Amber and Ashes

1

Mina buried her queen beneath a mountain.

The queen had raised that mountain, molded it, shaped it, lifted it up with her immortal hand. And now she lay beneath it.

The mountain would die. Gnawed by the teeth of the wind, savaged by the drops of rain, slowly, over time, century upon century, the magnificent mountain Takhisis had created would crumble into dust, mingle, and become lost among the ashes of its dead creator. The final ignominy. The final, bitter irony.

“They will pay,” vowed Mina, watching the sun set beyond the mountain, watching its shadow steal across the valley.“They will pay—all those who had a hand in this, mortal and immortal. I would make them pay, if I weren’t so tired. So very tired.”

She woke up tired; if one could use the term “waking,” for she never truly slept She passed the night in a restless doze in which she remained conscious of every shift in the wind, every animal grunt or cry, every dimming of the moonlight or flicker of the stars. Sleep lapped at her feet, ripples wetting her toes. Whenever sleep’s waves, silent and calm, restful and peaceful, would start to carry her away, she would jerk to wakefulness with a gasp, as though she were drowning, and sleep would recede.

Mina spent the daylight hours guarding the Dark Queen’s burial site. She never moved far from that tomb beneath the mountain, though Galdar nagged at her constantly to leave, if only for a little while.

“Go for a walk among the trees,” the minotaur begged her, “or bathe in the lake or climb the rocky cliffs to see the sunrise.”

Mina could not leave. She had a terrible fear that some person of Ansalon would find this holy site, and once that happened, the gawkers would come to stare and poke at the body and giggle and smirk. The treasure seekers and despoilers would come to rip off the jewels and lug away the holy artifacts. Takhisis’s enemies would come to triumph over her. Her faithful would come, desperate to have their prayers answered, to try to bring her back.

That would be worst of all, Mina decided. Takhisis, a queen who had ruled heaven and the Abyss, forever chained to the whining pleas of those who had done nothing to try to save her when she died except wring their hands and whimper, “What will become of me?”

Day in and day out, Mina paced before the entrance to the tomb beneath the mountain where she had placed the body of the dead queen. She had worked hard, for weeks, for months maybe—she had no sense of time—to hide the fact that there was an entrance, planting trees, bushes, and wild flowers in front of it, training them to grow over it.

Galdar helped her in her task, and so did the gods, though she was not aware of their help and would have scorned it if she’d known of it.

The gods who had judged Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, and found her guilty of breaking the immortal oath they had all sworn at time’s beginning, knew as well as Mina what would happen if mortals discovered the location of the Dark Queen’s resting place. Trees that were seedlings when Mina planted them grew ten feet tall in a month. Brush and bramble bushes sprang up overnight. A howling wind that never ceased to blow polished the cliff face smooth, so that no trace of the entrance to the tomb remained visible.

Even Mina could no longer find the entrance, at least when she was awake. She could see it always in her dreams. Now there was nothing left for her to do except to guard it from everyone—mortal and immortal. She had become distrustful even of Galdar, for he had been among those responsible for her queen’s downfall. She didn’t like the way the minotaur was always urging her to leave. She suspected that he was waiting for her to depart and then he would break into the tomb.

“Mina,” Galdar swore to her over and over, “I have no idea where the entrance to the tomb is. I could not even find this mountain if I left it, for the sun never rises in the same place twice!” He gestured to the horizon. “The gods themselves conceal it. East is west one day and west is east another. That is why it is safe to leave, Mina. Once you leave, you will never find your way back. You can move on with your life.”

She knew the truth of that in her heart. She knew it and longed for it and was terrified of it.

“Takhisis was my life,” Mina said to Galdar in answer. “When I looked in a mirror, her face was the face I saw. When I spoke, her voice was the voice I heard. Now she is gone, and when I look in the mirror, no face looks back. When I speak, there is only silence. Who am I, Galdar?”

“You are Mina,” he replied.

“And who is Mina?” she asked.

Galdar could only stare at her, helpless.

They had this conversation often, almost every day. They had it again this morning. This time, though, Galdar’s answer was different. He had been thinking long about this and when she said, “Who is Mina?” he responded quietly, “Goldmoon knew who you were, Mina. In her eyes you could see yourself. You didn’t see Takhisis.”

Mina considered this.

Looking back on her life, she saw it divided into three parts.

The first was childhood. Those years were nothing but a blur of color, fresh paint that someone had smeared with a soaking wet sponge.

The second was Goldmoon and the Citadel of Light.

Mina had no memory of the shipwreck or of being washed overboard or whatever had happened to bet For her memory—and life had begun when she opened her eyes to find herself wet and water-logged, lying in the sand, looking up at a group of people who had gathered around her, people who spoke to her with loving compassion.

They asked her what had happened to her.

She didn’t know.

They asked her name.

She didn’t know that either.

They would eventually conclude that she had been the survivor of a shipwreck—though no ships had been reported missing. Her parents were presumed to have been lost at sea. That theory seemed most likely, since no one ever came searching for her.

They said it was not unusual that she remembered nothing of her past, for she had suffered a severe blow to the head, which often accounted for memory loss.

They took her to a place they called the Citadel of Light, a wondrous place of warmth and radiance and serenity. Looking back on this time, Mina could not ever remember gray skies in connection with the Citadel, though she knew there must have been days of wind and storm. For her, the years she spent there, from the age of nine to fourteen, were lit by the sun gleaming on the crystal walls of the Citadel. Lit by the smile of the woman who came to be dear to her as a mother—the founder of the Citadel Goldmoon.

They told Mina that Goldmoon was a hero, a famous person all over Ansalon. Her name-was spoken with love and respect in every part of that continent. Mina didn’t care about any of that. She cared only that when Goldmoon spoke to her, she spoke to her with gentle kindness and with love. Although a busy person, Goldmoon was never too busy to answer Mina’s questions, and Mina loved to ask questions.

Goldmoon was old when Mina first met her, as old as a mountain, the girl used to think. Goldmoon’s hair was white, her face lined with deep sorrow and deeper joy, lines of loss and grief, lines of finding and hope. Her eyes were young as laughter, young as tears and—Galdar was right. Looking back through time, Mina could see herself in Goldmoon’s eyes.

She saw a girl growing too fast, awkward and gawky, with long red hair and amber-colored eyes. Every night, Goldmoon would brush the red hair that was thick and luxurious, and answer all the questions Mina had thought up during the day. When her hair was brushed and plaited and she was ready for her bed, Goldmoon would take Mina onto her lap and tell her stories of the lost gods.

Some of the stories were dark, for there were gods who ruled the dark passions that are in every man’s heart. There were gods of light in opposition to the gods of dark. Gods who ruled all that was good and noble in mankind. The dark gods struggled endlessly to gain ascendancy over mankind. The gods of light worked ceaselessly to oppose them. The neutral gods held the scales of balance. All mankind stood in the middle, each man free to choose his or her own destiny, for without freedom, men would die, as the caged bird dies, and the world would cease to be.

Goldmoon enjoyed telling Mina the stories, but Mina could tell that the stories made her adopted mother sad, for the gods were gone and man was left alone to struggle along as best he could. Goldmoon had made a life for herself without the gods, but she missed them and she longed more than anything for them to return.

“When I am grown,” Mina would often say to Goldmoon, “I will go out into the world, and I will find the gods and bring them back to you.”

“Ah, child,” Goldmoon would answer with the smile that made her eyes bright, “your search should carry you no farther than here.” She placed her hand on Mina’s heart. “For though the gods are gone, their memory is born in each of us: memories of eternal love and endless patience and ultimate forgiveness.”

Mina didn’t understand. She had no memory of anything from birth. Looking back, she saw nothing except emptiness and darkness. Every night, when she lay alone in the darkness in her room, she would pray the same prayer.

“I know you are out there somewhere. Let me be the one to find you. I will be your faithful servant. I swear it! Let me be the one to bring knowledge of you to the world.”

One night, when Mina was fourteen, she made that same prayer, made it as fervently and earnestly as she had on the very first night she had ever prayed it. And, on this night, there came an answer.

A voice spoke to her from the darkness.

“I am here, Mina. If I will tell you how to find me, will you come to me?”

Mina sat up eagerly in bed. “Who are you? What is your name?”

“I am Takhisis, but you will forget that. For you, I have no name. I need no name, for I am alone in the universe, the sole god, the one god.”

“I will call you the One God, then,” said Mina. Jumping out of bed, she hastily dressed herself, made ready to travel. “Let me go tell Mother where I am going—”

“Mother,” Takhisis repeated in scorn and anger. “You have no mother. Your mother is dead.”

“I know,” said Mina, faltering, “but Goldmoon has become my mother. She is dearer to me than anyone, and I must tell her that I am leaving, or when she finds that I am gone, she will be worried.”

The voice of the goddess changed, no longer angry but sweetly crooning. “You must not tell her or that would ruin the surprise. Our surprise—yours and mine. For the day will come when you will return to tell Goldmoon that you have found the One God, the ruler of the world.”

“But why can’t I tell her now?” Mina demanded.

“Because you have not yet found me,” Takhisis replied sternly. “I am not even certain you are worthy. You must prove yourself. I need a disciple who is courageous and strong, who will not be deterred by unbelievers or swayed by naysayers, who will face pain and torment without flinching. All this you must prove to me. Do you have the courage, Mina?”

Mina trembled, terrified. She didn’t think she did have the courage. She wanted to go back to her bed, and then she thought of Goldmoon and how wonderful the surprise would be. She imagined Goldmoon’s joy when she saw Mina coming to her, bringing with her a god.

Mina laid her hand over her heart. “I have the courage, One God. I will do this for my adopted mother.”

“That is as I would wish it,” said Takhisis, and she laughed as though Mina had said something funny.

Thus began the third part of Mina’s life, and if the first was a blur and the second was light, the third was shadow. Acting on the One God’s command, Mina ran away from the Citadel of Light. She sought out a ship in the harbor and went onboard. The ship had no crew. Mina was the only person aboard, yet the wheel turned, the sails raised and lowered; all tasks were accomplished by unseen hands.

The ship sailed over waves of time and carried her to a place that she seemed to have known forever yet just this moment discovered. In this place, Mina first beheld the face of the Dark Queen, and she was beautiful and awful, and Mina bowed down and worshipped her.

Takhisis gave Mina test after test, challenge after challenge. Mina endured them all. She knew pain akin to the pain of dying, and she did not cry out. She knew pain akin to the pain of birth, and she did not flinch.

Then came the day when Takhisis said to Mina, “I am pleased with you. You are my chosen. Now is the time for you to go back to the world and prepare the people for my return.”

“I went back to the world,” Mina mad Galdar, “on the night of the great storm. I met you that night. I performed my first miracle on you. I restored your arm.”

He cast her a meaningful glance, and she flushed and said hurriedly, “I mean—the One God restored your arm.” Call her by who she was,” said Galdar harshly. “Call her Takhisis.”

He looked involuntarily at the stump that was all that was left of his sword arm. When he had found out the true name of the One God, the god who had returned his lost arm to him, Galdar had prayed to his god Sargonnas to remove it again.

“I would not be her slave,” he muttered, but Mina didn’t hear him.

She was thinking about. pride, hubris and ambition. She was thinking about the desire for power and who had truly been responsible for the fall of the Dark Queen.

“My fault,” she said. “I can admit that now. I was the one who destroyed her. Not the gods. Not even that wretched god elf Valthonis, or whatever he calls himself. I destroyed her.

“I betrayed her.”

“Mina, no!” Galdar returned, shocked. “You were her slave just as much as any of us: she used you, manipulated you—:”

Mina raised her amber eyes to meet his. “So you believed. So they all believed. I alone knew the truth I knew it and so did my Queen. I raised an army of the dead. I fought and killed two mighty dragons. I tampered the elves and brought them under the heel of my boot. I conquered the Solamnics and saw them run from me like whipped dogs. I made the Dark Knights a power to be feared and respected.““All in the name of Takhisis,” said Galdar. The minotaur scratched the fur on his jowls and rubbed his muzzle. He looked uneasy.

“I wanted it to be in my name,” said Mina. “She knew. it. She saw into my heart and that was why she was going to destroy me.”

“And that was why you were going to let her,” said Galdar.

Mina sighed and bowed her head. She sat on the hard ground, her legs drawn up, her arms wrapped around her knees. She wore the clothes she had worn that fateful day when her Queen had died, the simple garments worn underneath the armor of a Dark Knight—shirt and breeches. They were ragged and worn now, bleached by the sun to a nondescript gray. The only color that was bright upon it was the red blood of the queen who had died in Mina’s arms.

Galdar shook his horned head and sat up straight on the boulder he was using for a seat, a boulder he’d rubbed smooth over the past several months.

“All that is over now, Mina. It is time you moved on. There is yet much to do in the world and a new world in which to do it. The Dark Knights are in disarray, unorganized. They need a strong leader to bring them together.”

“They would not follow me,” said Mina..

Galdar opened his mouth to remonstrate then shut it again.

Mina glanced up at him, saw that he knew the truth as well as she did. The Dark Knights would never again accept her as a commander. They had been wary of her from the beginning—a girl of seventeen, who barely knew one end of a sword from another, who had never seen a battle, much less led men into one.

The miracles she performed had won them over. As she had, once told that wretched elf prince, men loved the god they saw in her, not her, and when that god was overthrown and Mina lost her power to perform miracles, the knights went down to disastrous defeat. Not only that, but they believed that she deserted them at the end, left them so face death alone. They would never follow her again, and she could not blame them.

Nor did she want to be a leader of men. She did not want to go to back into the world again. She was too tired. She wanted only to. sleep. She leaned back against the bones of the mountain where her queen lay in her eternal slumber and dosed her eyes.

She must have drifted off, for she woke to find Galdar squatting beside her, pleading with her earnestly.

“—must leave this prison, Mina! You’ve punished yourself enough. You have to forgive yourself, Mina. What happened to Takhisis was her own fault. Not yours. You are not to blame. She was going to kill you! You know that. She was going to take over your body, devour your soul! That elf did you a favor by killing her.”

Mina raised her head. Her look stopped him, stopped the words on his lips and rocked the minotaur back on his heels as surely as if she’d struck him.

“I’m sorry, Mina. I didn’t mean that. Come with me,” Galdar urged.

Mina reached out her hand, patted him on the one arm that was left to him. “Go on, Galdar. I know your god has been hounding you, demanding that you join him in his conquest of Silvanesti.”

She smiled wanly at Galdar’s sudden discomfiture.

“I’ve eavesdropped on your prayers to Sargonnas, my friend,” she told him. “Go fight for your god. When you come back, you will tell me all that is happening in the world.”

“If I leave this accursed valley, I can never come back. You know that, Mina,” said Galdar. “The gods will see to that. They will see to it that no one ever—”

His words froze on his tongue. Even as he spoke them, they were being proven untrue. He stared out across the valley, rubbed his eyes, stared again.

“I must be seeing things.” He squinted into the sun. “What now?” Mina asked wearily. She did not look. “Someone is coming,” he reported, “walking across the floor of the valley. But that can’t be.”

