly, she thought this was quite a good thing.

Almost as if she had willed them to appear, her swords winked at her from her neatly piled tunic clothes. Even now blood was beginning to mist them over, or perhaps that was her vision. With a little laugh that was more a gasp, she held her swords wonderingly in her hands. They had come when she needed them. How fascinating.

Valentine looked sharply up, and in that moment, her wound ground upon itself, blood and bone and organ sliding against each other in a symphony of agony. She gasped, grayed out for a moment, and returned to reality.

Everything crowded in on her sharply, even the print on the walls seemed to affront her widened eyes. And Menke's snarled voice was the most offensive. It grated across her mind as he stalked into the room. Still half-kneeling by her clothes, she could imagine the crazy anger on his face twisting his features until he burned in his own evil.

There it was again. Someone giggled. A soft, light laugh that came from somewhere in the depths of her memory. Exasperation stirred within her at that familiar sound, she forgot about the man's knife that sliced down towards her unprotected back.

"Arenelys!" She spoke as if to command her own imagination to produce him. No one came. She twisted up to demand that he show himself, and in turning, let the deadly knife slip past her body. Menke overbalanced and fell, his body crashing down beside her. Her ire rose at the sight of the man who wore her own blood. Two strikes and he moved no more.

Blood slowly seeped into the pile of clothes still neatly stacked on the floor. Valentine ignored it as she tried to stuff her hurt and crazy outrage back into her heart, where she couldn't feel it. That had been a dirty trick she had imagined, that one silly giggle had torn down all those high walls she had built.

Given a choice between being saved by her traitorous memories and death, the faerie wasn't so sure she wouldn't have preferred the latter at that time.

Roland slouched through darkening halls of heavy rock. All Caspia's weight seemed to press upon his shoulders. The laconic assassin did not like small spaces, especially not when they ran under one of the most powerful magi's tower. He felt like a rabbit in a warren with no escape, or a rat in a maze.

"Aaaaoooorrrrrrhhhhh" At the awful keening, he leapt straight up, every hair on his neck quivering. Shadows dropped around him in blessed protection as the horrible sound resonated through the rough tunnel again.

"Aaaaaooorrrrhhhhh!" More insistent this time, it crawled closer, shimmying up the man's spine and doing a demented tap-dance on his courage. Roland was a killer, not a damned exorcist. A misshapen thing slumped into view, and despite his training, despite the stillness that had been breathed into his bones, he shuddered.

It was a terrifying thing to see, this beast. It may have once been a man, but now it shambled along on two mismatched legs, and peered into the shadows where he crouched with a face that only an insane necromancer could love. The drooping eyelids lifted momentarily to show orbs that glimmered with a dreadful life and with wisdom that only served to make their body seem a greater evil still. Roland knew fear.

"Aaaaaaoooooorrrrrhhhh!" The man-thing spoke, "It's three bloody hours of the morning. Why I have to get him his bloody tea is bloody well beyond my bloody comprehension!" Complaining bitterly, the thing ambled grotesquely down another hall, its sharp mutterings trailing behind like a sour banner.

"Oooohhhhh baby, you are one -fine- kitty!" She awoke reluctantly, struggling through a mist of fear and misery at the words. A whiskered face met her own. The whiskers twitched.

"Betcha you've been keeping that lovely body just for me!" Astounded, she slowly made it to her feet, to look at the smoke-gray cat that addressed her and seemed to wink lasciviously. It was a real cat, no doubt about it, and her sensitive nose picked up the cologne of his scent. He looked at her expectantly.

At this utterance, he nearly leapt upon her. "Soooo baby-doll, cutie-pie, my sweet little kitty, where ya been all my life?" The way he rolled the words around his tongue, like the way his eyes rolled at her in a coquettish manner, did something strange.

"Kaokokung, baby, but you can call me Kao, all my favorite kittens do." He purred seductively at her, and she could barely hold back another rough giggle.

"Kao then." Suddenly she seemed gripped by the desire to speak, to make this strange dream become real, "Kao, I have been a human all your life." His eyes grew dramatically wide with anguish.

"Oh pretty kitty, say it ain't so, baby!" She could barely keep still, the giggles started somewhere near her spine and tickled all the way up to her throat, making her shiver with the effort of holding it back.

"I am so sorry, Mister Kao, but that is what I was. Now I am trapped here, in this place and in this body. The forces that guard this place will not let me go." She displayed a tender paw that had been singed slightly, the result of her efforts to escape.

Bubbles of laughter flowed into her bloodstream. It was a desperate mirth, one that defied her fearful life and her uncertain future and all the horrible things that had happened in the last few terrifying days. She rolled helplessly on the ground to get away from the insidious tickling feeling in her paw that spread throughout her body.

And she rolled out of the circle. One of her bare feet caught up on the edge of the altar, and the girl paused. How had she done that? Kao was looking at her with amazement.

She put slender, hairless hands to her face and nearly jumped to feel smooth skin beneath her fingers again. Wonder filled her as her friendly feline acquaintance shook his head in sorrow, once again deprived of companionship, this time by supernatural means instead of mere indifference to his many charms.

For a long time it looked as if the sun would never rise over the safety of the eastern horizon. Kieron's streets lay in a dark and near-perpetual gloom that hinted at the coming day, but without any certainty that light would indeed illuminate the filthy streets.

Even thieves had sought their beds by this hour. Their victims slept as well, still unaware of their ransacked rooms, or no longer able to wake again. In the coastal town that clung to the diseased ports of Kieron's harbor like an infection, all was quiet.

Blackmage rested his head against the chill wall of his cell and stared upward into the darkness, his starved imagination painting the sunrise with more force and ethereal beauty than Kieron had ever seen limn the steel-hued waters of the Eastern Sea.

It was the color of Basbear's thoughts. He padded soundlessly through the shifting half-magic world of shadows, noting landmarks as he passed them.

The monastery; and he would never willingly enter that place. He'd been in the chapel once, and no one would make him go there again. Pawn shop, where worthless things were traded between petty mortals. As he had been. Shuffled between god and demigod with equal abandon, he'd grown tired of being treated like so much cheap labor.

The fighter's hall, with their horses all carefully picketed outside in a perfect row. He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile and descended to street level.

Screams of equine agony and half-garbled shouts of outrage lifted the brawny half-elf on a little wave of pleasure back up to the rooftops. It had been so easy that he almost felt guilty for doing such a terrible thing.

The carriage shop he circled without a noise. -She- sometimes watched there. Another roof or two and Basbear was running, chasing the coy breeze as it flitted east towards the restless water. Faster, his feet knew the path by heart and never let him fall, though the footing was chancy at best.

Eyes closed, arms spread wide to catch the chill morning wind, he ran right off the edge of the last building and stopped for a shuddering heartbeat, hanging motionless in midair exactly three stories above the central square. It was like dancing on the point of a pin, supported by faith alone.

Then he began to fall, air pulling cruelly at his clothes. Down and down he tumbled, headed straight for his death. His mind was peaceful finally, the silent skies swept through his thoughts, leaving nothing behind.

The first thing she'd do, Valentine decided, would be to revoke that inane rule about weapons. Another spasm shook her tiny body, made the flesh around the deep wound grind against itself in ways both grotesque and terrifying.

Home had never seemed so far away. True to life, Menke was more obnoxious as a corpse than he had been as a monk. The stench of blood and death seemed to coat everything in a vile blanket, from the broken tiles to her own broken body.

Like diving into the ocean, Basbear made a perfect landing on the huge couch that had been bolted to the bare floorboards in the center of the tiny room. Any prankster could have shifted the monster of a sofa without that precaution, turning a harmless prank into a serious injury for him.

For a moment, he lay spread-eagled over the comfortable expanse, listening to the thunder of his exulting heart. Most of the people who came here chose to use the normal means of entrance, but that never entered his mind.

During that single instant that he soared above the pavement, Basbear wasn't anything. Neither pawn nor prince, and it was a heady rush he'd never give up.

As he mused, his ears began to register what his unconscious had already noticed. The club was fairly empty this morning; only the sound of Jhasik humming broke the silence. Bit by bit, he started to feel good again. Home did that to a man.

All his relaxation was shattered as the distinct tang of blood filled his nose. He was out the door and into the main room, dagger balanced on his fingertips, between one breath and the next. With a muttered curse, the ArchRogue flicked the tip of the knife into the polished floor and moved to catch Valentine as she wavered. He needn't have bothered.

"Bas, get me a drink would you?" The iron look in her eyes promised that she would not fall though Ridorthu himself might have dragged her down. He spared a soft grunt of acknowledgment before stalking over to the bar.

"Bullshit." He knocked the drink into her hands and sat down abruptly, lifting two fingers to the bottom of the glass and forcing most of the powerful liquor down her throat. Choking, eyes streaming, the fighter coughed out a thanks. "Now who was it."

"Yeah yeah." They continued to speak in the quiet lounge as Basbear rose and poured her another drink, leaning over inside the bar proper to snag a bottle of something clear and vicious. "I know that monk. He wouldn't say boo to a mouse without taking its parents hostage first. Drink this fast, it'll cut the taste."

The tiny faerie went into a coughing spasm, and blood welled up through her tunic like the kiss of a god. "Damn. Easy on that stuff, Bas. I'm not a hardened alcoholic like you - OW!" She turned to reprimand him for tearing open the hideous slash again, then paused as a hand held her shoulder completely motionless.

"Keep talking." The master thief signaled Jhasik for a towel and caught it with his other hand, then pressed the clean cloth against the ragged edges of his companion's skin. "You should have seen this coming, Val. He wouldn't move without major protection, yet you pride yourself on your information network."

She winced at the words and his impersonal treatment, tossing back another deadly drink as he made her lean back to stop the bleeding. "I should have seen it, but I didn't. Menke never seemed worth my notice."

"Well then it's my turn to play. Where's the body?" Troubled, Basbear's sibling raised a head already beginning to ache and frowned at him. She'd heard him talk before, about what people made him do, outside of this sphere.

"So what have we got so far?" Nyx sighted along the edge of her dagger, checking for the smallest nick that had escaped her careful sharpening. There were none.

Scratching his chin thoughtfully, her young elven escort closed one eye and squinted up at her. She kept half of her attention on him as he thought, half on the trio of pixies who danced and sang gaily without regard for her presence.

Annoying little things. In the spring and summer, the large island was nearly blanketed in groups of the perpetually cheerful pests. They were more irksome than tapdancing ants, and no one bothered to flush out the pixie nests and stop their insane breeding.

Aivlys laced his fingers behind his head and reclined against the tree that leaned almost parallel to the sandy ground. "What we've got is a basket of clues, but no motive, and no mastermind."

"And no crime." Stealth was second nature to the diminutive elf, she crept up on the merry trio with no other sound, dispatched them with three quick strikes. The pixies lay where they fell, tiny hands still clasped tight. Without further thought, Nyx jumped over the supine tree-trunk and critically checked her dagger again. "No one's actually done anything illegal yet."

Nyx spared a sharp laugh before ducking under another low-lying tree, her shard of death rising once, twice, a third time. They walked leisurely onward, leaving carnage in their wake.

"No. She wasn't." He frowned and rubbed away the concentration lines in his brow with two fingertips. "I don't think she's even involved. It could be just attraction."

"She doesn't have hormones, Aiv. Pure venom flows through her veins. If you want to earn her undying hatred, all you have to do is make a pass at her. If you can stand her long enough." Nyx sniffed in distaste, "Passionless bitch."

While she ranted, the sweet-faced elf following her continued to get his thoughts in order. "Okay then. We know Wirinth is connected, somehow. It was information about Basbear that made her jump."