“It can be, Galdar,” said Mina, her gaze now going to follow his own. “Someone is coming.”

A man strode purposefully across the windswept, bare-bones floor of the desert valley. He was tall and moved with commanding grace. Long, dark hair blew back behind him. His body shimmered in the waves of heat that rise up from the surface of the sand-covered rock.

“He is coming for me.”

2

The valley was a bowl-like depression scooped out of the same bedrock that had been lifted up to form the mountain. A fine layer of sand covered the rock, which was reddish yellow in color. A few sparse and scraggly bushes grew there, but no trees. No trees grew anywhere in this part of the land, except the strange trees that had sprung up in front of the tomb. A stream of water—cobalt blue against the red—zigzagged across the valley floor, cutting through the rock.

The mountain in which the Dark Queen was buried was honeycombed with caves, and in two of these Mina and Galdar had made their homes for the past year. Heat from the sun rose in shimmering waves off the floor of the valley in the daytime. The temperature dropped precipitously at night and rose again to unbearable levels during the day.

The valley was god-cursed. No mortal could find it. Galdar had found it only because he’d prayed day and night to Sargonnas to let him find it, and at last, the god relented. When Mina had carried the body of her goddess from the temple where Takhisis had died, Galdar had followed her. He alone knew the terrible grief she must be suffering. He hoped to be able to help her bury her queen forever. Galdar had followed Mina for a day and a night but could never seem to catch up to her, and then one morning, after waking from an exhausted sleep, he could not find her at all.

He guessed, of course, that the gods would not want any mortal to discover the burial place of Queen Takhisis and that they had hidden Mina from him for that reason. Galdar prayed to Sargonnas to be allowed to go to Mina and Sargonnas had granted his prayer—for a price. The god had transported Galdar to the secret burial site. Galdar and Mina had laid the Dark Queen to rest beneath the mountain, and then Galdar had spent the rest of his time trying to persuade Mina to return to the world. In this Galdar had failed, and now the god was putting pressure on Galdar to fulfill his end of the bargain. Minotaur ships were arriving in Silvanesti, bringing troops and colonists, making the former elf homeland the minotaurs’ own, and making the humans who lived in the other nations of Ansalon extremely nervous.

The Solamnic knights, the knights of the Legion of Steel, and the formidable barbaric warriors of the Plains of Dust—all of these humans were eying the minotaur encroachment onto their continent with growing ire. Sargonnas needed an ambassador to these races. He needed a minotaur who understood humans to go to them and placate them, convince them that the minotaurs had no plans for expansion. The minotaurs were content with conquering and seizing the lands of an ancient foe. Solamnia and the other realms were safe.

Galdar had lived among humans and fought alongside them for years. He was the perfect choice as ambassador to the humans, and he was made even more perfect by the fact that humans tended to like him and trust him. Galdar wanted to serve the god who had saved him from Takhisis, taken away his arm and given him back his self-respect. Sargonnas was not a patient god. He had made it clear to Galdar that he either came now or he did not come at all.

Galdar had first thought, rather fearfully, that perhaps Sargonnas had grown so tired of waiting that the god was coming for Galdar.

A second look dissuaded him of that notion. He could not make out the features of this person, who was yet too far away, but it was human in shape and form, not minotaur.

But no human was permitted to walk this valley. No mortal, other than the two of them, was allowed here.

The hackles on Galdar’s neck rose. The fur on his back and arms rippled with a fell chill. “I don’t like this, Mina. We should flee. Now. Before this man sees us.”

“Not a man, Galdar,” said Mina. “A god. He comes for us. Or rather, he comes for me.”

He saw her hand go to her waist, saw it close over the hilt of a knife—a knife he recognized. He reached for his own knife and found it was not there.

She glanced at him, half-smiled. “I took your knife, Galdar. I took it from you in the night.”

He didn’t like the way she held it, as though it were something precious to her.

“Who is that man, Mina?” the minotaur demanded, his voice hoarse with a fear he could not name. “What does he want with you?”

“You should leave, Galdar,” she told him quietly, her gaze fixed on the stranger, who was drawing closer. His stride had quickened. He seemed impatient to reach his destination. “This is none of your concern.”

The figure came into view. He was a human male of indeterminate age. His face was what humans consider handsome—cleft chin, square jaw, aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, smooth brow. He wore his black hair long; sleek locks curled about his shoulders and hung down his back. His skin was so pallid as to seem bloodless. He had no color in his lips or cheeks. His eyes were dark as creation’s first night. Set deep beneath heavy brows, they seemed darker still, always in shadow.

He was dressed all in black; his clothes were rich, which bespoke wealth. His black velvet coat came to his knees. Nipped in at his narrow waist, the coat was trimmed in silver at the sleeves and around the hem. He wore black breeches that came to just below the knee, trimmed with black ribbons. He had black silken stockings and black boots with silver buckles. White lace adorned his shirt, spread in frills over his bosom, protruding from his sleeves, falling languidly over his hands. He carried himself with grace and confidence and an awareness of his own power.

Galdar shivered. Though the sun’s heat was intense, he could no longer feel it. A cold so ancient that it made the mountain young crept into the marrow of his bones. He had faced many terrible foes in his life, including the Dragon Overlord Malys, and he had not run from any of them. He could not help himself now. He began to edge backward.

“Sargonnas!” Galdar prayed to his god. His voice cracked on the name and he tried to swallow, to moisten his throat. “Sargonnas, give me strength. Help me fight this dread foe—”

The god’s answer was a snort. “I’ve indulged your loyalty to this human female thus far, Galdar, but my patience has run out. Leave her to her fate. It is well-deserved.”

“I cannot,” said Galdar staunchly, though he blanched at the sight of the strange man. “I am pledged to her—”

“I warn you, Galdar,” said Sargonnas in dire tones. “Do not come between Chemosh and his prey.”

“Chemosh!” Galdar cried hollowly.

Chemosh. Lord of Death. Galdar began to tremble. His insides crawled.

Mina held up Galdar’s knife. The knife was old with a bone handle. It was a utility knife, one used for a variety of purposes, from cleaning fish to gutting deer. He kept the blade sharp, well-honed. He watched Mina raise the knife, saw the light of the sun reflected in the metal of the blade but not in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on the god.

She held the blade in her right hand. Reversing it, she pressed the blade’s sharp point against her throat. The inner flame in the amber eyes flashed briefly then dimmed. Her lips compressed. Her grip on the knife tightened. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath.

Galdar roared and lunged for her. He had waited too long. He could not reach her before she plunged the blade into her throat. He hoped his roar would distract her before she could destroy herself.

Chemosh lifted his hand in a negligent, almost careless gesture. Galdar flew off his feet, sailed into the air, upheld by the hand of the god. Galdar fought and struggled, but he was in the grasp of the god and there was no escape. No more than if he’d tried to flee from death itself.

Chemosh carried the minotaur—flailing and roaring—away from the valley, away from the mountain, away from Mina, who was receding into the distance, growing smaller and smaller, dwindling by the second.

Galdar reached out his hand to try desperately to grab hold of time and the world as both thundered past him—to seize hold of them, of her. She looked up at him with her eyes of amber and for a brief moment, the two of them touched.

Then the raging waters tore her from his grasp. His bellow of frantic desperation deepened, became a roar of despair. Galdar sank beneath the floodwaters of time and knew no more.

Galdar woke to voices and to fear. The voices were deep and gruff and came from quite near him.

“Mina!” he cried, as he staggered to his feet, grappling for the sword that he had grimly taught himself to use with his left hand.

Two minotaurs wearing the battle armor of the minotaur legions jumped backward at his sudden rise and reached for their own swords.

“Where is she?” he raved, foam flecking his lips. “Mina! Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“Mina?” The two minotaurs stared at him, bewildered.

“We know of no one by that name,” said one, his sword half-in and half-out of the sheath.

“It sounds human,” growled his comrade. “What is she? Some captive of yours? If so, she must have run away when you fell from that cliff.”

“Either that or she pushed you,” said the soldier.

“Cliff?” Galdar was the one bewildered. He looked to where the minotaur pointed.

A steep cliff reared high above him, its rocky face barely visible through the heavy foliage. He looked around and found himself standing in tall grass beneath the shady branches of a linden tree. His body had left a deep gouge in the soft, moist loam.

Far from the sun-baked desert. Far from the mountain.

“We saw you fall from that great height,” said the minotaur. He shoved his blade back into its sheath. “Truly, Sargonnas must love you. We thought you were dead, for you must have plunged over one hundred feet straight down. Yet here you stand with naught but a bump on your head.”

Galdar tried to find the mountain, but the trees were too thick. He could not see the horizon line. He lowered his gaze. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped.

“What is your name, friend?” asked the other. “And what are you doing roaming about Silvanesti alone? The elf scum left in these parts do not dare attack us in the open, but they are quick to ambush a lone minotaur.”

“My name is Galdar,” he said, lifeless, dispirited.

The two soldiers gave a start, exchanged glances.

“Galdar the One-armed!” one exclaimed, his eyes fixing on the stump.

“Why, then, not only did the god save your life, he dropped you right at the feet of your escorts!” said the other.

“Escorts?” Galdar regarded them warily, confused and distrustful. “What do you mean … escorts?”

“Commander Faros received word that you were coming, my lord, and dispatched us to meet you to see that you reached headquarters safely. Truly, we are well-met, all praise to Sargonnas.”

“It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” added the other soldier, awed. “Your exploits with the Dark Knights are the stuff of legend.”

“Now that I recall, there was someone called Mina. She served under you, my lord, did she not? A minor functionary?”

“The fall must have addled you, my lord. From what we hear, this Mina has been dead for a long time, ever since Sargonnas defeated and put to death Queen Takhisis.”

“May the dogs chew on her bones,” added the soldier grimly.

Galdar looked around one final time for some sign of the mountain, the desert. For some sign of Mina. Futile, he knew, yet he could not help himself. He looked back then at the two minotaur, who were waiting for him patiently, regarding him—one arm and all—with respect and admiration.

“Praise to Sargonnas,” Galdar said softly, and, squaring his shoulders, he took his first step into his new life.

3

Bracing herself for death, Mina gave the knife a sharp thrust. Death watched her with amusement.

The blade changed to wax that almost immediately began to melt in the hot sun. The warm wax oozed out between her fingers Mina stared at it, stupefied, not understanding. Lifting her eyes she met the eyes of the god.

Her legs trembled. Her strength failed her. She sank down onto her knees, dropped her head into her hands. She could no longer see the god, but she heard his footsteps coming nearer and nearer. His shadow fell over her, blotting out the hot sun. She shivered.

“Let me die, Lord Chemosh,” she mumbled, not looking up “Please. I only want to rest.”

She heard the creak of his leather boots, sensed him moving near her, kneeling beside her. He smelled of myrrh, and she was reminded of the perfumed oils poured onto funeral pyres to mask the stench of burning flesh. Mingled with the musky fragrance was the faint, sweet odor of lily and rose, faded and fragile as the petals of youth pressed between the pages of life’s book. His hand touched her hair, smoothed it. His hand moved from her hair to her face. His touch was cool on her sunburned skin.

“You are worn out, Mina,” Chemosh said to her, his breath soft and warm upon her cheek. “Sleep is what you need. Sleep, not death. Only the poets confuse the two.”

He caressed her face with his hand, stroked her hair.

“But you came for me, my lord,” Mina said in drowsy protest, relaxing beneath his touch, melting as the waxen knife. “You are Death and you came for me.”

“I did. But I don’t want you dead. I need you alive, Mina.” His lips brushed her hair.

The touch of the god could be human, if the god willed it. Chemosh’s touch roused in Mina yearnings and feelings she had never before experienced. Virginal in body and mind, Mina had been protected from desire by her queen, who did not want her chosen disciple distracted by weaknesses of the flesh.

Mina knew desire now, felt it burn to life inside her.

Chemosh cupped her face with his hand, moved slowly to stroke her neck. His finger traced the path the blade of the knife might have taken, and Mina felt it sharp, cold, and burning, and she shuddered in pain that was both bitter and exalting.

“I feel your heart beating, Mina,” Chemosh said. “I feel your flesh warm, your blood pulsing.”

Mina did not understand the strange sensations his touch aroused in her. Her body ached, but the pain was pleasurable, and she never wanted such pleasure to end. She pressed nearer to him. Her lips sought his and he kissed her, slowly, gently, long and lingering.

He drew away from her, released her.

Mina opened her eyes. She looked into his eyes that were dark and empty as the sea on which she’d wakened one day to find herself alone.

“What are you doing to me, Lord?” she cried, suddenly fearful.

“Bringing you to life, Mina,” Chemosh answered, stroking back her hair from her forehead with his hand. The white lace brushed against her face, the spicy scent of myrrh filled her nostrils. She lay back on the ground, yielding to his touch. “But you are Death,” she argued, confused.

Chemosh kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. His lips moved to the hollow in her throat.

“Did any other gods come to you here, Mina?” he asked. He continued to caress her, but his voice was altered, took on an edge.

“Yes, some did, Lord,” she said.

“What did they come for?”

“Some to save me. Some to chastise me. Some to punish me.” She shuddered. His grip on her tightened and she was reassured.

“Did you make promises to any of them?” he asked. The edge grew sharper.

“No. None, my lord. I swear it.”

He was pleased. “Why not, Mina?” he asked with a smile playing about his lips.

Mina took hold of his hand, placed it on her breast, over her beating heart. “They wanted my faith. They wanted my loyalty They wanted my fear.”

“Yes?”

“None of them wanted me.”

“I want you, Mina,” said Chemosh. He kept his hand resting on her breast, felt her heart beat increase. “Give yourself to me Make me lord of all things. Make me the lord of your life.”

Mina was silent. She seemed troubled, stirred uneasily beneath his touch.

“Speak what is in your heart, Mina,” he said. “I will not be offended.”

“You betrayed her,” she said at last, accusing.

“Takhisis was the one who betrayed us, Mina,” Chemosh replied, chiding. “She betrayed you.”

“No, my lord,” Mina protested. “No, she told me the truth.” “Lies, Mina. All lies. And you knew it.”

Mina shook her head and tried to free herself from his grasp, “You knew she lied to you,” Chemosh said relentlessly. He held her pinned in his grasp, pressed her into the ground. “You knew it at the end. You were glad the elf killed her.”

Mina raised up her hands, her amber eyes lifted to the dragon. “Your Majesty, I have always adored you, worshipped you. I pledged my life to your service and I stand ready to honor that pledge. Through my fault, you lost the body you would have inhabited. I offer my own. Take my life. Use me as your vessel. Thus, I prove my faith!”

Queen Takhisis was beautiful, but her beauty was fell and terrible to look upon. Her face was cold as the vast frozen wastelands to the south, where a man perishes in instant; his breath turning to ice in his lungs. Her eyes were the flames of the funeral pyre. Her nails were talons, her hair the long and ragged hair of the corpse. Her armor was black fire. At her side she wore a sword perpetually stained with blood, a sword used to sever the souls from their bodies.

Mina cried, a wail of grief and anger. She struggled in Death’s grasp.

Takhisis reached for Mina’s heart, intending to make that heart her own. Takhisis reached for Mina’s soul, intending to snatch it from her body and cast it into oblivion. Takhisis reached out to fill Mina’s body with her own immortal essence.

“Admit it, Mina.” Chemosh held her fast, forced her to look into his eyes. “You were hoping someone would finish her for you.”

The elf king held in his band the broken fragment of the dragonlance. He threw the lance, threw it with the strength of his anguish and his guilt, threw it with strength of his fear and his love.

The lance struck Takhisis, lodged in her breast.

She stared down in shock to see the lance protruding, from her flesh. Her fingers moved to touch the bright, dark blood welling from the terrible wound. She staggered started to fall . .

“I killed the elf with my own hands,” Mina cried. “My queen died in my arms. I would have given—”

Mina stopped the words that had been pouring forth. She lowered her eyes from Chemosh’s intense gaze, averted her head.

“You would have given your life for Takhisis? You gave her your life; Mina, the time you fought Malys. Takhisis brought you back for her own selfish reasons. She needed you. If she had not, she would have let you fall through her fingers as so much dust and ash. And at the end, she had the temerity to blame you for her downfall.”

Mina went limp in his grasp.

“She was right, my lord.” Tears of shame seeped from beneath her eyelids. “Her death was my fault.”

Chemosh brushed aside the tangle of red hair to see her face, “And when she died, some part of you was glad.”

Mina moaned and turned her face away from him. He smoothed back her tear-wet hair, wiped away her tears.

“Loyalty to your queen is not what has kept you in this valley You stay because of your guilt. Guilt made you prisoner. Guilt your jailor. Guilt was almost your slayer.”

He put both hands on her face, looked deep into the amber eyes.

“You have no reason to feel guilty, Mina. Takhisis bought and paid for her own fate.”

His voice softened, soothed. “She is gone and so is Paladine.” “Paladine .” Mina murmured. “My oath, to avenge my queen’s death … on him, on the elves…”

“So you shall,” Chemosh promised. “But not yet. Not now The way must be prepared. Hear me, Mina, and understand. Both the great gods are gone now. Only one remains—their brothel Gilean, god of the book, god of doubt and indecision. He stand with the scales of balance, light in one hand, darkness in another Every waking second, he weighs them to make certain that they do not shift.”

Mina looked up at him, entranced. He had ceased to talk to her. He was talking to himself.

“A futile task,” Chemosh was saying with a shrug. “The scale will tip. They must since the pantheon is now uneven. Giles knows that he cannot maintain the balance forever. He sees his own downfall, and he is afraid. For I know what he does not. know what will tip the balance.

“Mortals,” said Chemosh, savoring the word. “Mortals are the ones who will topple the scale. Mortals like you, Mina. Mortals who come to the gods of their own free will. Mortals who do our bidding not out of fear, but out of love. Those mortals will grant power to their gods, not the other way around as it has been in ages past. That is why I did not want your death, Mina. That is why I want you alive.”

He put his mouth close to her lips. “Serve me, Mina,” he said so softly that she did not hear the words but felt them burn her skin. “Give yourself to me. Give me your faith. Your loyalty. Your love.”

Mina trembled at her own daring, afraid he would be angry, yet she was thinking of what he said about the power of mortals in this Age of Mortals. She saw in her mind the golden scales that Gilean held, balanced so precariously that a single grain of sand could cause them to wobble.

“And if I give my love to you, what will you give me in return?” Mina asked.

Chemosh was not angered by her question. On the contrary, he seemed pleased.

“Life unending, Mina,” he said to her. “Youth eternal. Beauty unspoiled. As you are now, so you will be five hundred years from now.”

“That is all very well, my lord, but—” she paused.

“But you don’t care about any of that, do you?”

Mina flushed. “I am sorry, lord. I hope you are not offended—”

“No, no. Do not apologize. You want from me what Takhisis was unwilling to grant. Very well. I will give you what you do care about—power. Power over life. Power over death.”

Mina smiled, relaxed in his grasp. “And you will love me?” “As I love you now,” he promised.

“Then I give myself to you, my lord,” she said and she closed her eyes and lifted up her lips for his kiss.

But he was not quite ready to take her for his own. Not yet. He kissed her on her eyelids, first one, then the other.

“Sleep now, Mina. Sleep deep and sleep dreamless. When you wake, you will wake to a new life, a life such as you have never known.”

“Will you be with me?” she murmured.

“Always,” promised Chemosh.

4

The elves, driven from both their ancient homelands, roam the world, exiles. Some have gone to the cities—Palanthas, Sanction, Flotsam, Solace—where they crowd together in dismal dwellings, working at whatever they can to buy food for their children, lost in dreams of past glory. Other elves live in the Plains of Dust, where every day they watch the sun set on their homeland that is far away, almost as far as the sun, or so it seems. They do not dream of the past, but dream blood-spattered dreams of a future of retribution and revenge.

The minotaur sail their ships on the foaming seas and fight their battles among each other, yet always the sun shines bright on the swords that vanquish the ancient enemy and on the axe that cuts down the green forest.

The humans celebrate the deaths of the dragon overlords and worry about the minotaur who have, at long last, established a presence upon Ansalon. The humans do not worry much, however, for they have other problems more pressing—political strife and turmoil in Solamnia, outlaws threatening Abanasinia, goblins rising to power in southern Qualinesti, refugees everywhere.

The dragons emerge from their caves into a world that was once theirs, was lost, and is now theirs again. But they are watchful, wary, even the best of them suspicious and distrustful, just now starting to realize that what was lost is lost for good.

The gods return to an Age of Mortals and know that it is truly named, for it is mortals who will determine whether or not the gods will have any influence over their creation. Thus the gods cannot sit at their ease in the heavens or in the Abyss or on any of the immortal planes, but walk the world, seeking faith, love, prayers. Making promises.

And while all this is happening, a shepherd stands upon a hill, watching his dog bring the sheep to the fold.

A kender plays games with the ghost of a dead child in a graveyard.

A young cleric of Kiri-Jolith welcomes a new convert.

A death knight seethes with rage in his prison and looks for a way out.

Mina woke from a strange dream that she could not remember to darkness so deep that the lights of the candles did little to illuminate it, just as the cold, pale light of the stars are unable to light up the night. Her sleep was as deep as the darkness. She could not remember when she had slept that soundly. No alarms in the night, no sub-commanders waking her with questions that could have waited until morning, no wounded carried in on litters for her to heal.

No face of a dead queen.

Mina lay back on the soft, down pillows that surrounded her and gazed into the darkness. She did not know where she was—certainly this was not the hard, cold floor of the desert on which she had been sleeping. She was too warm, too comfortable, too lethargic to care to try to find out. The darkness was soothing and scented with myrrh. The myriad candles around her bed burned with unwavering flames. She could see nothing beyond the bed. For the moment, she had no care for that. She was thinking of Chemosh, the words he had said to her yesterday.

When she did some part of you was glad.

Mina was a veteran warrior. From where she had been standing on that fateful day, she could have never reached the elf in time to stop him from hurling his lance at the goddess whose punishment for stealing away the world had been mortality. Mina did not blame herself for her queen’s death. Mina blamed herself for having—as Chemosh said—felt joy that the queen was dead.

Mina had slain the elf. Most thought she had killed him in retribution. Mina knew differently. The elf had been in love with her. He had seen, with the eyes of love, that she was grateful to him for what he had done. She saw that knowledge in his eyes and, for that sin, he paid with his life.

Her joy over her queen’s death was immediately subsumed in grief and very real sorrow. Mina could not forgive herself for that initial burst of relief, for being glad that the decision to give up her life for her queen had been taken out of her hands.

“What would I have done when she came to kill me? Would I have fought her? Or would I have let her slay me?”

Every night, lying awake in front of the hidden entrance to the Dark Queen’s mountain tomb, Mina asked herself that question.

“You would have fought for your life,” answered Chemosh.

He drew near the bed. The silver that trimmed his coat glittered in the candlelight. His pale face had a light of its own, as did the dark eyes. He took Mina’s hand, resting on the cambric sheet that wound around her body, and raised it to his lips. His kiss made her heart jump, tore at her breath.

“You would have fought because you are mortal and you have a strong need to survive,” he added, “a struggle we gods never know.”

He seemed to brood over this, for she felt his attention leave her, shift away from her. He stared into a darkness that was endless, eternal, and awful. He stared long, as if seeking answers, then he shook his head, shrugged, and looked back at her with a smile.

“And thus you mortals could say,” he added, with a tone that was part mocking, part deadly earnest, “that the all-knowing gods are not so very all-knowing.”

She started to reply, but he would not let her. He bent down, kissed her swiftly on the lips, then he strode in a leisurely manner away from the bed, took a turn around the candlelit room. She watched his walk, strong and masterful.

“Do you know where you are, Mina?” Chemosh asked, turning to her abruptly.

“No, my lord,” she answered calmly. “I do not.”

“You are in my dwelling place.” He watched her intently. “In the Abyss.”

Mina cast a glance around her then returned her gaze to him. He regarded her with admiration. “You wake to find yourself alone in the Abyss, yet you are not afraid.”

“I have walked in darker places,” replied Mina.

Chemosh looked at her long, then he nodded in understanding. “The trials of Takhisis are not for the faint of heart.”

Mina threw aside the cambric sheets. She climbed out of the bed and came to stand before him. “And what of the trials of Chemosh?” she asked him boldly.

The god smiled. “Did I say there would be trials?”

“No, my lord, but you will want me to prove myself. And,” she added, looking up in the dark eyes that held her, Mina, inside them, “I want to prove myself to you.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her, long and ardently. She returned his kiss, clasping him in her arms, swept by passion that left her weak and trembling when he finally released her.

“Very well, Mina,” said Chemosh. “You will prove yourself to me. I have a task for you, one for which you are uniquely qualified.”

She tasted his kiss upon her lips, spicy and heady, like the scent of myrrh. She was unafraid, even eager.

“Set me any task, my lord. I will undertake it.”

“You destroyed the death knight, Lord Soth—” he began. “No, lord, I did not destroy him …” Mina hesitated, uncertain how to continue.

He understood her dilemma and he waved it away. “Yes, yes, Takhisis destroyed him. I understand, yet you were the instrument of his destruction.”

“I was, my lord.”

“Lord Soth was a death knight, a terrifying being,” said Chemosh, “someone even we gods might fear. Were you afraid to face him, Mina?”

“Within a few days time, Lord Soth, armies of both the living and the dead will sweep down on Sanction. The city will fall to my might.” Mina did not speak with bravado. She was stating a fact, nothing more. “At that time, the One God will perform a great miracle. She will enter the world as she was long meant to do, join the realms of the mortal and the immortal. Once she exists on both planes, she will conquer the world, rid it of such vermin as the elves, and establish herself as the ruler of Krynn. I am to be made captain of the army of the living. The One God offers you the captaincy of the army of the dead.”

“She ‘offers’ me this?” Soth asked.

“Offers it,” said Mina. “Yes, of course.”

“Then she will not be offended if I turn down her offer,” said Soth.

“She would not be offended,” Mina replied, “but she would be deeply grieved at your ingratitude, after all that she has done for you.”

“All she has done for me.” Soth smiled. “So this is why she brought me here. I am to be a slave leading an army of slaves. My answer to this generous offer is no.”

“I was not afraid, my lord,” said Mina, “for I was armed with the wrath of my queen. What was his power, compared to that?”

“Oh, nothing so much,” said Chemosh. “Nothing except the ability to kill you with a single word. He could have simply said, `die,’ and you would have died. I doubt if even Takhisis could have saved you.”

“As I told you, my lord,” Mina replied gravely, “I was armed with the wrath of my queen.” She frowned slightly, thinking. “You cannot want me to face Lord Soth. The Dark Queen destroyed him. Is there another death knight? One that is troublesome to you, my lord?”

“Troublesome?” Chemosh laughed. “No, he is no trouble to me nor to anyone else on Krynn for that matter. Not now at least. He was once trouble for a great many people—most notably, the late Lord Ariakan. Ausric Krell is his name. He is known in history, I believe, as the Betrayer.

“The traitor who brought about Lord Ariakan’s death at the hand of Chaos,” said Mina heatedly. “I have heard the story, my lord. The knights all spoke of it. None knew what ever happened to Krell.”

“None would want to know,” said Chemosh. “Ariakan was the son of Zeboim, goddess of the sea, and the Dragon Highlord Ariakan. The father was dead, slain during the War of the Lance. Zeboim doted on the boy, who was her only child. When he died by Krell’s treacherous hand during the Chaos War, the tears of the goddess flowed so copiously that they raised the level of the seas the world over, or so they say.

“The fire of Zeboim’s rage soon dried her tears, however. Sargonnas, god of vengeance, is her father, and Zeboim is her father’s daughter. She hunted down the wretched Krell, dragged him from the miserable hole in which he’d been trying to hide, and set about punishing him. She tortured him for days on end, and when the pain and torment was too much for him and his heart burst, she restored him to life, tortured him until he died, brought him back and did this again and again. When she finally grew weary of the sport, she ferried what was left of him—his remains filled a small bucket, I am told—across the North Sirrion Sea to Storm’s Keep, the island fortress built for the Knights of Takhisis and given to Lord Ariakan by his mother. There she cursed Krell, changed him into a death knight, and left him to fret out his sorry days upon that abandoned rock, surrounded by sea and storm that never let him forget what he had done.

“And there, for over thirty years, Lord Ausric Krell has been a prisoner, forced to live eternally in the fortress where he pledged his loyalty and his life to Lord Ariakan.”

“And he is there still? During all those years, the gods were gone,” Mina stated, wondering. “Zeboim was not in the world. She could not have stopped him from leaving. Why didn’t he?”

“Krell is not Soth,” said Chemosh dryly. “Krell is sneaky and underhanded, with the nobility of a weasel, the honor of a toad, and the brains of a cockroach. Isolated on his rock, he had no way of knowing that Zeboim was not around to keep an eye on him. The seas lashed the cliffs of his prison as relentlessly as when she was there. The storms that are so prevalent in that part of the world beat upon his prison walls. When he did eventually discover that he’d missed his chance, he was so furious that a single blow from his fist knocked down a small tower.”

“And now that Zeboim has returned, does she guard him still?”

“Day and night,” said Chemosh. “Testament to a mother’s love.”

“I have no love for traitors myself, my lord,” said Mina. “I will gladly undertake whatever task you set for me in regard to this one.”

“Good,” said Chemosh. “I want you to free him.”

“Free him, my lord?” Mina repeated, astonished.

“Help him escape Zeboim’s watch and bring him to me.”

“But why, my lord? If he is all that you describe him—”

“And more. He is shifty and cunning and sly and not to be trusted. And you must never question me, Mina. You may refuse to do this. The choice is yours, but you must not ask me why. My reasons are my own.”

Chemosh lifted his hand, stroked his fingers over Mina’s cheek. “Freeing Krell will not be an easy task. It is fraught with danger, for not only must you face the death knight, you must first deal with the vengeful goddess. If you refuse, I will understand.”

“I do not refuse my lord,” said Mina coolly. “I will do this for you. Where shall I bring him?”