"There is no more." Frustrated, Aivlys drove his hands through his hair and sighed. "We know someone is planning something big. But we don't know who, or what, or why."

Dwarfed by the crazy beast, coming up only to its tiny eyes, the child-like Nyx calmly circled around, gauging her best chances on a thrust. She struck, and the mighty animal went down to its knees. Steel flashed again, and the two walked away from the cooling corpse.

"It's too subtle for Sidnee, though I wonder what she had to say to him after the big meeting. I'd say it was someone new, but whoever is the mastermind here, she knows exactly what people to take down."

In her element, Nyx continued on the topic as the slowly decimated every living creature that ventured too near her quick dagger. "Look at the last few weeks. Blackmage is out, Lodana too, Uncool and Bloom were a really tricky move. No one pays attention to fighters, and maybe a handful of people knew they had connections to some powerful people."

"In a matter of days, our faceless mastermind has eliminated most of the people who either can point to her as the culprit, or who can muster up enough support to oppose whatever her plans are."

"You keep saying `she'. It could be a guy." Kicking idly at the limp grass that held stubbornly to a patch of dirt, Aivlys glanced down at his leader, handed her another drink. She knocked it back with a nonchalance that was admirable.

"Wait for now. I don't know what her target is. Ahhh..." Suddenly the tiny woman stopped, her disciple almost crashing into her. With a slowly spreading grin, she pushed around a small mountain of rock. "Yes I do. She'll show up at Cyndre's wedding. Be there."

White. It was like a wall of snow that radiated more heat than a hillside of bonfires. She looked around for an end to the milky expanse, but found none, and Kaokokung refused to help. He just sat and grinned like a loon.

She shrieked and dove, her tiny furred body becoming nothing more than a black streak that vanished through the hole in the crumbling wall which had let them in. Kao collapsed in helpless laughter and couldn't speak for minutes as the huge gems blinked sleepily, then moved against the whiteness until they became recognizable as eyes, set high up on a massive head.

"Come back!" Still giggling, the merry tom managed to drag his petrified friend back down beneath the decrepit building to speak with the wall of burning ice. "He's a good guy!"

A space beneath the two glittering gems opened and became a mouth big enough to swallow her whole without the slightest trouble. Dubious, she crept forward.

Another part of the white wall flickered slightly and it took her several moments before she realized it was a long reptilian tail that waved at her politely.

Staring up into a mesh of crimson fire, delicately woven to stop the smallest of creatures from slipping through, Raist trembled. As if in response to his barely suppressed emotions, the incarnadine net shimmered all the brighter. A whirlwind of red dust gave off the suggestion of eyes, and nothing more as it hovered before his narrowed eyes.

Captured in the vise of his fury, the demon could do no more than wring insubstantial hands and profess its innocence once again. With effort the slight elf controlled his body, willed his hands to stop

"How then did the catling escape? Explain to me this paradox, for my mere mortal eyes cannot see the answer." He began to pace, if only to stop himself from blasting his recalcitrant servant into oblivion. The imp, even in its half-cohesive form, began to flutter in agitation, making its whirlwind presence dip fearfully from side to side.

"Master. Master, on my immortal word, the creature did not leave this circle." His ire knew no bounds, Raist was past destructive passion, he knew only the cold reaches of reason.

"The creature did not pass your guard. I believe you." His slave did the demonic equivalent of wetting itself with relief. Tactfully, the regal elf forbore to notice.

"No, Master." The demon replied in a subdued voice. Frustrated, its captor stared fiercely at the flaming ropes of power that surrounded them.

"Or... It is not what it seems." Deep in thought the potent mage strode along the very limits of the demon's cage. "Tell me, what were my exact commands to you?"

"Cat, hmmm?" Closing his eyes, the elf who had once controlled nearly all of Caspia put his great mental powers to the puzzle of his vanished captive. "And if it was no cat at all?"

"So they were... Rob!" In one smooth motion, the Master of the Tower rose and vanished, sending his imperious call shuddering through stone walls in search of its prey.

Made of the finest vellum, inked indelibly with the blood of demons, the parchment was old, and in perfect condition. Another thousand years could pass, and the writing on the skin would not fade, nor would the words of power lose any of their infernal potency.

Wirinth unrolled the ancient scroll and began to read. Much depended on her understanding of the arcane lore that slipped through her mental fingers like fine, white sand. Even as she tried to grasp them, the words writhed through her consciousness and melted away.

A voiceless sigh; Sidnee had given her this task in all trust, and she would not fail that august person, no matter that the task seemed impossible.

The `Thorn rocked gently on the steel waves, a comforting counterpoint to her slow heartbeat. A crystal glass held a deep red wine that constantly curled upon itself in a perpetual vortex that swayed in time to the ship's movement.

Normally such a quiet, solemn atmosphere would aid her concentration, now it proved little more than a distraction. Frustrated, she locked the priceless sheet of vellum in the silver-chased redwood coffer that was bolted to the captain's table and guarded by a fortune in deadly magical spells.

Winding her way through the expensively paneled corridors of the `Thorn, the tall elven woman emerged from below decks and found a space in the bow that was sheltered from the chill wind.

Thoughtfully she rested her chin on a hand and watched the shifting horizon of dull blue waves. They were closer than usual; once or twice she had to duck away from a high spray of cloudy water. But the `Thorn was sitting low in the water, lower than she had even been.

Closing her eyes, Wirinth took a deep breath of sharp sea air and relaxed. There were still two more days until she reached her destination. There was no rush.

There was a peculiar scent about the beast that she could not reconcile. Musty, like the grave of a fire; it caught in her sensitive nose and tickled.

She looked up at the word, though she knew not why. Perhaps because it was similar to what her name had been when she could still walk and speak like a human. Perhaps because two people had now named her so. The first had been that terrible magi, he of the stone visage and incalculable evil.

But now this carefully exuberant dragon had called her Dark as well. She gave an apathetic shrug, as only cats are capable of, and hearkened to his words.

"I have been watching the paths of magic for some time now, and I can see where they are leading. The time of chaos is at hand, but we shall prevail." Dazzled by the spinning lights deep in his jewel eyes, the one called Dark could make no sense of his voice as it formed patterns of words and phrases.

She was completely enthralled, not even the sheer size of the creature daunted her. His enthusiasm was infectious; even Kao was grinning. However, she had never seen the tabby solemn yet, so his excitement wasn't as noticeable.

The dragon Hemjold seemed to radiate his joy in contrast. He looked upon her like she was the long-lost heir to a powerful throne. There was relief in his eyes, and hope, and avarice.

Ugh. Roland edged away from the walls and set his feet fastidiously in the center of the floor. An hour of confused wandering had brought him here, where bits of rotting flesh painted every surface both flat and upright. A few gobs were even wedged into depressions that pitted the walls.

He steeled himself against disgust and approached the solid table which bore the most remains of whatever creature had died so violently. His fingers, damp with sweat, stuck to the gummed blood that coated the grimoire, and the half-elf fought a brief and arduous struggle with his outraged stomach.

This was unnatural. His way was at least honest; a dagger under the base of the skull and then silence, nothing like this explosion in a spray of blood and horror. The tome's cover fell away under his hand, and the rogue wiped his fingers frantically on a corner of his cloak.

Rob? This was Rob's? He let out a long breath of shock. Was this gruesome scene all that remained of the hobbit mage? No one had heard from him since he had left the last of his many women in a fit of egotistical temper. Roland looked at his surroundings with a new queasiness churning in his stomach.

If this was indeed the final resting place of Raist's oldest and closest friend, then the Master of the Tower had changed more than anyone guessed. Roland's senses sharpened to the point of pain, searching out any sound or movement that would precede an attack.

Perhaps this was a forgotten shrine, a token of the regret that Raist might have felt. Curious, he passed into the next silent room. It was thankfully free of blasted guts and dried blood.

A plain bedroom bore the vestiges of Rob's presence. In one corner was a stack of bright red cylinders made from metal. Magery, and black for certain. He skirted the demonic things and glanced over the rest of the room.

The chime of a tiny bell inside his head warned Roland that something was not right. Why was the pillow at the side of the bed, rather than the head?

If the half-elf had been any less the traditionally stern rogue, his jaw would have dropped as epiphany struck him. He put two and two together and came up with an ugly answer.

Roland stared at the deformed mutant. It glared right back at him from two mismatched eyes and rested gnarled claws on hips obviously ransacked from very different corpses.

"Get on with you now! Bloody stupid assassins. Couldn't find your own ass with both your hands." The rogue was ushered, stiff with amazement, out of the cursed rooms and back into the hallway. "The Master is up There you stupid fool."

Rob muttered a string of vulgarity that would have set any fighter's ears aflame and shuffled away, moving alarmingly fast on his mangled legs.

There was the whisper of robes close above him, and Roland gathered his wits, flowing into the shadows to become little more than one himself.

Raist looked around thoughtfully, his cold yellow eyes piercing the veil of darkness that lay upon stair and stone. His hidden foe stopped breathing with the ease of one skilled through long practice. The Master's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he seemed to hear something else and continued on his way down the shallow steps, speaking as he went.

He sat down hard on his knees and clapped both hands over his mouth to stop the laughter that rose upward, rippling beneath his ribs. The Master of the Tower had done something worse than murder to his old friend.

What had been Rob's pride but his comely face? What had he vowed but that no one would ever command him? In one diabolical move, Raist had made him repulsive and slave to the merest whim of his master.

"What the hell are you doing?" Trea hissed, dragging his helplessly quivering body into a dusty storage room. He just looked at her, tears streaming from his eyes in place of the laughter he would not voice. The woman paused, her eyes began to dance. "Rob?"

"Couldn't have happened to a worse lecher. He used to give me speeches on why I should sleep with him." She sniffed in remembered outrage and tugged down her skintight suit another half-inch over the long expanse of her bare legs.

"It was the price he paid for his power." A low voice murmured, accompanied by the whisper of velvet, too late for the assassin to hide himself. Far too late. Raist spared him little more than a glance, the frail wizard's freezing eyes were trained on his consort.

Over a decade of hard training would not leave Roland helpless; he smoothly interposed the stricken female between himself and the spells keening on Raist's fingertips.

"Magic's child. I come with a warning." Silent, the Master gave no indication that he had heard. "You go too far in your quest for power. You will be stopped."

Head tilted lightly to one side in a manner incongruous with his dark image, the elven man granted a chill smile to his adversary. "And how do you plan to stop me, little one?"

The two men glared warily at each other for an age. Trea could feel the rogue's breath against her shoulder, quick and rapid with suppressed energy. A slow fire gathered beneath her skin where the dagger's tip moved with her own uneven breathing.

Roland had betrayed her. The rage was almost too much for her tiny body to contain. She had braved the fear of Raist's ire to plead for the assassin's help, and he hard turned the dagger on her. Returned death for trust.

Trea's heel shot down the inside of her captor's foot, her elbow snapped up and back, connecting with his chin. Lightning reflexes brought the keen edge of the dagger singing towards her neck, but the nimble elf dropped to her knees and escaped with no more than a minor slice across the edge of her ear.

Time slowed unbearably as she turned back to the elven magus. He hadn't moved at all, not even when her blood had welled up and trickled delicately into her ear.

Trea was no longer sure just who had betrayed her. She stared, shocked, at her lover, who merely raised one eyebrow at the still figure of Roland. There was a cold, inhuman patience in his eyes, and an easy confidence that frightened her. When the magus spoke, it was in a low, conversational voice.

"Do you think to curb my power with her death, old rogue? That would not be wise." Roland's voice was equally calm, though he moved not a muscle; the red-scarred dagger still hovered in mid-air.

"No. We would not kill her. You would then be free to pursue that which you hunger for even now." Pointedly, he nodded towards Raist's neck.