“To my castle here in the Abyss. This is, for the time being, where I reside.”

“For the time being, my lord?” asked Mina.

Chemosh took hold of her hands, raised them to his lips. “Another question, Mina?”

“I am sorry, my lord.” Mina flushed. “That is a failing of mine, I fear.”

“We will work on improving it. As for your question, that is one I do not mind answering. I do not like these accommodations. I want to walk in the world, among the living. I have plans to relocate. Plans that include you, Mina.” He kissed her hands, soft, lingering kisses. “If you do not fail me.”

“I will not fail you, Lord,” she promised.

“Good,” he said briskly and dropped her hands. He turned away. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“My lord!” Mina called to him, as she began to lose sight of him in the darkness. “There is something I need—a blessed weapon or artifact or spell imbued with your holy powers.”

“Such a weapon would not avail you much against Zeboim,” Chemosh said. “She is a god, as am I, and is therefore immortal. I must warn you, Mina, that if Zeboim believes for one second you have come to rescue Krell, she will inflict upon you the same torment she inflicted on him. In which case, much as I will grieve your loss, I will be helpless to save you.”

“I understand, my lord,” said Mina steadily. “I was thinking more of the death knight, Krell.”

“You faced Soth and lived to tell of it,” Chemosh said with a shrug. “When Krell finds out that you are there to free him, he will be all eagerness to assist you.”

“The problem will be remaining alive long enough for me to convince him of that fact, my lord.”

“True,” said Chemosh thoughtfully. “The only amusement poor Krell finds in his prison is slaughtering those who happen to wash up on his rock-bound shore. Being none too bright, he is the sort to kill first and ask questions later. I could bestow upon you some amulet or charm, except …”

He let the sentence hang, studied her intently, as he carefully adjusted the lace at his wrist.

“Except that finding a way to defeat him is part of my trial,” said Mina. “I understand, my lord.”

“Anything else you want, you have only to wish for.”

He cast a glance at the bed from which she had risen, at the rumpled sheets, still warm from her body. “I look forward to your safe return,” he said and, with a graceful bow, he left her.

Mina sank down on the bed. She understood his look and felt his promise, as she felt the touch of his lips on hers. Her body ached and trembled with her longing for him, and she had to take a moment to calm herself, force herself to concentrate on the seemingly impossible task he had set for her.

“Or maybe, not so impossible,” said Mina. “Anything I want, I have only to wish for.”

She was ravenously hungry. She could not remember eating while she’d been in the prison house of her own making. She supposed she must have. She had some dim recollection of Galdar urging her to eat, but there was no memory of taste or smell or even what it was she had fed upon.

“I require food,” Mina stated, adding, by way of experiment, “I would like venison steak, lamb stew, a cottage pie, spiced wine . .”

As she spoke, the dishes appeared in front of her, materializing on a table, spread with a cloth. There was wine and ale for her to drink, and clear, pure, cold water. The food was wonderfully prepared—all she could have wished for. As she ate, she went over various plans in her mind, discarding some outright, taking up those she liked, mulling over them in her mind. She borrowed something from one, put it together with an idea from another, and at last came up with the whole. She went over it all and was satisfied.

A gesture banished the food and the table, the wine and the cloth. Mina stood a moment deep in thought to make certain she missed nothing.

“I want my armor,” she said at last. “The armor given to me by Takhisis. The armor forged of her glory on the night she pro-claimed her return to her world.”

Candlelight gleamed from the depths of shining black metal. The armor that she had worn throughout the War of Souls, the armor of a Dark Knight of Neraka, marked by her queen’s own hand, was laid out on the floor at her feet. Lifting up the breastplate, adorned with Takhisis’s symbol—the lightning-struck skull—Mina sat down on the edge of the bed and began to polish the metal, using the corner of the cambric bed sheet, until the armor shone with a high gloss.•

5

Mina’s wish took her to the lord city of Palanthas, where she paid a visit to the Great Library. She did not linger in the city once she had completed her business at the library, though she did note that there were large numbers of elves about, ragged, thin, and impoverished. She looked at them as they passed her in the street and they looked at her as if they knew her, but couldn’t remember where. Perhaps in a bad dream. She left Palanthas and wished herself next to a small fishing village on the northern shores of Abanasinia.

“You’re daft, Lady,” said the fisherman bluntly. He was standing on the dock watching as Mina loaded supplies onto the small boat. “If the waves don’t swamp you and pound the boat to bits, the wind will rip off your sail, blow you over, and drive you under. You’ll never make it. Ruin of a good boat.”

“I’ve paid you the cost of your boat twice over,” said Mina.

She stowed a leather skin filled with fresh water in the stern. Walking precariously as the craft rocked with the waves, she climbed back up the ladder to the dock. She was about to haul down the second water skin when the fisherman halted her.

“Here, Lady Knight,” he said, scowling as he held out the bag of steel coins. “Take back your money. I don’t want it. I won’t be a party to this folly of yours. I’d have your death on my conscience for the rest of my life.”

Mina picked up the waterskin and slung it over her shoulder. She walked past him to the boat, lowered the second skin down beside the first. Turning to go back for the food, she saw him still scowling, still holding out the money bag. He shook it at her, jingling the coins.

“Here! Take it!”

Mina put his hand gently aside. “You sold me a boat,” she said. “What I do with it is not your responsibility.”

“Aye, but she might not see it that way,” he said darkly, with an ominous nod of his head toward the blue-gray water.

“She? Who is this ‘she?’ ” asked Mina, climbing back down into the boat.

The fisherman cast a glance around, as if fearing they might be overheard, then leaning down, he said in a hissing, fearful whisper. “Zeboim!”

“The sea goddess.” Mina had wrapped strips of salted beef in oilskin to keep them dry, and these she packed away in a wooden crate along with a waterproof bag of biscuits. She did not take much food because—one way or another—her voyage would be a short one. She removed a map, also wrapped in oilskin, and stowed it carefully, the map being more precious than food. “Do not fear Zeboim’s wrath. I am on a holy quest. I intend to ask for her blessing.”

The fisherman remained unconvinced. “My livelihood depends on her favor, Lady Knight. Take back your money. If you’re truly going to try to sail across the Sirrion Sea to Storm’s Keep, as you claim, she won’t give you her blessing. She’ll sink you so fast your head will swim, then she’ll come looking for me.”

Mina shook her head with a smile. “If you are so concerned with what Zeboim might think, take the money to her shrine and give it to her as an offering. I should think that sum would purchase you a large amount of her good will.”

The fisherman considered this, and after a few moments of sucking his lower lip and contemplating the rolling water, he thrust the bag of money into his oilskin breeches.

“Perhaps you’re right, Lady Knight. Old Ned, he gave the Mistress six gold coins, each stamped with the head of some bloke who called himself the Priest King or something like that. Old Ned, he found these coins inside a fish he cut open, and he figured that they must have been the Mistress’s. Maybe she stowed them there for safe-keeping. He didn’t figure they were worth much, on account of he had never heard of this Priest King, but they must have been worth something for now he never goes out in his fishing boat but that he comes back with more cod than you can count.”

“Perhaps she will do the same for you,” Mina remarked.

The food stored, she left the boat and returned for one last object—her armor.

“I hope so,” said the fisherman. “I’ve got six hungry mouths at home to feed. The fishing ain’t been that good of late. One reason I’m forced to sell this here boat.” He rubbed a grizzled chin. “Maybe I’ll split the money with her. Half for her. Half for me. That seems fair, don’t it?”

“Perfectly fair,” said Mina. She unpacked the armor, spread it out on the dock. The fisherman eyed it, shook his head.

“You best keep it dry,” he said. “The salt water’ll rust it something fierce.”

Mina picked up the breastplate. “I have no squire. Will you help me put it on?”

The fisherman stared. “Put on armor? To go sailing?”

Mina smiled at him. The amber of her eyes flowed over him, congealed around him. He lowered his gaze.

“If you capsize, you’ll sink like a dwarf,” he warned her.

Mina fit the cuirass over her head and held up her arms, so that the fisherman could make secure the leather straps that held it together. Accustomed to tying the knots of his net, he went about his task quickly and deftly.

“You appear to be a good man,” Mina commented.

“I am, Lady,” said the fisherman simply, “or leastways I try to be.”

“Yet you worship Zeboim—a goddess reputed to be evil. Why is that?”

The fisherman looked uncomfortable and cast another nervous glance out to sea.

“It’s not that she’s evil so much as she is … well, temperamental. You want to keep on her good side. If she takes against you, there’s no telling what she might do. Blow you out to sea and then leave you with never a puff of air, becalmed, to drift on the water till you die of thirst. Or she might raise up a wave big enough to swallow a house, or whip up storm winds that will toss a man about as if he were naught but a stick. We are good people around here. Most of us worship Mishakal or Kiri-Jolith, but if you live by the sea, you always make it a point to pay your respects to Zeboim, maybe drop off a little gift for her. Just to keep her happy.”

“You mentioned the worship of other gods,’ said Mina. “Do any worship Chemosh?”

“Who?” the fisherman asked, busy with his task.

“Chemosh, Lord of Death.”

The fisherman paused in his work, thought a moment. “Oh, aye. There was some priest of Chemosh came around about a month ago trying to peddle that god to us. Moldy looking, he was. Dressed all in black and smelled like an open crypt. Talked about how the Mishakal cleric was lying to us when she said that our souls went on to the next stage of life’s journey. The fellow told us that the River of Souls had been tainted or some such thing, that our souls were trapped here and that only Chemosh could free us.

“And what became of this priest?”

“Word went about that he’d set up an altar in the graveyard, promising to raise the dead to show us the power of the god. A few of us went, thinkin‘ to see a good show, if nothing else. But then the sheriff came, along with the cleric of Mishakal, and told the priest to take his business elsewhere or he’d have him arrested for disturbing the dead. The priest didn’t want no trouble, I guess, cause he packed up and left.”

“But what if he is right about the souls?” Mina asked.

“Lady,” said the fisherman, exasperated. “Didn’t you hear me? I got six children at home and all of them growing as fast as tadpoles and wanting three square meals a day. It’s not my soul that goes to sea to catch the fish to sell at the market to buy food for the kids. Is it?”

“No, I guess it isn’t,” said Mina.

The fisherman gave an emphatic nod and the straps a final sharp tug. “If it was my soul went out and did the fishing, I’d worry about my soul. But my soul don’t fish, so I don’t worry.”

“I see,” said Mina thoughtfully.

“You say you’re on a holy quest,” said the fisherman. “What god do you follow then?”

“Queen Takhisis,” Mina answered.

”Ain’t she dead?” the fisherman asked.

Mina did not answer. Thanking the man for his help, she climbed down the ladder into the boat.

“Don’t make sense,” the fisherman said, as he started to cast off the lines that held the boat to the dock. “You’re wasting your time, your money, and most likely your life, going on a holy quest for a goddess that ain’t around anymore, or so the cleric of Mishakal tells us.”

Mina looked at him, her expression grave. “My holy quest is not so much for the goddess as for the man who founded the knighthood dedicated to her name. I have been told that the one who betrayed my lord to his death lives out his miserable life on Storm’s Keep. I go to challenge him to battle to avenge Lord Ariakan.”

“Ariakan?” The fisherman chuckled. “Lady, that lord of yours died nigh on forty years ago. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? You never knew him!”

“I never knew him,” said Mina, “but I have never forgotten him. Or what I owe him.” She sat down in the stern, took hold of the tiller. “Ask for Zeboim’s blessing for me, will you? Tell her I am going to avenge her son.”

She steered the sailboat into the wind. The sail flapped for a moment, then caught the breeze. Mina turned her gaze toward the open waters, the breaking waves, and the thin, dark line of storm clouds that hung perpetually on the horizon.

“Aye, well, if anything would make the Sea Witch happy, it would be that,” the fisherman remarked, watching the boat rise to meet the first of the rolling waves.

A freak wave struck the dock, splashed over him, drenching the fisherman from head to toe.

“I’m going, Mistress!” he shouted to the heavens and dashed off as fast as he could run to bestow half his money on the sea goddess’s grateful cleric.

The first part of Mina’s journey was peaceful. A strong breeze pushed the sailboat up and over the waves, carrying her farther and farther from shore. Mina had no fear of the sea, which was odd, considering that she’d been through storm and shipwreck. She had no memory of either, however. Her only recollection—and it was dim—was of being cradled by the waves, gently rocked, lulled to sleep.

Mina was an experienced sailor, as were most of those who lived on the isle of Schallsea, where the Citadel of Light was located. Although Mina had not sailed a boat in many years, the skills she needed returned to her. She guided the boat into the waves, rising up with the crest—an exhilarating sensation, as if one could keep rising to the heavens—then falling off, sliding down into the foaming trough of the wave, the sea spray blowing in her face. She licked her lips, tasting salt. Shaking back her wet hair, she leaned forward, eager to meet the next wave. She lost sight of land.

The sea grew rougher. The storm clouds that had been a dark line on the horizon were now a lightning-shot, leaden mass, steadily building. For a precious few moments, Mina was alone in the world, alone with her thoughts.

Thoughts always of Chemosh.

She tried to understand her attraction to him, to understand why she was out here in this fragile boat, risking her life to challenge the might of the goddess of the sea, to prove her love for the Lord of Death.

Mortal men, like that wretched elf, adored her. Galdar had befriended her, but even he had been in awe of her. Chemosh was the first to look into her, deep into her, to see her dreams, her desires—desires she never knew she had until his touch awakened them.

She had never felt her own flesh until he caressed it. She had never heard her own heart beating until he laid his hand upon her breast. She had never known hunger until she looked into his eyes. Never known thirst until she tasted his kiss.

Lightning flared in a blazing sheet across the sky, dazzling her eyes, jolting her abruptly out of her dreams. Blue fire flickered at the top of the mast. The waves grew more fierce, slapping at the boat, knocking the tiller from her hand. The wind whipped around. The sail flapped and the boat very nearly foundered. She struggled aft, the wind whipping and tearing at her, the boat plunging and rocking so that she had to fight to maintain her balance.

“Turn back,” the sea was cautioning her. “Turn back now and I will let you live.”

Rain spattered against her face. Mina gritted her teeth that crunched on salt. She managed to lower the sail, though it fought her like a live thing. Struggling back to the stern, she sat down, took hold of the tiller, and aimed the boat into the teeth of the storm.

“For Lord Ariakan!” Mina cried.

A wave, running cross-wise to all the other waves, struck Mina, swept her out of the boat and into the storm-tossed sea. Mina gasped for air, gulped water, and sank below the waves. Her lungs bursting, she fought the panicked urge to flail and thrash about in a desperate attempt to reach the surface. She kicked hard, propelling herself up with long, strong strokes of her arms. Another kick, stars flashing in her vision, and then her head broke the surface. She gasped a blessed lungful of air as she quickly blinked the water from her eyes to try to see where she was.

The armor’s weight dragged her down again. The boat was near her. She lunged for it, caught hold of it before the next wave could sink her. She clung to the boat, held fast to it with all her strength, her fear now that the seas would flip the boat over on top of her.

Another wave came, a towering wave. Mina thought it would finish her, smash the boat to bits. She sucked in a huge breath, determined to fight and keep on fighting. The wave struck her, carried her up and over the gunwale, and dropped her into the bottom of the boat.

Gasping and shaken, Mina lay on the deck that was awash with seawater and blinked, her eyes stinging with the salt. When she could see, she saw a foot—a naked foot—resting on the deck very near her head. The foot was shapely and protruded out from beneath the hem of a gown that was green and blue, looked to have been made from cloth spun of seawater.

Hesitantly, Mina raised her head.

A woman sat in the stern, her hand upon the tiller. The sea raged about the boat. Waves splashing over the deck drenched Mina, but did not touch the woman. Her hair was the white of sea foam, her eyes the gray of the storm, her face beautiful as a sailor’s dream, its expression ever shifting, ever changing, so that one moment she smiled upon Mina, as if she were pleased with her beyond measure, and the next she looked upon her as if would step on her with that shapely bare foot and crush her skull.

“So you are Mina,” said Zeboim. Her lip curled. “Mommy’s pet.”

“I had the honor to serve Takhisis, your mother,” said Mina. She started to rise.

“No, don’t get up. Remain kneeling. I prefer it.”

Mina stayed where she was, crouched on her knees at the bottom of the boat, that rocked and pitched. She was forced to keep fast hold of the gunwale to avoid being tossed out again. Zeboim sat undisturbed, the sea breeze barely ruffling her long, wild mane of hair.

“You served my mother.” Zeboim sneered. “That bitch.” She looked back down at Mina. “Do you know what she did to me? Stole away my world. But of course, you knew that. You were in Mommy’s confidence.”

“I wasn’t—” Mina began to explain. “I never—”

The goddess ignored her, continued talking, and so Mina fell silent.

“Mommy stole away my world. She stole away my sea, and she stole away those like you”—Zeboim cast a disparaging glance at Mina—“my worshipers. The bitch took them all away from me and left me in the endless dark, alone. You cannot imagine,” she said, and her voice changed, ragged with pain, “the terrible silence of an empty universe.”

“I truly did not know what the goddess had done,” said Mina quietly. “Takhisis told me nothing of this. She never told me her name. I knew her as the One God—a god who had come to take the place of gods who had abandoned us.”

“Hah!” Zeboim gave a wild laugh. Lightning flared up and down the mast, crackled over the water.

“I was young,” said Mina humbly. “I believed her. I am sorry for my part, and I want to try to make amends. That is why I am here.”

“On a mission to Storm’s Keep?” Zeboim idly stirred the water sloshing about in the bottom of the boat with her foot. “How will that make amends?”

“By punishing the one who betrayed Lord Ariakan,” Mina replied. “As you see, I am a true knight.” She gestured to the black armor she wore, as she lifted her gaze to boldly meet the eyes of the Sea Queen.

This was the ‘tricky moment, when Mina would have to deceive a god. She would have to keep Zeboim from piercing her heart and discovering the truth. Mina had never considered trying to deceive Takhisis. Chemosh had laid bare all the secrets of her soul with a glance. If Zeboim looked closely, delved deeply, she must see the deception.

Mina met the eyes of the goddess, eyes that were deep green one moment, storm-ridden gray the next. Zeboim glanced at Mina and apparently saw nothing of interest, for she looked away.

“Avenge my son,” she said scornfully. “He was the son of a goddess! You are nothing but a mortal. Here today, gone tomorrow. Of no use, any of you, except to admire me and laud me and give me gifts and die when it pleases me to kill you. Speaking of death, I hear you’ve been asking questions about Chemosh.”

“That is true.”

“And what is your interest in him?” Zeboim looked at Mina closely now, and in her eyes flickered blue fire.

“He is the god of undeath,” Mina explained. “It occurred to me that he might help me defeat Lord Krell—”

Fast as the whipping wind, Zeboim struck Mina a blow across the face with the flat of her hand.

“His name is never spoken in my presence,” Zeboim said and, leaning back against the tiller, she regarded Mina with a cruel smile.

“I am sorry, Mistress. I meant to say the Betrayer.” Mina wiped blood from her mouth.

Zeboim seethed a moment, then grew calmer. “Very well, then, go on. I find you less boring than I had expected.”

“The Betrayer is a death knight. Since Chemosh is the god of undeath, I thought perhaps my prayers to him might—”

“—might what? Aid you?” Zeboim laughed with malicious delight. “Chemosh is far too busy running around the heavens with his butterfly net trying to catch all the souls that Mommy stole from him. He cannot help you. I am the only one who can help you. Your prayers come to me.”

“Then I do pray to you, Mistress—”

“I think you should call me Majesty,” said Zeboim, languidly toying with a curl of her long tangled hair, watching the lightning dance on the mast. “Since Mommy is no longer with us, I am the Queen now. Queen of Sea and Storm.”

“As you will, Majesty,” said Mina, and she reverently lowered her head, a gesture that pleased Zeboim and allowed Mina to hide her eyes, keep her secrets.

“What is it you want of me, Mina? If it is to ask me to help you destroy the Betrayer, I don’t believe I shall. I take a great deal of pleasure in watching that bastard fret and fume upon his rock.”

“All I ask,” said Mina humbly, “is that you bring me safely to Storm’s Keep. It will be my honor and my privilege to destroy him.”

“I do love a good fight,” Zeboim said with a sigh. She twisted her hair around her finger, gazed into the storm that raged all around her, never touching her.

“Very well,” she said languidly. “If you destroy him, I can always bring him back again. And if he destroys you, which I think quite likely”—Zeboim cast a cold, blue-gray glance at Mina—“then I will have avenged myself upon Mommy’s little darling, which is the next best thing to avenging myself upon Mommy.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” said Mina.

There was no answer, only the sound of wind singing in the rigging, a mocking sound.

Mina raised her head cautiously and found she was alone. The goddess was gone as if she had never been, and for a moment Mina wondered if she had been dreaming. She put her hand to her aching jaw, her stinging lip, and drew back fingers smeared with blood.

As if to give her further proof, the wind ceased abruptly to howl around her. The storm clouds frayed, torn apart by an immortal hand. The waves calmed, and soon Mina’s boat was rocking on swells gentle enough to lull a baby to sleep. The sea breeze freshened, blowing from the south, a breeze that would carry her swiftly to her destination.

“All honor and glory to you, Zeboim, Majesty of the Seas!” Mina cried.

The sun broke through the clouds, glinted gold on the water. She had been going to raise the sail, but it was not needed. The boat leaped forward, skimmed atop the waves. Mina gripped the tiller and drank in the rushing, salt-tinged air, one step nearer her heart’s desire.

6

The isle of Storm’s Keep had once teemed with life. Fortress and garrison of the Dark Knights of Takhisis, Storm’s Keep had housed knights, men-at-arms, servants, cooks, squires, pages, trainers, slaves. Clerics dedicated to Takhisis had been on Storm’s Keep. Wizards dedicated to her service had worked there. Blue dragons had taken off from the cliff, gone soaring over the sea, carrying their dragon riders on their backs. All of them had one abiding goal—to conquer Ansalon and from there the world.

They had almost won.

But then had come Chaos. Then had come treachery.

Storm’s Keep was now the prison of death, with one lone prisoner. He had the mighty fortress, the towers and parade grounds, the stables and treasure vaults, the storerooms and warehouses, all to himself. He loathed it. Every sea-soaked inch of it.

In a large room at the top of the Tower of the Skull, the tallest tower of the fortress known as Storm’s Keep, Lord Ausric Krell placed his hands—covered in leather gauntlets to hide their fleshless state—on the table and leveraged himself to a standing position. He had been a short, heavy brute of a man in life, and he was a short, heavy brute of an ambulating corpse in death.

That corpse was accoutered in the black armor in which he had died, burned onto him by the curse that kept him chained to this existence.

Before him, mounted on a stand, was a sphere fashioned out of black opal. Krell peered into it, fiend’s eyes glowing red in the eye sockets of his helm. The sphere held in its fiery depths the image of a sailboat, small upon a vast ocean. In the sailboat, smaller still, was a knight wearing the armor Krell had disgraced.

Leaving the sphere, Krell strode over to the aperture in the stone walls that looked out over the raging seas. His armor rattled and clanked as he walked. He stared out the window and rubbed his gauntleted hands together in satisfaction, muttering, “It has been a long time since anyone came to play.”

He had to get ready.

Krell clumped ponderously down the spiral stairs that led to the tower room where he was accustomed to spending most of his time staring, angry and frustrated, into the black opal scrying ball known as the Flames of the Storms. The magical ball gave Krell his only view of the world beyond his keep—a world he was convinced that he could rule if only he could escape this accursed rock. Krell had witnessed much of the history of the Age of Mortals in that scrying ball—a gift from Zeboim to her beloved son, Lord Ariakan.

Krell had discovered the powerful artifact shortly after his death and imprisonment, and he’d gloated over it, thinking that Zeboim had left it behind by mistake. Soon, however, he came to realize that this was just part of her cruel torture. She provided him with the means to witness the world, then took away his ability to be part of it. He could see, but he could not touch.

He found it so tormenting that there were times when he caught up the opal ball in his hands, ready to hurl it out the window onto the rocks below. He always thought better of his rash impulse, however, and would carefully replace it back upon its serpent stand. Someday he would find a way to escape and when he did, he would need to be informed.

Krell had watched the War of Souls take place inside the opal ball. He’d viewed the rise of Mina with glee, thinking that if anyone could rescue him, it would be her and her One God. Krell had no idea who the One God was, and so long as it could battle Zeboim—whom Krell was still half convinced was lurking about somewhere—he didn’t care.

Krell could see within the magical sphere the trapped and hapless souls wallowing in the River of Souls quite clearly. He even tried to communicate with them, hoping to send a message to this Mina, telling her to come rescue him. Then Krell, watching from his opal ball, saw what she did to his counterpart—Lord Soth. After that, Krell did not send any more messages.

About this time, he found out the true identity of the One God, and while Takhisis wasn’t as bad as her daughter, Krell thought it quite likely that the Dark Queen might hold the same grudge, for she’d been rather fond of Ariakan herself. He took to lurking about in the shadows of his Keep, never daring to show his metal face outdoors.

Then came the death of Takhisis and—cruelest blow of all—Krell discovered that Zeboim had been absent all this time and that he could have left this blasted pile of crumbling stone whenever he wanted with no god to stop him. His fury over this news was such that he battered down a small and insignificant tower.

Krell had never been a religious man. He had never really believed in the gods, right up to the terrifying moment when he found out that the clerics were right after all—the gods did exist and they took a keen interest in the lives of mortals.

Having found religion the minute Zeboim ripped open his belly, Krell now witnessed the gods’ return and the demise of Takhisis and Paladine with keen interest. The death of a leader creates a vacuum at the top. Krell foresaw a struggle to fill the void. The thought came to him that he could offer his services to a rival of Zeboim’s in exchange for release from his prison.

Krell had never said a prayer in his life, but on the night that he made this determination, he got down, clanking, on his armored knees. Kneeling-on the cold floor of his prison, he invoked the name of the only god who might have it in his heart to help him.

“Save me from my torment,” Krell promised Chemosh, “and I will serve you in any way you ask.”

The god did not answer.

Krell did not despair. The gods were busy, hearing a lot of prayers. He made the same prayer daily, but he still had not received a response, and he was starting to lose hope. Sargonnas¬the father of Zeboim—was gaining in power. No other god in the dark pantheon was likely to come to Krell’s aid.

“Now this Mina—this killer of death knights—is on her way to finish me off,” Krell growled. His voice rattled inside his hollow armor with a sound like gravel rolling about the bottom of an iron kettle. He added gloomily, “Maybe I should just let her.”

He toyed briefly with the idea of ending his torment in oblivion, but quickly decided against it. His conceit was such that he could not bear to deprive the world of Ausric Krell—even a dead Ausric Krell.

Besides, the arrival of this Mina would relieve the monotony of his existence, if only for little while.

Krell left the Tower of the Skull and crossed the parade ground, which was wet and slimy from the endless salt spray, and entered the Tower of the Lilies. The Tower was dedicated to the Knights of the Lily, the armed might of the Dark Knights, of which august branch Krell had been a member. His quarters had been in this Tower when he was alive, and although he could no longer find rest in sleep, he would sometimes return to his small room in the upper chambers and lie down on the vermin-infested mattress just to torture himself with memories of how good sleep once felt. He did not return to his room today but kept to the main floor on the ground level, where Ariakan had established several libraries filled with books written on every subject martial, from essays on the art of dragon-riding to practical advice on how to keep one’s armor rust-free.

Krell was not much of a scholar, and he had never touched a single book except when he’d once used a volume of the Measure to prop open a door that kept banging. Krell had another use for the library. Here he entertained his guests. Or rather, they entertained him.

He made hasty arrangements to receive Mina, arranging everything the way he liked it. He wanted to receive this important guest in style, so he hauled away the mutilated corpse of a dwarf, who had been his last visitor, and deposited it in the bailey with the others.

His work complete in the Tower of the Lily, Krell braved the whipping wind and driving rain of the courtyard to return to the Tower of the Skull. He peered into the scrying ball and watched with eager anticipation the progress of the small sailboat, heading for a sheltered inlet where, in the glory days, the ships that furnished Storm’s Keep with supplies had docked.

Unaware that Krell was watching her, Mina looked with interest on Storm’s Keep.

The island fortress had been designed by Ariakan to be unassailable from the sea. Built of black marble, the fortress stood atop steep black-rock cliffs that resembled the sharp spiny protrusions on a dragon’s back. The cliffs were sheer, impossible to climb. The only way on or off Storm’s Keep was by dragon or by ship. There was one small dock, built on a sheltered inlet at the base of the black cliffs.

The dock had served as an entry port for food for man and beast, weapons and armaments, slaves and prisoners. Such supplies could conceivably have been hauled in by the dragons, dispensing with the need for the dock. Dragons—especially the proud and temperamental blue dragons favored by the knights for mounts—strongly objected to being beasts of burden, however. Ask a blue dragon to cart about a load of hay, and he might well bite off your head. Bringing in supplies by ship was much easier. Since Ariakan was Zeboim’s son, all he had to do was pray to his mother for a calm voyage and the storm clouds would dissipate, the seas grow calm and gentle.

Mina had known nothing about the art of war when Takhisis had placed the girl—age seventeen—at the head of her armies. Mina had been quick to learn and Galdar had been an excellent teacher. She looked at the fortress and saw the brilliance behind its concept and design.

The dock was easily defensible. The inlet was so small that only one ship could safely enter it and then only at low tide. Narrow steps carved into the side of the cliff provided the only means of gaining access to the fortress. These stairs were so slippery and treacherous that they were little used. Most of the supplies were hauled up to the fortress by means of a system of ropes, winches, and pulleys.

Mina wondered, as did historians, how different the world might have been if the brilliant man who had designed this fortress had survived the Chaos War.