Then the Master did something Trea had never seen before. Fire blazed up in his eyes as one skeletal hand curled around a leather cord hidden beneath his robes. She knew what was there; a sigil that was his name, cast in some arcane metal.

"Well done, mortal fool. You know much, for one so fearful of my might." Raist let his hand drop back among the folds of his robe and turned away. Diffidently, he spoke, "For that, I let you live. Come back when you would pit your feeble power against mine once more."

Trea stared at the Master as he glided away, her only protection from the hideous doubt in her own mind the look he flicked towards her. The embers of an intense possessiveness burned there.

"Trust me!" His elven associate grinned in an alarming way that made the healer ask himself for the hundredth time how he managed to make friends with thieves all the time.

"I don't know if I want to do this, Aiv... Cyndre and I don't get along too well." He slipped a finger between the stiff collar of his formal robe and his neck, tried to ease the pinch of the iron grip around his throat. Isarra, in a fit of her foreign humor, had made the collar and sleeves so stiff that they rubbed maddeningly against his skin.

Briefly he entertained thoughts of revenge; mostly involving large amounts of tickling until the usually silent woman giggled. The uneasy irony of his own situation took up most of his attention. The last thing the young healer wanted to do was attend the wedding of a sorcerer who had, according to rumor, been his rival.

Sorrow hadn't met the other man more than once or twice, but everyone seemed to expect them to be at each other's throats, apparently for no reason. It was a perplexing mystery, and one he had no wish to untangle by spending the day with Cyndre.

Aiv's blind enthusiasm was infectious though, and the day was warm and sunny. That in itself was enough of a rare occurrence to lift his spirits and give him enough nerve to enter the monastery.

His elven friend had prudently placed Sorrow between himself and the rest of the commotion in the main room. People ran in and out, carrying flowers and clothes and strange articles of furniture which had no name. They didn't seem to notice the cleric at all, just ran right over him.

Or they tried to; he wasn't small and easily trampled like Aivlys was. As a result, most of the frantic people merely careened off him and continued on their way.

Someone poked him in the small of his back, and Sorrow tilted his head dazedly to see who it was. Aivlys gave him an insane grin and somehow pushed him into the thick of the tumult, using his sturdy body as a shield against the crazy people.

"Isn't this great!?!" The gleeful thief shouted in his ear and manhandled him towards a door to the right. "I'll bet you're glad you came now!"

"Glad is not the word." Sorrow muttered as he lifted a hand to knock on the tall door. It swung open soundlessly and he took a moment to repress a shudder than curled around his spine. The ArchCleric had the same magical mechanism, and it disturbed the young healer in his Master's chambers as it did here.

A solemn-eyed young mage opened the door and stared at them for a moment, before turning and letting the two men enter. Sorrow frowned slightly, watching the tall, slender elf continue into the room. Sure enough, two fingers twitched, and the door closed behind them.

Cyndre glanced back at them, his eyes clear and innocent. "Sit down, gentlemen. I have a few more things to do before the ceremony." The wizard took one more quick moment to nod to Sorrow, and he realized that there was a lot more to the young elf than there first appeared to be.

With a whispered word in his pure voice, Cyndre vanished, his long cloak flaring momentarily before following him into darkness like the grin of a Cheshire cat.

"You've been busy." Jynx noted, looking up from the intricacies of her work as the slight tremble of the terrace stones signaled Basbear's stormy approach. He snagged a heavy chair of wrought iron and spun it across the stones with a low scream of protesting metal.

The ascetic-looking woman shrugged and blew a gentle breath of air across the sinister expanse of blade that curved like a sleeping kitten along the inside of her curled fingers. As if sensing the delicate nature of her work, Basbear lowered himself into his chair with a thought for avoiding the edge of the stone table.

Counting his own calm breathing, the deadly thief guessed that a quarter of an hour passed before Jynx raised her head once again. He stared her down out of habit, but she merely raised one perfect arch of eyebrow and waited for him to speak.

"I would. If I cared. Which I don't." Elbows poised on the table, she rested her chin on her fists and watched with half-lidded eyes as he drew the fine blade slowly and methodically across the stone.

"You'll care about this one. And so will your precious puppet-master." The sound was soothing in its rhythm, their voices began to fill the silence between the long, hollow scraping. Jynx closed her eyes in a moment of lazy pleasure, looked up again when the sound changed.

"Valentine stabbed him. A lot of times, too. It was messy; blood all over the place, entrails here and there, and of course his bloating corpse, gathering flies." The light in the half-elf's eyes was nearly incandescent with the wicked amusement that disgusting her gave him. "Feeding time at the zoo."

"Must you be so crude?" Jynx's flesh crawled with the tale, her own imagination granting her with a vision of the monk's mutilated and abused body strewn about the bloody floor of some dive. Murder was easy enough, and exciting, but wanton, senseless slaughter had never been her hobby.

Basbear went on, almost happy as he detailed every gruesome feature he could remember. There were many. When he finally got to recounting the expression on Menke's gray face, she had to stand up.

Basbear propped his own boots on the table and flashed her a smile full of malice. "Fine. I'll tell you all about it when you get home." The last word was twisted into a snarl that spoke of rage and a dozen other less-defined emotions.

"What are we doing here?" Sorrow hissed in Aivlys' ear the first chance he got. With all the people frantically rushing around with little or nothing of purpose to accomplish, his own particular task had been postponed too long.

"If you're so jumpy, play a tune or something, or just sit back and enjoy this. I guarantee that this little wedding's going to be a blast!"

Sorrow had to admit seeing all the magi nearby twitch at the last word was sort of funny. But further irritating a bunch of people who were known for their rampant paranoia wasn't really high on his list of things to do.

"Facilities are thataway." Aivlys chirped in high spirits and nonchalantly pointed the bare steel point of his dagger off towards another set of doors which were as crowded as the rest. Once again those people close enough to see the little thief twitched.

"Great. Thanks." Muttered the elven healer, meaning something completely different. As he threaded through the masses of people in the last stages of wedding panic, he heard his guildbrother begin to whistle a friendly tune;

He closed his eyes for a moment, in the middle of a suddenly frozen herd of people, and put his hands over his face. Before the second verse fell upon perked ears, Sorrow made his escape.

There would be hell to pay for that little ditty, and he didn't want to be the one holding the purse. Sometimes there was just no safe place near that thief. He started looking for an area in the crowded monastery that was more peaceful.

Hemjold raised his head from his hands and looked up sharply, his keen senses feeling the taste of magic before a current of sourceless wind divulged one robed figure. He inclined the ice-white wedge of his head respectfully before the wizard as the form doubled over and clung to its staff.

"Yes, Raist." Hemjold turned his own depthless eyes away from the wizard, away from those scars that pulsed along his left shoulder with their own perpetual pain, searing right through the heavy velvet robes.

Sidnee steepled her fingers, tapping the tips together lightly as she sank into deep thought. For the most part, Jynx stayed uncharacteristically silent; her mind still dwelling on Basbear's gory recount. The room wavered a little, in time with the rhythm that her queasy stomach seemed to dance to.

"This is regrettable." The gnome glanced at her stubby hands, noticed what she was doing, and hastily laid them flat on the expensive stone desk. Not surprising, the elven assassin knew she had picked up that habit from Raist. She called her attention back to the other woman's words, "Menke was an excellent tool; fanatical, obedient, and well-respected. It's going to be more than difficult to replace him."

"What about Valentine? Do you want me to teach her better manners?" She just couldn't get that image of Menke's fervid eyes gone clouded and sightless. It was only when she felt the soft bite of steel against her fingers that she realized she had drawn the weapon and was stroking it's sweet curve nervously. Sidnee wasn't the only one picking up bad habits; she'd seen Basbear doing the same thing too many times not to know where she had picked up that gesture from.

Three fingers snapped quietly, and the tastefully clad gnome brushed a film of red dust from her hands before she favored her minion with a dry smile of amusement.

Jynx knew better than to show curiosity in Sidnee's machinations and spells; curiosity had killed more than one general before her. Patient in her indifference, she waited until the stout gnome pulled enough attention away from whatever invisible work she was doing to address her again.

Jynx frowned. "Aren't you putting all your rats in one mouse-hole?" A sharp look seared her briefly, but Sidnee was too preoccupied to chastise her further.

"It will work. I have covered every chance of failure with a plan. You just direct my armies, leave the scheming to those who can." The assassin felt a dark doubt rising in her throat, but she wisely fell silent. "There!"

A healthy boom resounded through the golden office, and the air became heavy with the unavoidable fragrance of unwashed human.... and unwashed yak. Jynx doubled over and had to hold her head down just to fend off the worst of the sensory assault.

The second thing she noticed was the sound; a thousand armies had materialized in the wizard's tidy room, and they were all still fighting. At least that's what the tumult sounded like. Eyes streaming, the elf flipped her dagger into her other hand and peered up woozily, trying to get a fix on whatever opponent was near. Sidnee's sense of humor was questionable; it would be just like her to test Jynx with an army of loud, smelly, yak-riding...

With a helpless groan, the elven woman curled up into a tight little ball on her chair and peered out into the largest open space of the office, her stunned senses eventually picking a massive shape out of the cloud of dust, smoke, and redolent air.

A hearty laugh boomed through her head, jarring down her spine and making her heels stamp involuntarily against the floor. Her eyes cleared enough for her to finally make out the figure as a giant, strapping warrior, complete with two huge stingers protruding over his shoulders, armor that would have brought any other fighter to his knees... and a yak.

"Meet our new henchman, Fain." The gnome's eyes sparkled with wicked humor, "Speak slowly, he's not the brightest, but he does suit my purposes well."

"When do we kill something?" The warrior known as Fain returned a grin that dripped malice, and slobber. This was not a man who believed in the power of cleanliness, nor in the virtues of patience.

The elf couldn't help but shudder. The only pleasure she took from the situation was a grim anticipation of Wirinth's reaction. Her leader merely purred at the brawny warrior.

Pepper had been right. Draped carelessly across one of the Tower's many comfortable chairs, her feet kicking at the air over one arm, Trea brooded. After the shock of Roland's dagger at her neck, and the greater shock of Raist's indifference.

A glass of pale liquid sat on the floor in front of her chair, she swung a hand down to scoop it up, and downed the whole thing. A soft cough was the only reaction she had to the heady alcohol. Thoughtfully the elf stared at her empty glass, then threw it with all her strength at the far wall. It shattered prettily, and the little shards made sweet sounds as they fell on the stone floor.

The words to a long-forgotten conversation rose in her mind. She had been talking to Pepper again... For some reason the little witch had irritated her that day. Trea recalled the derision in her voice as she ridiculed the pathetic woman.

And so it had gone. Trea had dismissed the words airily as being from some obscure quote, but now... Now she could see what the Master's wife had seen, and it frightened her.

If no one remembered the little thief that became Raist's lover... Then no one would wonder if she vanished. Forever. She was appallingly expendable; the only thing standing between her and an unmarked, unremembered grave was Raist's whim.

As if fearing him had called his name, Raist appeared in the room with little ceremony. She slipped out of the chair and ran to support his frail body as he sunk towards the floor. Near to unconsciousness, the mage lay limp and weightless in her arms, neither moving nor speaking. Worried, she eased him into the chair still warm from her body, pried his hand away from his shoulder. Beneath his dark robes, new blood welled up out of three scars that tore across his flesh.

Silence fell heavily in the elegant room, settling like ash upon the two motionless figures. In the large chair, Raist hovered between unconsciousness and sleep, his breathing slow and shallow. His chest barely moved to Trea's sharp sight. She knelt, afraid to breathe herself, watching the waxy pallor of her master's face in the vain hope that her steadfast attention would lend him strength.