The wind died as she sailed into the inlet, forcing her to row across the calm water to the dock. The inlet was in shadow, for the sun was lowering into the west, and the inlet was on the eastern side. Mina blessed the shadow, for she hoped to take Krell by surprise. The fortress was enormous. The dock, located at one end of the island, was far from the main living quarters. She had no way of knowing that Krell was at this very moment observing her every move.

Mina dropped the small anchor and secured the boat by looping the rope around a rocky protrusion. There had once been a wooden pier, but it had long since been smashed to kindling by Zeboim’s wrath. Mina climbed out of the boat. She gazed up at the black rock stairs, frowned, and shook her head.

Narrow and rough-hewn, the stairs wound precariously up the face of the cliff and were slimy with seaweed and wet with salt spray. As if that were not bad enough, the stairs looked to have been gnawed by the tooth of the vengeful Sea Queen. Many steps were split and cracked, as Zeboim’s ire had extended to shaking the ground beneath Krell’s feet.

“I need not worry about facing Krell,” Mina said to herself. “I doubt if I will make it up the stairs alive,”

Still, as she had told Chemosh, she’d walked in darker places. Just not as slippery.

Mina kept on the cuirass—black steel, marked with the lightning-struck skull. She tied the helm onto her leather belt, then regretfully unbuckled the rest of the armor. Climbing would be dangerous enough without being hampered by greaves and bracers. She carried on her belt her favored weapon—the morning star she had used in battles during the War of Souls. The weapon was not a holy artifact, nor was it enchanted. It would be useless against a death knight. No true knight would go into battle unarmed, however, and she wanted Krell to see her as a true knight of Takhisis. She hoped the sudden astonishing sight of one of his former brethren appearing unannounced on Storm’s Keep would give the death knight pause, tempt him to converse with her, rather than simply kill her outright.

Mina checked the rope, making certain the boat was secure. The thought crossed her mind that Zeboim could very easily smash her boat and leave her stranded in the Keep, imprisoned with a death knight. Mina shrugged the thought away. She had never been one to fret or worry about the future, perhaps because she had been so close to a goddess, who had always assured Mina that the future was under control.

Having learned that even the gods can be wrong had not altered Mina’s outlook on life. The calamitous fall of Takhisis had strengthened Mina in her belief that the future stretched before her like the treacherous stairs carved into black rock. Life was best lived in the present. She could only climb one step at a time.

Saying a prayer to Chemosh in her heart and speaking a prayer to Zeboim aloud, Mina began her assent up the cliffs of Storm’s Keep.

Having watched Mina land in the inlet, Krell left the keep proper and ventured out onto a narrow, winding trail that twisted and turned amidst a jumble of rocks. The trail led to a jutting granite peak known jestingly among the knights who once garrisoned here as Mt. Ambition. The island’s highest point, the peak was isolated, windswept and sea spattered, and it had been Lord Ariakan’s custom to walk here of an evening—weather permitting. Here he stood, looking out at the sea and formulating his plans to rule Ansalon. Thus the name Mt. Ambition.

None of the knights walked here with their lord unless they were specially invited. There was no greater honor than to be asked to climb Mt. Ambition with Lord Ariakan, sharing his stroll and his thoughts. Krell had come here often with his lord. It was the one place he most avoided during imprisonment. He would not have come here now, but that this peak afforded him the best view of the inlet and the dock, and the human speck that was attempting to climb what the knights called the Black Stairs.

Perched amid the rocks, Krell looked down over the edge of the cliff at Mina. He could see the life pulsing in her, see life’s warmth illuminating her, as a candle flame lights the lantern. The sight made him feel death’s chill all the more, and he glared down at her with loathing and bitter envy. He could kill her now. It would be easy.

Krell recalled a walk with his commander along this very part of the wall. They had been discussing the possibility of an assault on their keep by sea and arguing over whether or not they would use archers to pick off any of the enemy who were either bold enough or stupid enough to try to climb the Black Stairs.

“Why waste arrows?” Ariakan gestured to the boulders piled in heaps all around them. “We will simply toss rocks at them.”

The boulders were good-sized. The strongest men in the knighthood would have had to work hard to lift them up and heave them over the wall. Himself one of those strong men assigned to this post, Krell had always been disappointed that no one had ever mounted an assault against the fort. He had often pictured the carnage that those hurtling missiles would have created among an enemy—soldiers struck by the stones falling off the stairs, plunging, screaming, to bloody and broken death on the crags below.

Krell was sorely tempted to pick up one of those boulders and hurl it down on Mina, just to witness firsthand the destruction he had always fondly imagined. He controlled himself with an effort. Meeting this killer of death knights face-to-face was a rare opportunity, one not to be wasted. He was so looking forward to it that he actually cursed when he saw Mina slip and almost fall. If he’d had breath in his body, he would have sighed it out in relief when she managed to regain her footing and continue her slow and laborious climb.

The air was chill, for the sun was rarely allowed to break through the clouds that hung over Storm’s Keep. Exertion and the sudden flash of terror caused by her near fatal slip sent chill sweat rolling down Mina’s neck and breasts. The wind that keened endlessly among the rocks dried the sweat, set her to shivering. She had brought gloves, but she found she could not wear them. More than once, she was forced to dig her fingers into fissures and slits in order to drag herself from one stair up onto the next.

Every step she took was precarious. Some of the stairs had large cracks running through them, and she had to test each one before she put her weight on it. Her leg muscles soon cramped and ached. Her fingers bled, her hands were raw, her knees scraped.

Pausing to try to ease the pain in her legs, she looked upward, hoping she was near the end.

Movement caught her eye. She caught a glimpse of a helmed head peering down at her from the top of the cliff. Mina blinked to clear her eyes of salt spray, and the head was gone.

She did not doubt what she had seen, however.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, climbing up to heaven, and at the top, Krell was waiting.

Below her, the sea surged over glistening, sharp pointed boulders. Foam swirled on top of turgid water. Mina closed her eyes and sagged against the cliff face. She was worn out and she was only about halfway up the stairs. She would be exhausted by the time she reached the top, where she would have to face the death knight who had somehow been warned of her coming.

“Zeboim,” Mina said with a curse. “She warned Krell. What a fool I am! So proud of myself to think that I had deceived a goddess, when all along it was the goddess who was deceiving me. But why would she alert him? That’s the question. Why?”

Mina tried to puzzle this out. “Did she look into my heart and see the truth? Did she see I was coming to free Krell? Or is this just a whim of hers? Pitting the two of us against each other for an hour’s entertainment.”

Thinking back to her conversation with the goddess, Mina guessed the latter. She pondered what to do and it was then a thought occurred to her. She opened her eyes, looked back up at the peak where she had seen Krell standing.

“He could have killed me if he’d wanted to,” she realized. “Cast a spell on me, or if nothing else, dropped a rock on my head. He didn’t. He’s waiting to confront me. He wants to toy with me. Taunt me before killing me. Krell is no different from other undead. No different, even, than the god of death himself.”

From months of commanding a legion of souls, Mina knew that the dead have a weakness—a hunger for the living.

The part of Krell that remembered what it was to be alive craved interaction with the living. He needed to feel vicariously the life that he had lost. He hated the living, and so he would kill her eventually. But she could be assured that at least he would not slay her outright, before she had a chance to speak, to tell him her plan. The knowledge lent her hope and raised her spirits, though it did nothing to ease the cramps in her legs or the bone-numbing chill. She had a long and dangerous trek ahead of her and she had to be ready, both physically and mentally, to meet a deadly foe at the end of it.

The name of Chemosh came, warm to her numb lips. She sensed the god’s presence, sensed him watching her.

She did not pray for help. He had told her he had none to give, and she would not demean herself by begging. She whispered his name, held it fast in her heart to give her strength, and placed her foot carefully on the next stair, testing it.

The stair held firm, as did the next. Gaining that stair, she had her eyes on her footing, watching where she was going, using her hands to feel her way along the cliff face. Inching her hands along, she was startled to feel nothing, so startled that she almost lost her grip. A narrow fissure split the rock wall.

Balancing precariously on the stair, Mina placed her hands on either side of the crack and peered inside. The gray light of day did not penetrate far into the darkness, but what she could see was intriguing—a smooth floor, obviously man-made, about three feet below where she stood. She could not see much beyond the floor, but she had the impression of a vast chamber. She sniffed the air. The smell was familiar, reminding her of something.

A granary. She had just liberated the city of Sanction. Her men, busy securing the city, had come upon a granary. She had gone to inspect it, and this was the smell or close to it. In the Sanction warehouse, the grain had been recently put up and the smell was overwhelming. Here the smell was faint and mingled with mildew, but Mina was certain she had found the granary of the fortress of Storm’s Keep.

The location made sense, for it was close to the dock where the grain would be unloaded from the ship. Somewhere at the top of the cliff there must be an opening, a chute down which they would have poured the grain. The granary would be empty now. It had been forty years since the Keep had been abandoned. Hundreds of generations of rats would have feasted off any stores the knights had left behind.

Not that any of that mattered. What mattered was that she had found a way to slip inside the fortress, a way to take Krell by surprise.

“Chemosh,” said Mina in sudden understanding.

His name had been on her lips when she found the crack in the wall. She had not asked for his help, but he had granted it, and her heart beat fast with the knowledge that he wanted her to succeed. She eyed the crack in the wall. It was narrow, but she was slender. She could just possibly squeeze through it, although not while wearing the cuirass. She would have to take it off and that would leave her without any armor when she came to face the death knight.

Mina hesitated. She looked up at the endless stairs, where, at the top, Krell was waiting. She looked into the granary—smooth, dry floor, a secret way inside the main part of the Keep. She had only to cast off the cuirass, marked with the symbol of Takhisis.

Mina understood. “That is what you ask of me,” she said softly to the listening god. “You want me to cast off my last vestige of faith in the goddess. Put all my faith and trust in you.”

Balancing precariously on the stairs, her chill fingers shaking, Mina tugged and pulled at the wet leather thongs that held the cuirass in place.

Krell cursed himself for an idiot to allow himself to be seen like that. He cursed Mina, too, wondering what crazy notion had flown into the woman’s head to cause her to look up instead of down, cause her to look straight at him.

“Zeboim,” Krell muttered, and he cursed the goddess, a curse he uttered almost every hour of every tortured day.

He could no longer count on taking Mina by surprise. She would be ready for him, and while he didn’t really think that she could cause him any harm, he was mindful of the fact that this was the woman who had brought down Lord Soth, one of the most formidable undead beings in all the history of Krynn.

It is better to overestimate the enemy than underestimate him had been one of Ariakan’s dictums.

“I’ll wait for her at the top of the Black Stair,” Krell determined. “She’ll be worn out, too tired to put up much of a fight.”

He did not want to fight her. He wanted to capture her alive. He always captured his prey alive—when possible. One hapless thief, drawn to Storm’s Keep by the rumor of the Dark Knights’ abandoned treasure, had been so terrified at the sight of Krell that he’d dropped dead at the death knight’s feet, a severe disappointment to Krell.

He had confidence in Mina, however. She was young, strong, and courageous. She would provide him with a good contest. She might survive for days.

Krell was about to leave Mt. Ambition and head back to Storm’s Keep when he heard a sound that would have stopped his heart if he’d had one.

From down below came a woman’s terrified scream and the clanging, clattering of metal armor falling onto sharp rocks.

Krell dashed to the end of the promontory, peered over the edge. He cursed again and smashed his fist into a boulder, cracking it from top to bottom.

The Black Stairs were empty. At the base of the cliff, almost lost to sight in the frothing, bubbling water, Krell could see floating in the sea a black cuirass, adorned with a lightning-struck skull.

7

Her scream echoing back from the cliff face, Mina watched the black cuirass and helm strike the rocks below and go bounding off into the water. Her vision obscured by the gray half-light of the storm, she could not see at this distance that the armor had been empty when it plummeted off the stairs and now it was lost to sight in the lashing waves. She hoped that Krell’s vision was no better.

Mina sucked in her breath and squeezed her body through the crack in the rock wall. Even without the cuirass, she barely made it, and for one frightening moment, she was wedged tight. A desperate wriggle freed her and she dropped lightly to the floor. She paused to catch her breath, wait for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and think how good it was to have her feet on a firm, level plane. How good it was to be out of the chill wind and away from the salt spray.

Mina dried her hands as best she could on the tail of her shirt, rubbing them to restore the circulation. She had no armor and no weapon. She had tossed not only the cuirass and helm into the ocean, but also, after a moment’s hesitation, she’d thrown away the morning star—thrown away the eager, innocent child who had gone searching for the gods and found them.

Mina had believed in Takhisis, obeyed her commands, endured her punishment, done the goddess’s bidding without question. She had kept her faith in Takhisis when everything had started to go wrong, fighting against the doubt that gnawed at her like rats in the grain. By the end, her doubts had eaten up all her stores, so that when her faith should have been strongest, when she should have been prepared to sacrifice herself for the sake of the goddess, all that was left was chaff. Mina had known wrenching sorrow then, sorrow for her loss, and she experienced something of the same sorrow as she threw the last vestiges of her belief in the One God into the sea.

Innocence was gone. Unquestioning faith was gone. Thus she had dared to ask Chemosh, “What will you give me?” Though she had now given him proof that she belonged to him, she would not be his puppet to dance at his command, nor yet his slave to grovel at his feet. Standing alone in the darkness of Storm’s Keep, Mina listened. She was not listening for the voice of the god to tell her what to do. She listened to her own voice, to her own counsel.

The Age of Mortals. Perhaps this is what the wise meant, what Chemosh meant. A partnership between god and man. It was an interesting premise.

The dim light of gray day made its way through the crack in the wall and poked through other, smaller gaps. As her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, Mina could see most of the chamber. It was, as she had guessed, a room meant for storage, not only for grain but for other supplies.

A few wooden boxes and crates stood on the floor, their lids pried off, the contents spilled. Mina could picture the knights, in their eager haste to leave Storm’s Keep to begin their conquest of Ansalon, ripping open crates to see what they contained, making certain they left behind nothing of value. She glanced at the boxes as she passed them, heading toward an iron-banded door located at the end of the room. She noticed some dust-covered, rusted tools, such as blacksmiths used, and a few bolts of woolen cloth, now moth-eaten and mildewed. There had been rumors for years that the knights had left behind stores of treasure. The rumors made sense, for the knights would not have flown to battle on dragonback carrying chests of steel coins. But if so, the treasure was not here. As she walked, her boots crunched on dried rat dung and half-eaten kernels, all that was left of the might of the Dark Knights of Takhisis.

Mina picked up a prybar. If the door to the granary was locked, she would need a tool to force the lock open. She hoped she would not have to resort to that. Krell must think her dead, killed in her fall off the stairs, and she didn’t want to do anything to rouse his suspicions. Although she didn’t know for sure, she guessed that the death knight still retained his power of hearing and even above the keening of the wind—the wail of a goddess’s grief and fury—Krell might be able to detect the sound of someone beating at an iron lock with an iron bar.

When Mina reached the door, she put her hand on the handle and gave a gentle push. To her relief, the door swung open. Not surprising, when she considered it. Why bother to lock the door on an empty storage room?

The door opened into a hall, with the same paved stone floor and rough-hewn walls. The hall was much darker than the storage room. No cracks in the walls. She had no torch and no way to light one. She would have to feel her way.