For an eternity they stayed as they were, until her ears perked at a soft sound. Moving quietly for once, the shambling horror entered the room, his eyes unable to leave Raist's supine body.

"Stupid pointy-eared soft-hearted power-hungry moron." Rob grumbled and complained bitterly as his hands, pale and slender beneath the effects of several failed spells, descended towards the wizard's motionless chest. They trembled slightly.

A brief, sickly glow limned the two men as Trea watched, incapable of movement, rooted to her place with amazement. As the flickering light grew to encompass them, she made out Rob's intense gray-green eyes giving her a sly, half-lucid look.

A gasping cough answered him before Trea could open her mouth. The ill-looking glow faded away as Rob tucked his hands back in his tattered, blood-stained robes. Curled into a painfully tight ball, Raist rocked with huge rasping coughs and clutched his left shoulder as if it was pierced with hot pokers. The collar of his own velvet robes tore open beneath fingers that were nearly claws to reveal pale gold skin. Skin unmarred by the blood that had soaked that same shoulder no more than an hour before.

Three scars dripped across his pale flesh, angry marks of a witch's death-bed curse. Trea darted forward without thinking and covered the seething scars with her own hand.

Suddenly Raist collapsed, his body abruptly freed from whatever force had held it in a fist of pain. At the sound of his relieved breathing, she realized that he had never once cried out.

Rob sniped bitterly, but soon the scent of steaming herbs filled the room. Even the mere smell of tea brought new color to the weak master's face.

Blackmage stretched his legs with a happy sigh. It was good to be out again, breathing the heavy air that coated everything in a hot afternoon haze. The high sun felt wonderful as it warmed his chilled skin through his thin robes.

It had been ridiculously easy to stun the little monk, and fun too. In the deep, impenetrable darkness he had created once she opened the door, the quick man had even managed to sneak a feel or two before he made good his escape.

It was too bad he was in such a hurry; Mimik had looked exceptionally appealing all tied up with her own whip. Unfortunately, he had no time to get sidetracked, no matter how distracting the girl was.

Someone had put Blackmage away for a reason, which meant that a very large scheme was in the works. Sitting cross-legged in one of the many hidden alcoves that populated the mage-tree, he did a quick scry of Menke. It seemed a good place to start.

He nearly gave away his presence as what little lunch resided in his belly began to forcibly work its way up his throat. Menke was very very dead. Whoever had killed him must have borne a huge grudge, for the once-powerful monk had been dismembered, and the pieces arranged in such a way as to be both humorous and terrifying.

This wasn't getting him anywhere. Blackmage quelled his nausea and thought hard. Who else was involved in that tidy bit of courtroom drama? Jynx. In a moment he had her in his mind's eye. Curiouser and curiouser; she was spying on someone else herself. He adjusted his own spell and looked straight through her own focus.

Basbear. Everything always led to Basbear. The only thing that really surprised the magus about the whole situation was that the ArchRogue was dressed almost decently. As if he were going to a...

He snapped his fingers as epiphany struck. Cyn's wedding. Blackmage would have bet his crystal ball, now shattered, that Basbear was planning something for the wedding.

Feeling much better, he arranged himself in the tiny alcove and drifted into peaceful sleep. He'd need all his energies to be ready for the wedding.

"Hey good-looking, what's the occasion?" Valentine granted a lazy smile to the man who filled the doorway, cutting a figure in the pool of light that fell into the bar from outside.

"Bit of this. Bit of that." Turning modestly, Basbear let his short cape flare to emphasis the breadth of his shoulders, let his hand rest grandly on the hilt of his only visible dagger.

"Well I'm impressed." She watched him with friendly appreciation as the assassin drifted on cat-quiet feet to throw himself carelessly beside her on the couch. Tilting her head as if it had grown too heavy, she gave him another sourceless smile.

"I'm not sure, dear. How many glasses are there?" He glanced at the table-top, eyes widening imperceptibly as the total number of empty glasses became clear.

"You've been busy." Basbear muttered, then scowled as his own words echoed Jynx's. In an instant, he made his decision. "Lets go to that wedding, Val. I gotta go, because she's one of my rogues, but I want you to come with me. People will see that you're under my protection."

"Why not? I'll grab something to wear." Valentine murmured with an idle shrug. She rose and walked with a startling grace, in spite of the alcohol she had consumed, to disappear through another doorway.

Patient, Basbear tugged at the high collar of his smoke-gray tunic and smiled grimly. Jynx and the wizard she worshipped so zealously were about to experience a large snag in their plans.

In a final defiant flare of color, the sun sank behind the western mountains with fingers of light that clawed across the quiet land before vanishing. Sorrow watched, sighed, and wondered where his wife had gotten to.

Tucked into one of the deep-set windows of the chapel, he had a perfect view of the raucous oranges and pinks that faded away with the death of the sun. He rested his chin on his knees and wrapped his strong arms around his calves.

More importantly, he had peace and quiet. No one dared set foot inside the chapel yet. The wedding was little more than an hour away, but it was considered bad luck to be there early.

For the most part, people were still scrambling with costume and clothing. He could hear, if he tilted one sharply pointed ear, the tumult of a dozen bodies hurtling through the halls and rooms of the massive pile of stone that was the monastery. Somewhere the bride was being dressed and prepared for her part in the ensuing play. The groom was gathering last minute courage. A monk was going over his ceremony one more time.

But for now, in the chapel it was quiet. The ceiling glowed dusky in the last rays of weak sunlight. Closing his eyes against the scarlet light that burned warmly through his eyelids, Sorrow yawned sleepily. Aivlys was probably still alive; he had no doubts that his sly guildbrother would be dancing just one step ahead of the axe.

Still, he shook his head in amusement, only a fool would have taunted a half dozen of the most powerful wizards in history. At the same time and in the same room. For a relatively unknown thief, Aivlys certainly could work himself up to deeds of great daring, if not great stupidity.

Like a chorus of nightmares straight from Ridorthu's uneasy sleep, the wedding guests entered the chapel en masse. The sound woke Sorrow instantly, and he almost fell out of his cozy perch. Blinking away confusion, he scanned the army that had arrived to witness the upcoming occasion.

His eyes immediately regretted the decision as they crossed and slid out of focus. The rowdy bunch below him appeared as a writhing gray mass that defied any attempts to make coherent sense of it, though there could have been no more than a dozen people.

Wizards and assassins were the most boring dressers, bar none. There wasn't the least splash of color in that milling throng, though they made up for that with sound alone. In fact, knowing the parties involved, there was probably something very close to a weaponless war going on down there.

He leapt gracefully from the darkened window, his own emerald green tunic snapping briskly in the already stuffy air. Heads turned, evaluated the wide-shouldered cleric, and dismissed him with a glance.

Out of reflex Sorrow caught the body before he even realized it was Aivlys. The elf was still damp and smoking as he gave his sturdy guildbrother a dazed smile.

"Hi. Did I miss anything?" He managed to chirp before his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted, becoming a dead weight in the stunned healer's arms.

There wasn't time to drag his body away because Cyndre suddenly appeared before the altar, flashy blue lightning cracking overhead to announce his entrance. If Sorrow had thought the room was crazy with noise and movement before, he was overcome by a new wave of commotion as everyone vied for the attention of the groom.

Once again, he thanked whatever thoughtful god had made his own wedding a five-minute affair. There were a thousand charms and rituals for luck that would accompany the nearing rite, and the majority of them were loud, obnoxious, and pointless. Half-drowning in the sea of gray, his hands weakening under his friend's motionless weight, the elf was struck with terrified amusement.

Camden sighed and cracked his knuckles, then turned in his chair and cracked each vertebrae from the small of his back up. The fire flickered comfortingly, but he was not so easily calmed.

Veteran of a hundred weddings, the monk was still wary of the one he would soon officiate. The bride could be short-tempered, at the best of times, and he wasn't too powerful that he couldn't fear her dagger. And the groom was unpredictable, to put it mildly.

He levered himself out of his chair, did a few exercises to loosen up that would have dropped a lesser man, and left the room, quietly closing the heavy door behind him. He felt a little better, but nothing could erase the tiny spark of doubt in his mind.

An intent ear picked up the sound of Alecto's voice as the bride threw orders like weapons, left and right, uncaring of her targets. Camden let himself in and gave her a critical once-over. She turned, arrayed in a kingdom's worth of jewels and silks, and challenged him with a glare, her chin jutting out ominously.

"Of course I'm ready! It's you damn males who take all the time to prepare yourself. Move it, buster, I'm sick of this thing." The elven female retorted acidly and slammed her hands through the priceless silk, messing up the delicate lace as she jumped from her stool and stamped towards the door. She looked serious.

"You can't go out there yet!" Camden jumped through the door and slammed it closed in her face, desperation giving him strength. Ignoring his own monkly status, the man dashed through the empty halls in the hope that he would reach the chapel before the head-strong bride did.

"Get up there and chain her to the floor!" He hissed at the darkening frown on the ArchRogue's face, daring the man to attack him out of hand in a place of sanctity. His luck held, and the half-elf shrugged and turned to his companion.

"I'll be back. Wait here." Basbear commanded the faerie that had been standing quietly at his side, and strode from the room. Startled, Camden turned from his single-minded rush to see who the legendary bachelor had brought.

None other than Valentine smiled at him lightly and twiddled her fingers in a coy wave before sitting down on the outside edge of the circle of wizards. He found that an interesting combination; ArchRogue and God's widow, and he didn't seem to be alone. There were one or two wary glances cast at the diminutive faerie, most notably from Raist and his own slender companion.

Her name escaped him, but he greeted that pair first, with all respect. Good wishes were murmured all around as he stared in disorientation at the faces that passed before him.

A brawny cleric and the bruised thief beside him pulled out instruments and jammed briefly before settling into a lugubrious hymnal. Barely three notes had flown from the two men before Basbear cat-stalked back into the room and took his place almost possessively beside Valentine.

How dare he? Jynx seethed, half hidden in the shadows. Ostensibly in the chapel to attend Alecto's wedding, should anyone ask, her real concern had been for the successful execution of Sidnee's plan. That was before she watched, stunned motionless, as Basbear led in the little warrior she had been planning to kill.

Anger traced fiery paths beneath her flesh as the elven assassin helplessly observed her own plans crumble to dust. If Sidnee had foreseen this when she predicted Valentine's attendance, then she had a more twisted sense of humor than Jynx had thought. There was no way Basbear would let her get close enough to slay the irritating girl now. She only hoped Fain had better luck.

This was the most daring move in Sidnee's complicated strategy, and the one most likely to fail. Especially, she shuddered involuntarily, when it was being carried out by a half-brained yaksman.

Well she hadn't gotten to the high rank of general by letting her subordinates go unsupervised. Keeping one eye on the gently glowing stone hooked to her dagger's hilt, she scanned the audience yet again. Valentine was now unreachable; Jynx ignored her. The wizards, however, were just waiting to be killed.

Her eyes narrowed as they lit upon two young men dressed in the required robes of the magi. Quietly taking among themselves, the pair paid little attention to the rest of the wedding party.

If she was to be deprived of her desired victim, then Jynx would just have to choose another. Cyberhawk would be annoyingly easy to murder, granted, but she'd feel no small amount of vindication after the way he had nearly destroyed Sidnee's trial and almost proven Blackmage innocent.

The flickering gem caught her eye, and she smiled with grim delight. Her mistress had given the bauble to her, just in case someone cast a sheltering spell for the wedding. Though it was originally intended to restore the brands, she knew there was enough power to use the spell on a few other people.

"Brand Cyberhawk." She whispered, and the jewel faded to darkness for a moment before the feeble glow returned. An ugly tone chimed in her ears.

After this wedding, no one of power would stand in their way, and Caspia would indeed be set adrift from the world, trapped in its own sphere.

Now this was style. No one had thought to close Blackmage's bank account, so it had been ridiculously easy to buy these snazzy new clothes and a sharp haircut. Now, strolling down the darkened main street of Kieron, he felt like himself again.

He thought about stepping into the bar for a quick one, but Harry might raise the hue and cry, and then he'd be stuck back in jail. Besides, infamy was rolling itself out before him like a damned red carpet.

Bored. He was bored. Beyond endurance. Even Hecubus had become tiresome to listen to. With fast-growing impatience, Cyberhawk hooked his thumbs in his regulation belt of silk rope and tried not to yawn his head off.

The only reason he had decided to come at all was to talk to Hec anyhow. More and more he felt as if Blackmage's trial had been fixed. He just couldn't shake the feeling that greater powers were running Kieron's citizens like a skilled master of puppets.

Certainly Hecubus had been of little use. The elf couldn't explain how someone so obviously innocent as Blackmage had been tried, sentenced, and jailed in the space of a single day.

He may have known more than everything about Caspia's hidden lands and sly monsters, but sadly, Hecubus was a washout when it came to other mortals.

At least this wedding thing wasn't a total loss, he got to show off his new robes. Plain, unadorned black on the outside, they were lined with scarlet silk and caught the admiring looks of many older, more staid wizards. For a newcomer to the art of spellcasting, the elven mage could still cut a figure.

"... Totally blew me away, too." Hecubus was talking again. With considerable effort, Cyberhawk wrenched his attention back to the words of his associate.

A discreet cough sounded by them, and he looked up guiltily to see that everyone else was silently awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. Scarlet flushed his face until he was sure his elven skin probably matched the showy lining of his robes.

Slowly, slowly the wedding began. A sedately garbed monk droned on about the importance of the happy occasion, two minstrels tootled away at some insanely happy tune, and Cyberhawk inwardly groaned. He would have rather been tortured than have to endure this long, pointless rite.

Finally the bride entered, stalked up to the altar with no care for pacing or propriety. Apparently her thoughts ran parallel to his, she wanted it over too.

Blah, blah, blah. The holy man continued to talk. He turned to Cyndre, who was near-trembling with anxiety, and asked, "Do you take Alecto to be your wife?"

"Yes." Affirmed the young wizard, and turned adoring eyes on his bride. Cyberhawk felt faintly nauseous. Luckily for his poor stomach, Alecto's response to the same question was a curt `Yes.".

The monk raised his hands dramatically and let them fall towards the bowed heads of the bride and groom. Benevolent power sparked around his fingers.

With a thunderous crack, a burly warrior dropped from the ceiling like a stone, executing a perfect flip to land, stingers out and waving, between the couple.

Startled, the monk dropped his hands, and a flash of light engulfed Cyndre and the unknown fighter. Snakes of gold wound around the two men's hands to become wedding bands.

"Oh Cyndre, darling. I didn't know you cared!" Batting his eyelashes coquettishly, the huge warrior grabbed his shocked spouse and tossed the helpless mage into the crowd that was surging to its feet.

Pandemonium broke out as Alecto voiced a shrill cry of rage and pulled daggers from their hidden sheathes beneath her extravagant dress, pouncing on the insanely giggling man.

The man called Fain merely stood poised on the altar with a happy grin. His sparkling black eyes picked out one target, and he arrowed towards Hecubus over several rows of chairs.

"Get DOWN, you fool!" A new voice shouted into the melee, and Blackmage appeared out of nowhere to dive between the gaping wizard and his attacker. "You're branded!"

For the most part, Raist and Basbear were paying only absent attention to the tumult. They were content to sit with their companions and talk quietly. The dark wizard even had a steaming cup of tea in his hand as he spoke to the ArchRogue.

However, at Blackmage's harsh yell, Raist looked up sharply, his ancient eyes taking in the situation with a glance. At the querying look of his elven lover, he merely shook his head curtly and gripped the smooth wood of his staff.

Still shrieking like a banshee, Alecto had smacked the monk roughly enough to make him drop her and was now advancing on the fighter with murder in her eyes.

"You're all branded! Your spells are useless!" Blackmage was jumping up and down with frustration as they stood around like morons. With those words, the remaining magi scattered. "Ulp." He found the stinger's point against his neck.

"Will you just kill someone already?" Jynx bounded out of her hiding place and faced the happy fighter, her eyes stormy. At her entrance, Basbear growled low and his dagger left its sheath with a sinister little snick.

For their part, Sorrow and Aivlys had retired to the huge windowsill and sat comfortably on the cooling stone, kicking their legs against the stone wall as they watched with interest.

"Huh? Oh." The elf tore his intent gaze from the rabid warrior long enough to explain. "Brand is an ancient spell, used by the magi to mark victims for attack. Any weapons will be drawn to the branded one, and all spells will aim for him."

"I thought you'd never ask." Whispered Cyberhawk with a smile full of dry humor. Cautiously the two began to crawl on their elbows towards the exit.

Raist was already preparing a teleport spell, his tiny elven thief protecting him warily, as Basbear stalked towards Jynx with his own escort in tow. The faerie was wincing against the slow birth of a killer hangover, and didn't notice the glowing nimbus around the monk she stumbled past.

A fury of magic suddenly filled the room, and then all power stopped completely. Raist coughed, snarled, and doubled over, Trea's hands holding him up. All heads turned to the sturdy dwarven monk who stood, feet braced, on the altar.

The low growl began beneath hearing, but grew quickly as the five wizards focused upon Camden, their spells useless because of his sheltering magic. It was only then he realized his mistake and started to back away from their enraged looks.

Jynx cursed as every brand faded away and threw the dead gem savagely at the ground. The plan was in tatters, now. Her eye absently followed the line of the little stone, and paused.

With a vicious smile she stabbed her dagger into the wood floor and perched on her heels as her quarry drew his fingers back in reflex from the nearness of the wicked blade.

The young wizard gave a little sound of surprise and looked up at her with wide eyes. Pleasure warmed her face at the vulnerable posture of her victim. If she had been a cat, she would have purred.

"What makes you think that, Jynx?" he queried, rising to his feet in an attempt to regain his dignity. Derision was writ plainly on the assassin's face. They stood, eyeing each other, as Hecubus peeked up over another chair, and Basbear reached out to confront the elven woman.

There was a polite cough and everyone was flattened by a mighty surge of air. From out of the ether, a brawny man strode into the room, a genial smile warming his rugged face.

"Halloo everyone. Just thought I'd check in and see how you're all doing." the god spoke cheerfully, and peered around at the people in various degrees of chaos, all frozen by shock. Ore pondered. "Looks like you're doing okay here. See ya later!" And with a warm wave, the god walked back into whatever realm he had come from, the only sound of his exit another polite bamf of air.

Jynx dove for the now-bright gem with Basbear hard upon her heels. A sharp retort heralded Raist's own departure, as well as that of his mistress. Gurgling sounds issued from behind the altar where Cyndre was doing his best to strangle the hapless monk.

Halfway out the door, Cyberhawk turned from following his friend and glanced back at the woman who had been so close to killing him. She hadn't yet noticed the silently raging man behind her, but it would only be moments. Indecision ripped at him.

"Jynx! Behind you!" he shouted, and the elf's head snapped up, saw Basbear, and paled. In the space of a heartbeat, she folded herself into the shadows and vanished. Deprived of his prey, the ArchRogue turned his attention to the wizard who had warned her.

Valentine covered her eyes. Laughter was welling up within her, and she could barely smother it. The chapel was a tableau of absurdity, though it could have easily been one of chaos had someone been seriously hurt.

Still crouched behind the altar, the hapless groom was trying to wrench the gold band off his finger while his bride was now slamming Camden's head against the floor and screaming.

"Uhgn - uh - ganh." The monk grunted helplessly each time his cranium impacted the floor, unable to gather his scrambled wits enough for anything more than healing his own battered body.

Basbear was nearly incoherent, though she couldn't see why, the air fairly seethed with rage around him. Two minstrels sat up in one of the high windows and watched the whole scene with every indication of amusement.

But the crowning touch was the two men circling warily, weaving between toppled chairs, their eyes never leaving each other. Perhaps it was the loss of blood, perhaps the half dozen bloody lotii she had slammed down, but for whichever reason, she could not stop her shoulders from trembling with suppressed mirth.

The warrior Fain, who she only faintly remembered, was bruised and beaming, obviously enjoying himself. His opponent, on the other hand, was hard pressed to avoid the humming stingers.

True, Blackmage had been imprisoned long enough to weaken his already delicate body, but he must have been stronger than he looked to have terminated his jail sentence so quickly.

"I'm loving this, you know." A voice spoke from behind her, and Val twisted her head a little to see DeSade's pleased grin. His hair was carelessly coifed, his velvet jumpsuit impeccably tailored. With exasperated affection, she spoke.

"Ahhhh...." His eyes sparkled devilishly, "But could you really live without watching this?" In a heartbeat he had casually walked through the circling combatants and picked up a flickering gem. Suddenly he was at her side, and Jynx's jewel was warming the palms of her cupped hands. Valentine looked into its fiery depths.

A track of bloody prints led deeper into the crystal, they were the paw-prints of a cat. She followed them into the dusk until a woman grew out of the scarlet footsteps and gave her a serene look. All around them were the trappings of war, but she could only stare at the shadowy woman. A cloak of black fell across her face, suffocating her, then crumbled to dust before she could begin to react. A sword of pure gold pierced her body, claws of ice closed on her shoulders, but she couldn't tear her gaze from the strange woman's expressionless face. The silent war died away in a fury of green fire, and the woman turned, shifted, melted into a track of bloody cat-prints that stalked calmly away.

Valentine raised her eyes from the gem to meet the challenge in DeSade's smile. The inexplicable joy rose up again, and she couldn't help but giggle.

At that exact moment, Camden fell unconscious and there was an audible pop as his magic-blocking spell died, leaving only the faint smell of ozone.

Blackmage's head snapped up in near-ecstasy as his power rushed back to him, his eyes found the tumbling glory of the airborne gem and a shard of pure lightning pierced the bauble. The sound of shattering glass caught everyone's attention.

With a coy kiss blown to Cyndre's eyes peeking over the altar's edge, Fain whistled for his Yak and swung up onto the beast that stampeded into the room. They were gone before either Blackmage or Cyndre could get off a killing spell.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the two men on the windowsill jumped down to join the people still standing motionless in the center of the chapel. Valentine pushed herself away from the wall with an irrepressible grin and hailed one of them.

It was night again. She laid her head on her paw and sighed with utter weariness. The dragon was fascinating enough, he was charming and patient and thoughtful, but she just couldn't shake the bad feelings she had about him. Impending doom clung to the snowy pinions of his wings, and circled lazily in the multicolored depths of his bright eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kao. Not yet. Hemjold tells me that many of the people who once ignored me when I was human will now want to take this power from me. By force, if necessary."

"I have to fight back, before they can get to me." Murmured Dark, but her companion had already left. Only the silver stars pinned to the black sky high above heard her voice.

Darkness seeped into the room, sending tendrils of chill uncertainty to fall between the two figures who sat in their encompassing chairs and stared at similar spots on the polished floor. Brittle silence gave the still scene a false impression of peace, but tension rolled heavily through the room. The sound of labored breathing grew sinister in the quiet. Arms hugging her knees, Trea wondered when he would decide to kill her.

"She betrayed me." hissed Raist, his this fingers curling into claws. The elven woman lifted her head sharply to gaze upon the master of the Tower.

His eyes were hard and angry, seething with life that his trembling body could barely contain. Already weakened by the drain of power through the flawed core of his control, the magus was hard-pressed to keep his heart from faltering from exertion.