Mina summoned from memory the map of the fortress that she left safely stowed in the boat. Prior to setting out on this adventure, she had traveled to the city of Palanthas to pay a visit to the city’s famed library. There she had asked one of the Aesthetics for a map of Storm’s Keep. Thinking she was a reckless treasure seeker, the earnest young Aesthetic had tried very hard to dissuade her from risking her life in such a foolhardy adventure. She had insisted, and by the rules of the library, which stated that all knowledge was available to anyone who sought it, he had brought her the requested map—a map that had been drawn by Lord Ariakan himself.

The granary had not been marked on the map. Ariakan had included only those areas he considered important—meeting rooms, barracks, housing, etc. Mina had only the vaguest idea where she was, and that came mainly from knowledge of where she wasn’t.

The inlet was on the south side of the island, which meant that she had entered the granary from the south, and was currently facing east. Since the granary was built adjacent to the stairs, she did not think it likely that the hall would extend to the south, for that was a dead end. She turned north as she exited, shutting the granary door behind her.

It was not likely Krell would come down here, but if he did, he would not find the door standing open, indicating someone had been snooping about. But by shutting the door, she shut off all the dim light from the granary, leaving her in complete darkness. She could see nothing in front of her or on either side. She shuffled her feet along the floor in an effort to avoid stumbling over some unseen obstacle. She hoped that she would not have to go far in the darkness.

She had not taken many steps when she noticed that the floor began to rise steeply.

“A ramp,” she said to herself, envisioning slaves pushing wheel-barrows filled with grain.

She continued up the ramp and walked straight into a door that started to swing open when her boot hit it. Her heart lurching, she grabbed for the door and held it shut. She’d caught a brief glimpse of what lay beyond that door—a courtyard, open to view. For all she knew, Krell might be out in that courtyard, taking an afternoon stroll.

If it was afternoon. Mina had lost all sense of time, and that was something else to worry about. She did not want to be caught alone with Krell on Storm’s Keep when night fell. Opening the door a crack, she peered out.

The parade ground, paved with cobblestones, was empty. It was vast and Mina recognized it from the map. The parade ground lay in the shadow of a tall tower, and now Mina knew exactly where she was. By its shape and location, the tower was the Central Tower, a massive structure that housed the main meeting rooms, dining halls, servant quarters. Lord Ariakan had his chambers in that Tower. There was also reputed to be a chamber that had led directly to the plane on which Takhisis had once dwelt. Not far from that was the Tower of the Lily, where the elite Knights of the Lily had their barracks, and at the opposite end of the fortress stood the Tower of the Skull, home to the arcane wing of the Dark Knights. Scattered about among the three were a number of outbuildings.

The flat, two-dimensional map Mina had viewed in the library of Palanthas had not conveyed the immensity of the fortress. She had not realized, on setting out, how big it was or how much ground it covered. And she had no idea in which building Krell had taken up residence. Gazing across the windswept expanse of the parade ground, Mina began to wonder if her idea of sneaking into the fort had been a good one.

“I could spend days wandering about this place searching for him,” she realized. “No food and no water. Not daring to sleep for fear Krell might murder me.”

All things considered, it might have been better for her to have taken her chances and confronted him on the stairs.

Mina shook her head, shook away doubt. “Chemosh brought me here. He will not forsake me.”

Her confidence bolstered, Mina gave the door a shove and started to step out of the door and walk across the parade ground.

And there was Krell, emerging from behind a wall, coming from the direction of the cliffs where she had last seen him. Mina froze, not daring to move or breathe.

Krell walked right past her, not six feet away from her. If she had left her hiding place an eye blink earlier, she would have blundered into him.

The death knight was hideous to look upon. The burning torment of his accursed life blazed red from the shadows of the eye slits of his ram’s skull helm. She knew that if he took off that helm, he would be more hideous still, for there was nothing beneath it. Nothing except the hole cut out of existence where his life had been, and that hole was blacker than the darkness inside a sealed tomb buried in a forgotten crypt.

His jointed and faceted armor—decorated with the skull and the lily—was stained with the blood Zeboim had drained from him over many days of torture. His blood glistened red, fresh as the day he’d shed it in screaming agony. The lashing rain never washed the blood away. He left bloody footprints as he walked.

He wore a sword that clanked at his side, but his most potent weapon was fear. He would use fear to grind her spirit into quivering pulp, as he would use his fists to grind her flesh and bones.

The fear that roiled off him in waves struck Mina, and she quailed and cowered beneath it. When she had faced the other death knight, Lord Soth, she had been armored with the power of the One God. She had carried in her hand the weapon of the One God. Soth had no power over her. He’d been buried beneath the rubble of his fortress.

Mina wore holy armor no longer. Chemosh had asked her to cast away her armor as a proof of her faith. She must face the formidable death knight in a rain-soaked shirt of wool that clung damply to her slender body, seeming to emphasize to her the fact that she was made of soft and quivering flesh and he was made of steel and death.

Fear paralyzed her. She could not move, but she hunkered down in the doorway, her stomach clenching, her leg muscles twitching in painful spasms. If Krell but turned his head, he would see her trembling in the doorway, craven as a gully dwarf. He would come raging at her and she would cower helplessly before him.

Mina shut her eyes, averted her gaze. The temptation to flee was overwhelming and she fought against it.

“I walked alone in the accursed valley of Neraka,” she said through gritted teeth. “I endured the trials of the Dark Queen. Takhisis held me in her arms, and her glory seared my flesh, yet now I tremble before this piece of excrement. Am I brave only when the god holds my hand? Is this the way to prove myself to Chemosh?”

Mina opened her eyes. She made herself look at Krell, stared at him hard. She stopped shivering. Her muscle spasms eased. She drew in a deep breath and another and relaxed.

Krell had not seen her or heard her. He walked straight ahead, cursing aloud at having lost his prey and swinging his fist in impotent rage. Whatever torment he had arranged for her, he was sorely disappointed at having missed his opportunity.

As he strode across the parade ground, his own torment beat and tore at him. The wind of the goddess’s rage buffeted him. He had difficulty walking against the furious wind, and he was strong and powerfully built. Black clouds boiled and fumed overhead. Lightning bolts struck at his feet, sending up chunks of rock and once knocking Krell to his knees. The almost constant boom of thunder shook the ground.

Staggering to his feet, Krell shook his fist at the heavens. He did not tempt the goddess further, however, but ran for the Tower of the Lily at a clumsy, armor-encumbered jog-trot.

Mina waited until he was halfway across the parade ground, then she followed him. She had hoped that the goddess might relent when she appeared, that the storm might abate for her. She was soon disabused of that notion. The moment she set foot on the parade ground, a gust of wind struck her, drove her to her hands and knees. Lancing rain pelted her with stinging, blinding force.

Zeboim was apparently not backing any favorites.

At least Krell was not inclined to stop in the midst of the cyclone to look behind to see if he was being followed. He was making for the Tower as fast as his lumbering stride could carry him.

Pushing to her feet, Mina battled her way through the storm in pursuit.

Krell was in a bad temper. The death knight was never in what one might call a good temper, but some days for Krell were better than others. Some days he was fortunate to have the living around to entertain him. Some days, if Zeboim was otherwise engaged, he could walk the parade ground and receive only a mild drenching. Today of all days, the Sea Witch must have planted herself directly overhead.

Fuming and dripping, Krell stalked into the library where he had everything set up in anticipation of his visitor, whose broken, bleeding body was now providing food for the sharks.

Krell plunked his armored self down in a chair and stared moodily at the game board and the empty chair opposite. Krell had grown sick and tired of playing khas against himself.

Krell was an avid khas player, as were most of the Knights of Takhisis. Steel Brightblade had once jested that knowledge of the game was a requirement for becoming a member of the knighthood, and in that, he had not been far wrong. Ariakan—an excellent player—believed that the intricate game taught people to consider not only their own stratagems but also those of their opponents, enabling them to anticipate their opponents’ moves far in advance. Good khas players made good commanders—or so Ariakan believed.

Krell and Ariakan had spent many hours in contest over the khas board. Memories of those hours had returned full force to Krell as he had plotted his commander’s assassination. Ariakan had always beaten Krell at khas.

The round khas board with its black, red, and white six-sided tiles stood in its accustomed place on a wrought iron stand before the enormous fire pit. Hand-carved jet and green jade pieces glowered at each other over the black, red, and white checkered field of battle. Krell had been in the midst of a game against himself (contests he usually won), but he had quickly cleared his game away in order to set the pieces back in their starting positions.

Now he would have to begin again. Scowling, he reached out his gauntleted hand, grasped a pawn, and moved it onto an adjacent square. He let go of the pawn and was about to stand up to move to the chair on the other side of the board when he changed his mind. He would use another opening. He reached for the pawn and was about to shift its position, when a voice—a living voice—spoke from over his shoulder.

“You can’t do that,” said Mina. “It’s against the rules. You’ve taken your hand off the piece. It has to remain where you placed it.”

In life or death, Ausric Krell had never been so astonished.

He whipped around to see who had spoken. A slender female, clad in sodden wet clothes, with hair that was red as his rage and eyes of amber gold stood with an iron pry bar in her hands. She was in the act of swinging the iron bar at his head.

Startled by the sight of her alive when he’d assumed she was dead, shocked at her temerity and the fact that she wasn’t prostrate in terror before him, and caught off guard by the swiftness and suddenness of her attack, Krell had time for a furious snarl before the iron bar smashed into his helm.

Red hot flame lit up the perpetual darkness in which Krell lived, and then flickered out.

Krell’s darkness went even darker.

Mina’s blow, swung with all the pent-up force of her fear and her determination, knocked Krell’s helm from his body, sent it bounding and clanking across the room to bump up against some of the corpses that he’d shoved into the corner. The armor in which his undead energy had been encased remained upright, seated in the chair, half-twisted about, one hand still extended to pick up the khas piece, the other hand raised in an ineffectual move to try to halt Mina’s attack.

Mina held the bar poised for another hit, watching warily both the helm on the floor and the armor in the chair, ready to strike if the helm wobbled or the bloody armor so much as twitched.

The helm lay still. The armor did move. It might have been on display in some Palanthian noble’s palace. Mina was about to breathe a shivering sigh and lower the prybar when the door blew open behind her, crashing against the stone wall with a heart-stopping bang. Mina lifted the bar and turned swiftly to face this new foe.

The gust of wind ushered in the goddess.

Zeboim seemed clad in the storm, her flowing garments in constant motion, swirling about her like the shifting winds as she entered the room. Mina dropped the iron bar and fell to her knees.

“Goddess of the Sea and Storm, I have done what I promised. Lord Ausric Krell, the traitor knight who most foully murdered your son, is destroyed.”

Her head bowed, Mina glanced from beneath her lashes to see the goddess’s reaction. Zeboim swept past Mina without a glance, her sea-green eyes fixed on the bloody armor, and off in the corner, the metal helm—all that remained of Ausric Krell.

Zeboim touched the armor with her fingertips, then she gave it a shove.

The armor collapsed. The mailed gauntlets fell to the floor. The cuirass sagged sideways in the chair. The greaves toppled to the left and right. His two boots remained standing, stationary, in place. Zeboim walked over to the helm. She thrust out a delicate foot, nudging the helm disdainfully with her toe. The ram’s skull helm rocked a little, then settled. The empty eye sockets, dark as death, stared at nothing.

Mina remained on her knees, her head lowered, her arms crossed in humble supplication across her breast. The wind that was the goddess’s escort was chill and raw, and Mina shivered uncontrollably. She kept watch on the goddess out of the corner of her eye.

“You did this, worm?” Zeboim demanded. “Alone?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Mina answered humbly.

“I don’t believe it.” Zeboim looked swiftly about the room, as if certain there must be an army hidden away in the bookshelves or a mighty warrior tucked into a cupboard. Not finding anything except rats, the goddess looked back at Mina. “Still, you were Mommy’s pet. There must be something more to you than appears on the surface.”

The goddess’s voice softened, warmed to springtime, a ripple of breath over sun-drenched water. “Have you chosen a new god to follow, child?”

Before it had been “worm.” Now it was “child.” Mina hid her smile. She had foreseen this question, and she was prepared with her answer. Keeping her eyes lowered, Mina answered, “My loyalty and my faith are with the dead.”

Zeboim frowned, displeased. “Bah! Takhisis can do nothing for you now. Faith such as yours should be rewarded.”

“I ask for no reward,” Mina replied. “I seek only to serve.”

“You are a liar, child, but such an amusing liar that I’ll let it pass.”

Mina glanced up at the goddess with a twinge of concern. Had Zeboim seen into her heart?

“The weak-minded among the pantheon might be deceived by your show of piety, but I am not,” Zeboim continued disdainfully. “All mortals want a reward in return for their faith. No one ever does something for nothing.”

Mina breathed easier.

“Come now, child,” Zeboim continued in wheedling tones, “you risked your life to destroy that maggot Krell. What is the real reason? And don’t tell me you did it because his treachery offended your fine sense of honor.”

Mina lifted her eyes to meet the gray-green eyes of the goddess. “I would like to have something, if it’s not too much to ask, Majesty.”

“I thought so!” Zeboim was smug. “What do you want, child? A sea chest filled with emeralds? A thousand strands of pearls?

Your own fleet of sailing ships? Or perhaps the fabled treasure of the Dark Knights that lies in the vaults below? I feel generous. Tell me your wish, and I will grant it.”

“The death knight’s helm, My Lady,” Mina replied. “That is what I want.”

“His helm?” Zeboim repeated, amazed. She made a scornful gesture toward the helm that lay on the floor, near the mummified hand of one of his victims. “That heap of metal is worth next to nothing. A traveling circus might give you a few coins for it, though I doubt even they would be much interested.”

“Nevertheless that is what I want,” said Mina. “That is my wish.”

“Take it, then, by all means,” returned Zeboim, adding in a mutter, “Foolish chit. I could have made you rich beyond your dreams. I can’t think what my mother saw in you.”

Mina rose to her feet. Conscious of the goddess’s annoyed gaze upon her, she walked past the khas board, past the toppled suit of armor, past the two chairs to the far corner. The ram’s skull helm lay on the floor. Mina cast a glance at Zeboim. The goddess’s ever-changing eyes had gone gray as the stone walls of the Keep. The restless winds stirred her hair and clothes.

“She hoped to ensnare me,” Mina said to herself, as she turned away. “Keep me in her debt by lavishing wealth upon me. I did not lie. My loyalty and my faith are with the dead, just not the dead she was thinking about.”

Mina picked up the helm, examined it curiously. The horns of the ram curled back from the hideous ram’s skull that formed the visor. Each knight was free to choose his own symbol to use in the design of his armor. Mina found it intriguing that Krell had chosen a ram. He must have felt the need to prove something. She lifted the heavy helm and thrust it awkwardly under her arm. The tips of the horns and the jagged steel edges pricked her flesh uncomfortably.

“Anything else?” Zeboim asked caustically. “Perhaps you’d like one of his boots as a souvenir?”