Trea was a pale wraith floating at the corner of his attention, her wide eyes staring at him unblinkingly. Looking at his mistress, he felt the feeling come again like a blow to the stomach. The bitter shock of betrayal and the taste of something almost like blood in his mouth warred for supremacy of his thoughts.

"You must be tired, dear." The murmured voice was low and composed, though his mind whirled and tangled up in itself. He watched for the hitch of her breath that meant she had heard him, and smiled a little. Even nearly powerless, he still ruled, and the knowledge of it was heady.

"I - I am, yes." One hand to shade her troubled eyes, his mistress excused herself. It was obvious that Roland had brought some painful truths to her attention, and Raist knew he'd have to soothe her fears soon enough. But not right now. He had more important issues to attend to.

He spared her departing form one intense, admiring glance, before returning his mind to the agonizing betrayal of the one women he thought he could trust.

Together they had risen, Sidnee and he, to positions of unforeseen power. But now, her brand had been on him, she no longer respected her old colleague enough to spare him from her own intricate plotting.

The gall of it burned in his vitals like a burning hot stone thrust deep beneath his ribcage. It weighed down his chest, pulling each shallow breath into the precarious space between survival and the deathly stillness of asphyxiation.

He was expendable. He, master of the Tower, lord of magical might! Amazed almost beyond ire, the ancient elf shook his head weakly as if to deny the impossible.

Wirinth drew a suddenly shaking hand across her brow and surveyed the culmination of a week's hard work. Her beloved `Thorn looked battered nearly beyond repair and was listing to one side in a way that worried her. It hardly looked sea-worthy.

She knew, without looking, that she was equally abused. The aching heat of a long bruise was beginning to raise itself up along one side of her ribs. However, her mission - so vital to the plan she revered - was complete.

Homeward Wirinth would limp her way, with the assurances of an ancient water demon that he would do his part to destroy the docks of Kieron.

Once that exit of escape was cut off, Sidnee and Xith would work their arcane wizardry to totally isolate Caspia from the rest of the universe. Then the land would be akin to a hive of doomed ants; chaos and death would reign.

Another injury made itself known with a hot blaze of pain that raised blood in her cheeks. Wirinth bound the demon's promise hard against the inside of her forearm, using a few of the tatters of her sleeve to make sure it was secure. Only then did she limp aboard the `Thorn and set about easing the worst of her hurts.

In response, her foe gave her a look full of mocking ridicule, his lip curled in a derogatory sneer. Basbear's hands were hooked in his pockets, as if he had absolutely no fear of her.

"Grow up, Jynx." Contemptuous, Basbear raised a large hand to push her out of his way, intent on leaving the house. A thread of blood appeared along the edge of his finger and he drew in a hissed breath of surprise.

"You're not with us, are you, Basbear?" she taunted, stepping a pace back and darting in close again, her bared steel flickering close enough to worry a less iron-nerved man. He merely crossed his arms, scratched hand on the outside, and gave her a stony look.

"When did you start betraying us? Was it when your precious mother got in the way of our plans?" At that malicious shot, his eyes turned to blazing anger, and the low, warning growl that filled the air between them hung like a clawed beast of sound.

Jynx knew then what she had to do, so she forced the corners of her mouth up in a vicious smile, and spoke. "Forget her, Basbear. She's dead already. She's a walking corpse. Give me the ArchRogue position and follow her into the grave."

The half-elf seemed to shudder for a breathless moment, his head bowed. Immediately cautious, she rolled forward onto the balls of her feet, ready to fight or run.

Even prepared, she was stunned at the ferocity of his response. A massive hand flung out, connected with the side of her neck. Jynx flew through the air, her dizzied senses whirling around the fires that exploded along one side of her face.

She grabbed onto the tail end of her consciousness with both hands, aware that she could do no more than watch the killing stroke fall upon her helpless body. But Basbear just towered above her, his body perfectly motionless in that habit she had once so admired.

His voice grated low and controlled, "I am no one's pawn. Tell that to your precious godling." The half-elf turned on his heel and stalked from the silent house.

"The suspense is killing me, Blackmage." A youthful face nodded solemnly at his self-important companion, gave a grimace that was as close as he got to a smile. "How did you escape the dungeon?"

Expansively, the now infamous magus waved a hand as if to refute his previous confinement. He was comfortably ensconced in one of Cyndre's elegant chairs, a pipe at his elbow, a glass in his hand. With the easy patience of one who has just made his own future, Blackmage contemplated the pale stuff that swirled inside the delicate crystal glass.

"Well, young one, you know a mere dungeon would never hold me." He lifted his eyes with a lazy smile to catch the fleeting edge of his host's silent scowl, dismissed that as well. Cyndre was always too touchy about his age.

"No matter." His young companion laced fingers around a similar goblet and fixed him with piercing black eyes. "What are you going to do now? A convicted criminal such as yourself has few friends, but many foes."

"Pshaw!" He spoke disparagingly, "Everyone knows I'm innocent. I proved that back at your... wedding." Holding down a snicker of remembrance at Cyndre's frown, he continued, "Now everyone will flock to me, because I'm the only man who knows who did this!"

Eyes flashing, hands thrown dramatically wide, the dapper wizard glanced down at his audience to gauge the reaction to this grand proclamation.

Cyndre lifted one shoulder in an eloquent shrug, his hair brushing the tips of sharply pointed ears tilted in an expression of extreme indifference.

"Ah Ah." With a crafty smile, Blackmage waggled his finger at his puissant host. "Wait until the rest get here. I don't want to cause an uproar twice."

Eventually the summoned magi appeared in Cyndre's chamber off the main hall of the wizards' tree. The younger ones suddenly formed from thin air with varying degrees of success, while the older wizards chose to use the door.

When they were finally assembled, sitting or standing around the two men, Blackmage set his emptied glass down carelessly on a table that hadn't existed a moment before, and stood.

"Fellow wizards!" He stroked his goatee with a certain smug air, "I have returned to you from durance vile to bring news of a new enemy that seeks even now to move against us!"

The harried-looking elf opened his mouth to speak, but Blackmage ran right over him. "Verily, this demon struck into the very midst of us and moved his hand of death against our most powerful brother!" Warming to his topic, he gestured at Cyndre, then thundered on.

"It strove to use our very spells against us, but we prevailed! For I saw the evil's leering face and knew what creature could send such strife to assault our ranks!"

"Aren't you gentlemen forgetting something?" queried Cyndre, his dark eyes sweeping their assembled faces. He sighed, noticing that no one understood, and his voice spoke close to the edges of his patience. "Blackmage hasn't said who this person is."

"Simple, really." With a wave of one hand, the recently imprisoned man cast the wedding's scene before them. Tiny figures moved slowly in the mist-enshrouded sphere. "Who would arm a rogue with a wizard's spell? Who bears us enough malice to use a fighter," He sneered the word, "And a thief together?"

"Of course. I'd forgotten that he studied the magic art when he was younger." Cyndre nodded pensively, although his companions viewed him with new wariness.

"How did you know... Never mind." Blackmage shook the curiosity from his thoughts, "Now we find the man, and exact our vengeance." He settled comfortably in his chair and waited for the still stunned expressions to melt into determination.

"Alright... Hecubus. What's the most powerful monster lurking on the mainland?" Cyberhawk hooked his thumbs into his belt and started to pace. "I figure he'll be there."

High, near hysterical laughter filled the gloomy confines of Kieron's rogue hall as Nyx curled up into a ball on the dusty floor and tried to hold her very insides together.

"Tell me again about Alecto and Camden." commanded the diminutive woman, and her apprentice had to take several deep breaths to calm himself before he could speak.

"She had him by the throat and was pounding his head against the altar, screaming like a banshee..." That was as far as he could get before they were both helpless with laughter again.

After a very long time, Nyx finally regained her feet, agonizing with the strained muscles of too much laughing. The little elven man was still choking down hilarity, but was at least quieter.

"So I was right then. Our mystery woman acted at the wedding." She stifled a last snicker as her imagination painted the look on Cyndre's face. "It's our move now."

"We know that Wirinth is involved, and Jynx. Basbear could be, but we aren't sure. Who commands these people?" Nyx mused, her fingers playing absently over the delicate silverwork of Daryth's ring.

"Take that ring." Her voice changed as she kicked the expensive circlet over to him. "Make sure that Basbear gets it, and make doubly sure he doesn't know who it's from."

"He may not be directly involved, Aiv. But he'll know who is. And that ring is going to make them feel very uncomfortable." Nyx's grin was wicked.

With an absent touch of her dripping fingers, the water of the bath rippled out in steady, even waves. Dark sunk down deeper into the head, her eyes following the ripples as they traveled inevitably to the edge of the wooden tub and rebounded back.

Her short black hair was plastered against the back of her neck from where she had leaned her head against the edge of the barrel, it was a sensation she could almost remember from her past life.

Past life, long past now. Only a few weeks lay between her and that other time, but she felt as if anything that had happened to her before that one fearful, fateful night had been as from a life before this one. Certainly she had been reborn in blood and pain and terror.

A star or two winked solemnly from the open window above the dim, warm room. This would be her baptism then, to wash away the innocence of her brief, confused infancy.

At least now - she contemplated the waves of light that danced around the sides of the tub - she understood how to control that strange magic that tossed her between human and feline form. The majestic white dragon had taught her that much.

But Hemjold's tutoring had fast become more sinister. There were enemies out beyond the simple wooden walls of the abandoned house, and uneasy allies within.

She had created foes more numerous than the islands in the western sea, simply by stumbling into the magic left by a dying god. It was a humbling thought; that mere accident had elevated her so high, and put such a cheap price on her life.

With a thought, the woman shifted, shrank, twisted around herself to become a small black cat. Dark shook off the moisture of the bath violently and sat down to clean her tail.

Two palms planted themselves flat on the surface of the wood table with delicate care. Along the outlines of each finger, the heavy oak began to blacken and char, sending pungent trails of smoke curling up into the bright lights above.

"Let me get this straight," Sidnee murmured in a low, controlled voice, "Assisted by a near-unstoppable spell and a fighter twice as powerful as any of the guests, you not only failed to even scratch a single target..." Her voice broke dangerously on the last word and Jynx twitched, her head bowed low.

Sidnee took a slow, deep breath and continued, "But you also managed to alert everyone there to the knowledge of your involvement with Fain."

A heavy silence descended on the back of Jynx's neck, pressing her lower into her miserable posture. To make matters worse, her head still rang with the lingering effects of Basbear's fist.

"What. Went. Wrong." Each word was enunciated carefully and distinctly, each sound was full of the seething ire that Sidnee was hard pressed not to injure her with.

Her future was looking dim already, and Jynx hadn't even told the gnome about Basbear's betrayal yet. With a sense of impending and unavoidable doom, she spoke.

"Ore?" Again, Sidnee's voice cracked, and anger drained from her suddenly still form like water from a broken jug. "Ore was there? What did he want?" Stunned, the powerful woman sat back in her chair, leaving the seared marks of two hands branded into the desktop.

"He just came in, said hello, and left... That's how Raist got the power to teleport out, from Ore." Jynx ventured to comment from behind the safety of her drawn-up knees, her knife laying on her outstretched fingers and flickering as she nervously swung it, lightning quick, through a child's exercise. "I don't think he was there for any reason at all."

"Hmmmm..." Already the gnome was indrawn and reticent, her brilliant mind untangling the system of alliances, owed favors, and secret agreements that made up the lives of the gods. "We can't be too sure..."

The smell of Yak still permeated the wizard's warm and comfortable office. It made itself known upon Jynx's delicate senses with a heavy, malicious hand. Eyes stinging, she fought to stifle her reaction, but it rose up along her spine.

"We'll discuss your failure later." Sidnee reminded her absently, and a chill ball of dread formed in the pit of the assassin's stomach. It looked like she had a temporary reprieve. She wondered if that would be enough time to find someone to replace Basbear.

The cloaked figure nodded solemnly, holding himself up by the tall length of his staff. His clawed hands held the steadying wood in a death-grip.

"Yes. Ridorthu once used it as an attack to drain Azi's power. It will strip your little protege of her magic and then I can direct it into vessels more capable of controlling it."

Shifting nervously from one massive foot to the other, the dragon of storms cleared his throat and gave his guest an uncomfortable look. "Will this hurt her?"

"Damn you." He whispered under his breath, hitching the robe back from where it had slipped off one shoulder. Even with his black, heavy velvet robes wrapped tight around him, Raist still felt bitterly cold, though he refused to shiver.

His wife's dying curse lay like frost upon his weary body, a burning cold fire along his skin. The marks of her blood on his shoulder were warm, pulsing agony in time with the beating of his heart. His eyes were warm too, a nearly pleasant weariness laying behind them, coaxing his eyelids to fall closed.

With obvious effort he fought to bite back a jaw-cracking yawn, and stumbled a few more paces through the eerily silent wastelands that surrounded his beloved tower.

Raist could imagine what he looked like at that moment; a tired old mage consumed by pain and a towering irritation. And well he should have been irritated; a teleport was the most simple and mindless of spells, and yet he could not cast it.

Not when he was so tired, the agony of the curse would have surely killed him. So he had stalked through the timid streets of Siva on a wave of disturbed silence, as was his due.

At least the witch's little geas had not taken away his presence as well as his power, for people still cringed when he passed. It was a nice feeling.

A movement that was no movement brought Raist's attention back to the present, and he sighed in annoyance. "Took you long enough." He rasped.

Suddenly reminded of his place, as well as his mortality, Rob cleared his throat and snarled low under his breath, but laid two mismatched hands on Raist's shoulders and fed healing into his master's weak bones.

Rob talked as if such a miracle as channeling the power of a god was not anathema to a mage such as himself. "You pick me up a woman while you were traipsing out on the town? That little thief of yours keeps threatening to skewer me." There was a decided edge to his voice.

"Bah." Sniped the mutant bitterly as she transported them both into the tower itself in a display of adept clumsiness. "And who made you a god is what I wanna know!"

Raist allowed himself to be lowered carefully into his massive throne-like chair, content to watch on as his servant, grumbling, began to start the fire and make tea with surprising alacrity.

For the present, he was simply content to let his plots pursue themselves, goaded inexorably to their conclusions through the greed of his victims.

"You look like shit!" A familiar voice hailed Sorrow in the midst of his work, and he groaned inwardly, setting aside carefully the staff he had been polishing.

"Aivlys, are you still here?" The rogue's delicate elven face grinned up at him, eyes dancing with suppressed mischief. "I thought all the merchants would have run you out of town by now."

"Me? Why would they do that?" An expression of injured innocence flew over Aivlys' mobile features, but his eyes still proved that he was already plotting yet another scheme to acquire his next prey's money.

"Nahhhh... That would be unoriginal." Sorrow noticed that his guildbrother, however, did not deny the insinuation that he was up to his usual nefarious tricks. A thought ran through the healer's mind, and he dropped the subject; the less he knew about it, the less he could reveal under torture, after all. The Kieron shopkeepers were not picky in their methods of information gathering.

"So why're you here, Aiv?" he asked curiously, nodding his head towards the peaceful waters of the lake. "Seems a strange place to find you in. No monsters here, and no money."

"Hey. My life's not all fun and games, my brother." Aivlys was stripping down as he spoke, throwing his clothes haphazardly over the little hill upon which Sorrow sat. The cleric looked on doubtfully, pausing with his hands curled comfortably around the living wood of his staff.

"Sometimes even I come out to commune with nature." The little rogue spoke, then shrieked as his toes touched the freezing water. Sorrow stifled laughter.

The green, verdant corner of lakeside was still and peaceful once more, if only for a minute before a head bobbed above the water, shouting and laughing at the same time.

"DAMN! That's cold!" Aivlys raced back to shore, hair sticking against his head and dripping water into his eyes. In his cupped hands, a rock covered in slimy mud sat and dared Sorrow to comment. Wisely, he said nothing as his friend hopped back into his clothes, still swearing at the chill lake water.

"Lend me your staff for a moment, Sorrow." The thief took the offered length of wood and strapped the muddy rock to one end with a strong rope of braided leather. Half-rising from his previously comfortable position, the muscular cleric opened him mouth to protest.

Down the staff went, until Aivlys was holding onto one end, and waving it ponderously. The thought of all the water and muck damaging his staff nearly made Sorrow groan.

With a grunt of effort, Aivlys swung his brother's weapon back up out of the water and untied a gleaming blue gem the size of Sorrow's two fists together. The sheer value of the thing brought his heart up into his throat.

The young rogue gave him a wicked grin and collapsed back onto the sweet grass, with a happy sigh, "See? I just wanted to get back to nature. It's good for the soul, I hear." The giant sapphire sparkled coyly where it lay upon his chest.

Rising inevitably towards its zenith, the Caspian sun shone down upon the wastelands with a bright light that no shadow could withstand. Every corner and cavern was scoured by the hot illumination of the sun, and the shimmering air was a promise that both heat and radiance would only increase.

Even the dank and musty lair of the basilisk was no match for the sun at its strongest, a few wisps of light crawled an astonishing distance into the cave before dying. However, the farthest reaches of the unholy place remained still untouched by the sun's light.

It was not dark, though. A pale, sinister glow limned every rock and pebble, gathered in depressions and clung thinly to Nadcorp's shoulders. He shifted deeper into the safety of the wall and let out a slow breath through his teeth.

Old death and refuse filled the air to a robust offensiveness, and the old rogue breathed in the syrupy miasma, trying not to notice the smell. His dagger hissed a soundless agreement, caressing along his palm without moving as his excitement translated itself to bloodlust in the flawless blade.

Something stirred, though his eyes could see nothing. A kiss of air pushed delicately at his cheek, and obediently, Nadcorp turned his attention towards the pressure.

There. A pallid and sickly beast blended motionlessly in with the rocks of the lair's floor, only its quiet breath giving away its position. His dagger jumped once, sharply, in his hand, thirsting for new death.

With a curving of lips that was almost a smile, the ancient elf glided closer to the supine figure of the basilisk, noting its size, the scars of beginning spines that rose up along the center of the creature's back. An adolescent then.

Calmly, he stood paralyzed in the beast's scrutiny, helpless as it snaked a razor-edged tongue delicately across his thigh. Blood welled up with alarming speed, trickling down his muscles, curling around his knee to slide warmly down the back of his calf and into his boot.

Perfectly aware, he felt his own blood begin to pool around his toes as the other eye opened fully. Nadcorp stood patiently, looking into the eyes of the basilisk and waiting to die.

The beast made a little hiccuping sound, and the effects of its deadly gaze loosened their vicious grip. Agony flared up one side of his body, rising like fire from the deep slash across his leg. He was fairly certain a major artery had been opened. If the elf could only look down, he was sure he'd see the white flash of his own bone, gleaming through the blood that continued to pump futilely out of his body.

The edges of his vision began to darken slightly. No stranger to injury, the old assassin flexed his arms carefully, testing the strength of his prison. A sensual twitch against the inside of his curled fingers assured him that his dagger was still in perfect condition, and begging for battle.

Slow moments limped past as fatigue overtook the immature basilisk and its eyes gradually closed again. Every nerve began to scream agony in Nadcorp's body as he bit savagely into his lip to stop from swaying. Only the monster's spell kept him standing.

Cautiously he twisted his arm, rolling smoothly out of paralysis. Like the tail of a breeze, his body followed, the movement so natural that he wasn't sure if he had moved at all. Dancing on the edge of delirium, Nadcorp followed his dagger, letting it sink itself past a delicate eyelid, into the jelly mass of the basilisk's eye.

The thing shrieked deafeningly and reared. New slashes appeared along the elf's body before he had time to even see where the attacks came from. Gritting his teeth, he held on, thrusting deeper, the gore of the ruptured eye scalding his arm up to the elbow as the sweet point of the dagger broke through the thin bone and violated the creature's brain.

A whimper escaped the thing as it died, slumping to the ground. Nadcorp sank with it, his hand still gripped tightly around the hilt of his dagger. The only sound in the cave was the thready, erratic beating of his blood-starved heart.

With a low groan he pushed himself up, wiggled the blade out of its nest of bone and viscera and started to scrape the acid stuff of the basilisk's eye from his arm. His mind became empty, focused only on making it to the nearest healer.

The sun raked vicious nails across his senses as he staggered out of the cave and fell, panting, against a large boulder. Head tucked low into his chest, he shook with loss of blood and prepared to lurch once more in the direction of home.

It took several difficult heartbeats for the elf to realize that the figure was no taller than he. Other details began to make themselves noticed, the bottle of salve in the figure's hands, the sweet scent of his wife, the stray gleam of light off the wedding ring he had given here.

Nadcorp cracked open dry lips, managed a "Hey, yourself." in return. His wife snickered and stepped close enough to pour the bottle over his head. Cooler and thicker than the basilisk's breath, the ointment dripped haphazardly over his body, leaving only healing behind. He nearly sank to the ground when it reached the ruin of his thigh as warmth cradled the abused tissues, knitting them together and smoothing skin over the muscles.

New blood began to fill his arteries, slowing his frantic heart and filling his entire leg with an unbearable pins and needles feeling. The elf stamped his foot cautiously against the ground, jarring the inrushing blood as it filled him again.

Nyx shrugged and dropped to the ground easily, her legs crossed as she sat in the direct path of the sun and squinted up at him. "I was bored."

He looked down at the miniature half-elf, taking a moment to enjoy the line of her shirt as it wandered between her breasts, fell down in a smooth wave to tuck into her form-fitting pants. "I appreciate the thought."

They gazed at each other; one admiring, the other offended. The elf rubbed the last bit of salve from his hands and gave his wife an inviting grin.

Outraged, Nyx opened her mouth to retort, then paused suddenly, her head tilting as she caught a whisper of sound. They both strained their ears toward the murmur.

Nyx rolled back, controlling her body as she came up, dagger in one hand, and a long, sharply curved stinger in the other. Her husband was perched on top of the massive boulder, his face betraying his curiosity. Though the salve had healed him fully, she watched him waver a little in the last lingering rush on near-death adrenaline. The point of his bared knife never twitched.

Between them, a milling horde of magi sorted themselves out, shouting and tangling in a way that amused Nyx from where she watched, detached. As curious as the ancient elf she married, the tiny woman waited patiently for the group of wizards, there were only five, to regain their dignity.

There was a low mutter from the group behind him; Nyx picked out the few she recognized; Cyndre, Hecubus, and two other men she had never met.

Still wary, but enjoying the inane situation, the little half-elf watched her husband's face, noting the slightest shift of an eyebrow as he focused on Blackmage's finger and debated whether or not to bite it off. She stuffed a fist against her lips to stop a savage giggle.

"That's very neighborly of you. Is this a special occasion? Should I slip into something a little more ceremonial?" Nadcorp inquired politely.

Cyndre bit his lip, and Nyx could see the humor rising in his eyes, but the young mage stayed deathly silent as Blackmage foundered and struggled to find his purpose again.

"Yeah yeah. In English." Over the man's shoulder, she could see Nadcorp shrugging in confusion. He had no idea what they were talking about either.

One of the unknown wizards spoke up, a thin, extremely young man with slashes of red flashing along the inside of his robes. "Nadcorp cast a branding spell upon us all and paid Fain, the fighter, to try and assassinate us."

Nyx raised both eyebrows, ostensibly thinking their accusation over. She noticed Hecubus fidgeting nervously out of the corner of her eye. At least one mage realized he was caught between two of the most deadly mortals to walk Caspia's ground.

Across the group of men, her husband lowered his head imperceptibly, altered the grip on his dagger so slightly that she wouldn't have noticed unless she was looking for it.

Inwardly she agreed with his suggestion, fleeing was the best bet right now. They would return later to sort everything out. When the magi regained their collective wits. For outwards appearances she gave another shrug.

With an inarticulate roar, the wizard spun back around, his hands clenching into fists, arcane energy twisting and groaning as he bent it forcefully to his control.

All the crackling, seething power dissipated from Blackmage's lax fingers with a little pop as he gaped, along with his companions, at the empty boulder where the rogue used to be. Only the quickly drying stains of Nadcorp's blood remained.

"Nahhh... Besides, I'm sure you missed my company." Aivlys waxed eloquent, "Bereft of my sparkling conversation, you moped through the day, awaiting that one glorious moment when you could see me again."

Suddenly repentant, he patted the man on the shoulder. "She's young. She's got a lot of training to do still. But she said she'd see you tomorrow."

"My pleasure." He glided from his relaxed sprawl to execute a graceful little bow before the healer, then collapsed comfortably again. "Aivlys: Your one-stop connection to love, riches and power!"

Sorrow laughed heartily, his staff cradled against his shoulder, one hand resting lovingly on the smooth wood. "So what did you want, Aiv? You never said."

"You mean you didn't even notice?" The look of affront on Aivlys' face was too much, the young healer doubled over with laughter. An indignant sniff was all the rogue voiced while his friend collapsed in mirth.

"Let me guess... You want me to talk to her for you?" Wiping tears from his eyes, the muscular elf glanced at his friend, another irrepressible chuckle rising up through his chest.

"No. I can do that, thanks. You'd probably start laughing again." Aivlys made a disgusted face at his guildbrother and dropped a delicately carved silver ring into his friend's palm. "Give her that, but don't tell her who it's from."

"Hey... This is a nice piece of jewelry." Eyes wide, the cleric examined the band, ignoring the faintest shiver of magic that brushed over his fingers. "You steal it?"

"Sorrow! A man does not steal when wooing a lady!" His voice becoming haughty, Aivlys glared down at the snickering man before relaxing with a laugh. "Yeah. I stole it."

That was enough to cause Sorrow to nearly drop the exquisite ring in his own laughter. Carefully, he threaded it onto a gray-green ribbon tied securely to his arm.

"There. It's hanging on Isarra's favor now. I won't lose it." The healer gave his companion a warm smile. "I'll make sure Valentine gets it as soon as possible."

Finally unable to keep up the fight, Nadcorp spread his hands and gave the little half-elf an appealing smile. "I was kidding, babe. You should know I don't get involved in mortal conflicts."

"Ooof!" Nadcorp coughed more in surprise than pain, and fell back under her punch. Nyx knew a moment of vicious triumph before she realized that his hands were laced tightly around her wrists. With a little scream she fell on top of her husband.

"This is why I never get involved in mortal conflicts," He hooked an ankle over her thrashing legs and grinned with unsinkable good humor, "I always win."

Nyx pulled her hands out of Nadcorp's loose grip and stood up, checking her daggers absently. He followed her up, his eyes tracing her body. Without even turning around, the little assassin delivered a sharp smack to her husband's head. He didn't even bother to duck, he was laughing too hard.

"Hey... Easy. Easy. You're doing fine. You're just busy finding out who this new killer is. Once you get that solved, you'll have more time to direct the rogues. Where's Basbear?"

Nyx paced the room soundlessly, checking each window and door for listeners or enemies without realizing she did it. "Aivlys said he was at Cyn's wedding. With Valentine." She sighed, "I can only hope he's convincing her to use her influence on the gods to help us out here. But what about you and your damn wizards?" Nadcorp became the victim of her steely glare.

He shrugged apathetically and gave her a wink. "I'll handle it. And..." In response to the demand forming on her lips, "I won't kill all of them."

Almost accidentally, his fingers brushed over her shoulder. "Day after. See ya." With a last wicked grin, Nadcorp slipped from the room, leaving his wife to fret.

"Screw you all." She muttered, and took her own way out their meeting place and shifted between one shadow and the next as she climbed down to street level. She wasn't sure who she was angry at just then, but a few thousand gold coins would surely improve her mood.

The trees may have been in full bloom, their flowers trailing a heady aroma that gathered around Jynx in sultry waves. The sun setting over Siva might have created a vista of such breathtaking beauty that it brought tears to the eyes of the most vile mortal. She never noticed.

Pacing alongside the perimeter wall of her grassy garden, the elf stretched long legs and snarled silently. She should have been able to control Basbear.

Or, at the very least, she should have seen his betrayal coming. Now Sidnee's general was left to pick up the pieces and work out a plan to minimize the loss of the ArchRogue's support.

Once, twice, thrice she stalked the wide edges of her realm, gliding in and out of the sunlight as it fell between tall, leafy trees and the bulk of her mansion. The wrought iron chairs were still carelessly sprawled where Basbear had left them, and she felt a sudden flare of rage and shame sear through her body.

She had been betrayed twice. Once by the half-elf, and once by her own greed. Jynx would never be ArchRogue now, and the knowledge battered at her forced calm. Worse, Basbear was probably going to try and kill her, the wedding had proven a true gauge of his ire.

A crimson spear of light lanced through the mountains, through Siva, through the sweetly trembling leaves to finally splay across the pale white wall of Jynx's home in a random pattern. It looked, to her confused senses, like the last splash of blood left by a lifeless body.

Frowning, she slowly moved toward her house, noting the delicate change of temperature as she fell under the shadow of the still-cool masonry. She needed someone to replace Basbear, or Sidnee just might be annoyed enough to cast her out.

But who had power to equal Basbear's? Or... Who had the ability to get rid of those people Sidnee wanted out of the way? That's all the ArchRogue had been, anyhow; someone to foster chaos throughout Caspia and eliminate their rivals.

She passed beneath the high arch of white stone and onto the back porch, skirting distastefully around the empty chairs and the heavy scent of anger that still lingered there.

Blackmage was her responsibility. She had failed to kill him, so he would be her first concern. But how to get to the cunning man who had already escaped life imprisonment?

An invisible barrier crawled over her skin as Jynx entered her home, and the feeling of safety and peace that always hit her carried an answer. If she couldn't reach Blackmage from outside the circle of his magi, she'd work her way in.

The image of Cyberhawk's young and fearful face flashed in front of her eyes like a replay of the most favorite moments of her life. She laughed.

The dragon lifted the huge icy-white wedge of his head and howled his frustration. The sound rippled out in waves, pushing against the shaking walls and beyond, into Siva.

"Ridorthu! What the hell was that?" Basbear cocked an ear at the distant roar that shuddered through the air and reached back for another Bloody Lotus.

"It's the sound of another victory. I'm feeling much better now, can I get up?" One trapped hand pushed futilely at the blankets that were wound securely around her.

Basbear set his drink down carefully on the bar, sliding the glass into the little ring of moisture that darkened the polished wood. The burning-smooth taste of alcohol lingered in his mouth as he peered at Valentine's delicate face, watching her breathing intently to see how much damage Menke's dagger had done.

There was the slightest catch on every slow, indrawn breath and he could hear the bubbling sound of blood still in her lungs. Relief filled him cautiously, she would be alright.

Content that his mother would sleep peacefully, the ArchRogue leaned his elbows against the bar and started to wonder what side he was on anymore.

In the center of the whirlwind of violence and terror that eternally circled his Tower, Raist propped his chin on his hands and sighed. Outside, spirits of rage and chaos danced under the bonds of his unbreakable will.

His scarred shoulder ached, but it was a pleasant and ignorable pain, much like the occasional strain of energy taken to keep his nefarious subjects submissive. Off to his right, past his field of view, the old elf knew that Trea was watching him. Her attention was like a warm flush on his skin.

If Raist was to turn around, he knew he'd see the war in her eyes. There would be desire there, and doubt, and a touch of fear that was all the sweeter because she knew it was there too.

And he'd see death, growing like the westlands' wild grass with no regard for her worth. Time did not care that she filled his thoughts with a comfortable sharp scent of danger, time was not attracted to her vicious humor or the enchanting sweep of her eyelashes.

Not that it mattered, of course; no amount of wishing or worrying could stop death from taking his consort from him. He reached out a hand and pulled a blue leather-bound grimoire out of the bookcase at random, set it down lightly on the desk and flipped through a few pages absently.

As if on a god's whim, the book had opened to the spell he had copied out for one of Sidnee's generals; the thin elven woman with the feeling of uneasiness about her.

Betrayal did not sit lightly with him, and Sidnee had indeed betrayed the trust he had placed in her. The sigil of his name felt heavy where it hung around his neck, weighed down with his dark thoughts.

Roland had been right, the master reluctantly realized, Trea was the better choice, though she had no powers to give him, and though she would soon be taken from him by the inevitability of time. More fool he, for thinking that Sidnee might chose to bestow her immortal power upon him.

Regret hit him sharply and without warning, and the wizard relished the delicate sorrow he felt. For long minutes he thought of every harsh word and action he had shown Trea, every time he had exulted in his power over her as she turned guilty or frightened eyes on him.

Sweet remorse filled him and he almost opened his mouth to speak, to try and mend all the wrongs he had done her. It wasn't too late, he could still make it right, all he had to do was speak.

Of their own accord, his fingers brushed over the edge of the page, carefully avoiding the poison that lined the elegant border along the paper. Regret was a pretty emotion, and he enjoyed it, but he was still the master of the Tower. Nothing changed.

Musing, he toyed with the thought of sharing his godhood with her, then dismissed the idea with his next breath. Hemjold may have believed that fabrication, but his mistress didn't deserve to be lied to, there was only so much time he had left with her, and Raist didn't want to spend any of it soothing her hurt feelings.

The grimoire closed beneath his hands as he turned his attention to Ridorthu's notes. Trea would die, regrettably, and he would miss her company. Perhaps even a hundred years or more would pass before he forgot her in his own dreams of eternal power.

"Raist?" He turned at the sound of his voice, comforted by the shadows that flickered too close to the woman. Oddly, looking at her, he wondered what Sidnee had given up when she chose immortality.

Anger seethed low, coursing beneath her skin with each beat of her heart. Jynx threw her head back and took a long, deep breath. Things weren't going so well.

The acolyte gave her an uncomfortable look and backed away from the door, his eyes downcast as he started to put three inches of solid wood between himself and the short elf. Her answering gaze was enough to nearly burn the wood.

With a note of finality, the door clicked shut, and Jynx slumped against the inset wall, her knees nearly giving way beneath her. Evening shadows fell heavily from the warm stone walls of the mage hall, pooling far out into the street.

Cyberhawk was nowhere to be found, and the child guarding the door to the massive living tree that housed the magi would not let her enter their sanctum. She only had a few more hours, the `Thorn had already docked in Kieron's harbor, and Sidnee would call a meeting soon.

"Get real!" A young, harsh voice rose from her right and Jynx froze, not believing her good luck. With care she slipped up against the hall, brushing painfully against the crackling magical barriers, and scrambled up to the roof of the library that leaned against the tree. Two more heartbeats passed as she made sure no one had noticed her.

Another voice answered Cyberhawk's outburst, she grinned. It was Hecubus. Sounded like an argument over spells, or something equally inane. They wouldn't know what hit them.