“I thank you, Lady,” said Mina, pretending not to notice the sarcasm. She made a bow. “I revere you and honor you.”

Zeboim snorted. Tossing her head, she regarded Mina from slit eyes. “There is something else you want, I’ll be bound.”

Mina sensed a trap. She cast about in her mind, wondering what Zeboim was after.

“Safe passage off this blasted rock?” the goddess suggested. Mina bit her lip. Perhaps she had gone too far. The goddess of the waves could very easily drown her.

“Yes, Majesty,” she replied in her most humble tones. “Though perhaps that is more than I deserve.”

“Save your groveling for someone who appreciates it,” Zeboim snapped pettishly. “I begin to regret granting you my favor. I think I shall miss tormenting Krell.”

“You granted me no favors, Lady,” Mina said to herself, not aloud. She waited tensely to hear the goddess’s verdict. Not even Chemosh could protect her once she set sail upon the sea that was Zeboim’s province.

The goddess cast Mina and the helm one final, disdainful, sneering glance. Then she turned on her heel, leaving the library. The wind of her anger howled and tore at Mina, buffeted her with bruising force, striking at her until she dropped to her knees to avoid the blows. She crouched on the floor, her head bowed, as the wind blasted her, clutching the helm in her arms.

And then all went calm. The wind gave a final, irritated hiss, and then fell to nothing.

Mina sighed deeply. This was the goddess’s answer, or at least so she hoped. She stood up too fast and staggered, almost falling again. The encounters with the death knight and the goddess had drained both her body and her spirit. She was parched with thirst, and though there was rainwater aplenty standing in puddles that were almost as deep and wide as ponds, the water had an oily look to it and smelled of blood. She would not have drunk it for all the strands of pearls in the world. And she had yet to return to the Black Stairs, climb down those broken, slippery steps to where her little boat waited, then make the journey across the sea—the heaving bosom of an angry goddess.

She started to walk wearily toward the door. At least the storm had abated. The rain now fell in a muttering drizzle. The wind was calm, though now it whipped up and then in vicious little gusts.

“You have done well, Mina,” said Chemosh. “I am pleased.”

Mina lifted her head, looked around, hoping that the god was here on Storm’s Keep with her. He was nowhere in sight and she realized immediately that she’d been silly to think he might have come. Zeboim would still be watching her and his presence would have given all away.

“I am glad to have pleased you, my lord,” said Mina softly, warm with the glow of his praise.

“Zeboim will keep her promise and calm the seas for you. She admires you. She still has hopes of winning you over.” “Never, my lord,” said Mina firmly.

“I know that, but she does not; therefore, do not tempt her patience long. You have Krell’s helm?”

“Yes, Lord. I have it with me, as you ordered.”

“Keep it safe.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“God speed you to my arms, Mina,” said Chemosh.

She felt a touch upon her cheek—his kiss brushed against her skin. Mina pressed her hand to her cheek, closed her eyes, and reveled in the warmth. When she opened her eyes, she had renewed strength, as if she had both eaten and drunk.

Mindful of the helm, she stripped a ragged cloak from one of the many corpses that littered the room and bound the cloak around the helm, holding it in place with a leather belt she took off another victim. Toting the helm in its bundle, she left the Tower of the Lily and crossed the parade ground, heading for the Black Stairs and her little sail boat.

8

From her vantage point in the heavens, Zeboim watched Mina’s boat bob across the sun-glinting water of the sea, steering toward a rock-bound and desolate strip of coastline. A restless goddess, a cruel goddess, Zeboim could have raised up a wave to capsize the small craft or summoned a sea dragon to devour it, or done any number of things to torment or kill the mortal. This would be nothing to her. She sometimes sank entire ships filled with living souls, sending passengers and sailors to terrifying death by drowning or watching them suffer for days on end, huddled in tiny life boats until they died of thirst and exposure or were devoured by sharks.

Zeboim took delight in their desperate pleas. She loved to listen to them cry out to her. They promised her anything if she would only spare their lives. Sometimes she ignored them, let them die. Other times she heeded their prayers and saved them. Her actions were not based on mere caprice, as was often the accusation leveled against her by mortals and the other gods. Zeboim was a calculating, clever goddess, who knew how to play to an audience.

Dead sailors did not leave gifts at her altars or fill the heavens with songs of praise for her. But sailors who escaped death by drowning never passed a shrine to the Sea Goddess without stopping to leave a token of their gratitude. Sailors who feared drowning gave her the best offerings of all, hoping to win her regard. In order to keep them all coming back to her, Zeboim had to drown a few now and then. The same held true with hurricanes and tidal waves, floods and cyclones. The man who saw his son swept away in a raging torrent cried out her name and either blessed her or cursed her, depending on whether her hand reached down to pluck the boy out or hold him under. Blessing or curses, they were both meat on her table, for the next rainy season, that man would be in her shrine, begging her to spare the lives of his other children.

As for determining who should live and who must die, Zeboim was a bit whimsical on this score. She might well drown the ship owner who had paid for the building of her new shrine and keep alive the cabin boy, who had given a gift of a bent pfennig and then only because his mother had made him. She would drown her own priests, just to keep everyone on their toes.

In regard to Mina, the young woman intrigued the goddess. True, Zeboim had disparaged her during their conversations together. But that had been for show; Zeboim never gave a mortal power by appearing to favor one above another.

Although Zeboim had despised Takhisis, Zeboim had to admit that her mother had a talent for finding good servants and this Mina was bold and intelligent, courageous and faithful, clearly a prize among mortals. Zeboim wanted Mina to worship her, and as she watched the boat make a safe landing and Mina depart from it, lugging with her the bundle in which she had wrapped up the helm of the death knight, the goddess toyed with various plans to try to win her.

It seemed that Zeboim had made a propitious start. The shrine of the Sea Goddess was the first place Mina went upon landing to give thanks for a safe voyage. Mina’s prayer was polite and properly respectful, and although Zeboim would have preferred more groveling and maybe even a few heartfelt tears, she was satisfied. She wrapped herself in storm clouds, and having nothing more interesting to do, she went back to Storm’s Keep to drag Krell’s soul from whatever immortal plane it was on (perhaps he was fondly imagining he could hide from her), and return him to his prison.

A gust of wind and a flash of lightning heralded her arrival in the Tower of the Lily. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at the empty armor with a malicious smile.

“No doubt your miserable soul is running about in circles, trying to find your way out of this accursed existence, Krell. Perhaps you think you’ll escape me this time. You are not be so lucky. My reach is long.” Zeboim suited her action to her words. Extending her arm, she reached inside the armor.

“I have but to grab you by the short hairs and drag you back—”

Zeboim withdrew her hand, peered down it, expecting to see Krell’s soul, cringing and whimpering, writhing in her grasp. Her hand was empty.

Zeboim stared into the immortal plane, searching for Krell’s soul.

The plane was empty.

Zeboim smote the metal armor with her hand. It disintegrated into fragments of metal no larger than a dust mote. Feverishly she stirred the fragments.

The armor was empty. Nothing lurking inside trying to hide from her wrath.

Swift as hurricane winds, Zeboim whirled through the Keep, searching every crack and crevice. She was tempted to tear the fortress apart, stone by stone, but she would only be wasting her time. She realized the truth. She knew it the moment she touched that empty armor. She was loathe to admit it.

Krell was gone. He had escaped her.

Zeboim saw Mina kneeling, heard her words.

My loyalty and my faith are with the dead.

“Ah, you clever little bitch.” Zeboim swore savagely. “You conniving, thieving, clever little bitch. ‘My faith is with the dead.’ You did not mean my mother. You meant Chemosh!”

She spoke the name in a blast of rage that caused the seas to seethe and boil and froth. Storm winds raged, rivers overflowed their banks. Zeboim’s rage shook the very foundations of the Abyss, where Chemosh felt her fury and smiled.

9

Chemosh paced the world, waiting for Mina to return to him. He tried to interest himself in what was transpiring in the world, for events were unfolding that would have an effect. on his plans and ambitions. He watched the build-up of the minotaur forces in Silvanesti with concern. Sargonnas was setting himself up to take over the leadership of the pantheon of Darkness and there did not appear to be much that could stop him now. Chemosh had some ideas in regard to that, but he was not yet ready to put those into motion. Patience. That was the key. Haste makes waste.

He dropped by for a glimpse of Mishakal, for he had recently added her to his list of gods who threatened his ambition. He would not have believed it, but the goddess who had once been known for her gentle, unassuming ways had lately become quite militant. She was starting to seriously annoy Chemosh, for her clerics were not limiting themselves to sitting beside sick-beds but were harassing his clerics, pulling down his temples, and slaying his zombies. True, Chemosh didn’t much like zombies, but they were his and killing them was an affront to himself. He would soon take care of that as well. He would present Mishakal and her do-gooder clerics with a dark mystery they would be hard-pressed to solve, provided Mina turned out to be all that he believed and hoped her to be.

The other gods were not much of a threat. Kiri-Jolith was focused on re-establishing his worship among the Solamnic Knights and other war-minded individuals. Chislev danced with the unicorns in her forests, rejoicing in having her trees back. Majere watched a lady-bug crawl up the stem of a dandelion and marveled at the perfection of both bug and weed. The gods of magic were embroiled in their own politics and in bickering over what to do about the scourge of sorcery that had reared its playful head in their well-ordered world. The gods of neutrality were going about being firmly neutral and uncommitted to anything, for fear that so much as a sneeze would tip the delicate balance in favor of one side or another.

Something was going to tip it and it wouldn’t be a sneeze. Mina was the golden weight in the hand of the Lord of Death, the golden weight that would drop onto the scales of balance and completely overturn them.

Chemosh had not been at all certain that Mina would succeed at the task he had set for her. He knew that she was an extraordinary mortal, but she was mortal and she was human into the bargain—an often unsatisfactory combination. He was pleasantly surprised when she stepped out of the small sail boat, carrying the bundle with the helm in her arms. More than surprised, he was admiring. Eons had passed since he had last viewed a mortal with anything akin to admiration.

Their appointed meeting place was in ancient temple dedicated to his worship off the coast of Solamnia. He had been waiting for her there, careful to keep out of sight, for Zeboim would be watching Mina for as long as she sailed upon the sea and perhaps even after she landed. Thus he had directed Mina to keep Zeboim off-guard by paying a visit to her shrine.

The temple in which he met her had once been a mausoleum, designed and built by a grieving noble lady for her noble husband.

The family name, emblazoned across the front of the mausoleum, had eroded, as had the coat of arms. The hall had fallen into ruin. Nothing was left of it except the foundation, for the materials used in its construction had been hauled off by the local residents to use in rebuilding homes damaged in the First Cataclysm. The mausoleum remained intact, however, and in relatively good condition. None dare touch it, for legend had it that one could still hear the grief-stricken wail of the bereaved widow and see her ghostly figure weeping on the marble stairs.

Built of black marble, the mausoleum was almost a small hall. Four ornately carved spires stood at each corner of a sharply pointed roof, surrounded by delicate wrought iron filigree. A columned portico at the top of the famed marble stairs sheltered an immense bronze door. Inside the mausoleum, two rows of slender columns stood like sentinels on either side of the enormous marble tomb bearing the family coat of arms and replete with the outstanding moments of the man’s life carved in raised relief all around the base.

The noble lady had built an altar at the far end of the mausoleum and dedicated it to Chemosh. Here she had come to pray daily to the God of Death, swearing never to leave this place until he restored her husband to her. Since the husband’s soul had already gone on, Chemosh was unable to answer her prayer. He did, however, see to it that she kept her vow. Chemosh had returned to the world to find her ghost still there, still weeping on the stairs. He’d forgotten how annoying he found her blubbering and he freed her at last, sending her off to join her husband.

He wondered if he wasn’t becoming a bit of a romantic.

He entered the temple, looked around. The mausoleum was well-constructed. The roof did not leak; the building was dry and neither musty nor dank. There was only one body inside and he had remained decently interred. No stray shin bones or skulls cluttering up the place. Chemosh’s followers, undeterred by the ghost, had moved into the mausoleum during the War of the Lance and had remained here up until the theft of the world deprived them of their god. He was pleased to note that they had been an unusually tidy lot, cleaning up after their rites, so there was no melted candle wax upon the altar cloth, no blood stains on the floor, no fragments of bone left on the dais.

Chemosh found some evidence that someone—either one of those new, misguided users of necromancy or grave robbers—had recently been inside. Someone had tried to pry the lid off the tomb using a crow bar. The marble lid was extremely heavy and the attempt had failed. They had raided his altar, too, carrying off a pair of golden candlesticks and a ruby-encrusted chalice, both of which he distinctly remembered, for he kept track of all his sacred artifacts.

“No thief would have dared tempt my wrath in the old days,” Chemosh said, frowning in ire. “Thanks to our late and unlamented Queen, no one has any respect for the gods these days. That will change. One day soon, when mortals speak the name of Chemosh, they will speak it with respect, with reverence and awe. They will speak it with fear.”

“My lord Chemosh.” Mina spoke his name, but not with fear. With love and reverence.

Chemosh opened the bronze door to find her standing on the marble stairs. She was wet, bedraggled, her hands bloodied and bruised, weary to the point of dropping. Her amber eyes glowed in the warm red light of Lunitari. Bowing to him, Mina held out to him the helm of the death knight, Ausric Krell.

“As you commanded, my lord,” she said.

“Come inside. Away from prying eyes.”

Taking hold of Mina, he drew her inside the mausoleum and shut the great bronze doors.

“How cold your hand is. Cold as death,” he said, and was pleased to see her smile at his little jest. “And you are soaked to the skin. Here we will warm you.”

He was eager to find out if his enchantment had worked and if he had indeed managed to capture Krell, but he was concerned about Mina, who could barely walk for shivering. He snapped his fingers and a fire sprang up from a brazier on the altar. Mina approached it gratefully, holding her hands to the warmth.

The sodden fabric of her cambric shirt clung to her body, flowing over the fullness of her breasts that were pale and smooth as the marble of the altar. He watched her breasts quiver with her shivering, rise and dip with her breathing. His eyes moved to the hollow’ of her throat, a tempting shadow of darkness in the firelight, to her face, the curve of her lips, the strong chin, the remarkable amber eyes.

Chemosh was surprised to feel his own heart beat faster, his own breath catch. Gods had fallen in love with mortals before now; Zeboim had been one of them and she had even sunk so far as to give birth to a half-mortal child. Chemosh had never understood how one could be attracted to a mortal, with their limited minds and butterfly lives, and he did not understand himself now. He had intended his seduction of Mina to be strictly business, at least as far as he was concerned. He would make love to her and ensnare her, force her to become dependent on him. He was now half-amused by his own feelings of desire and half-annoyed. Desire was an indication of weakness on his part. He had to conquer it, get back to the business of becoming king.

Mina felt his gaze upon her. She turned to look at him and she must have seen his thoughts in his eyes, for she smiled at him, the amber warm and melting.

Chemosh wrenched his thoughts and his gaze away from her. Business before pleasure. He placed the helm upon the altar and stared eagerly inside. He could see, in the shadows of the Abyss, the small and shriveled soul of Ausric Krell.

A raging gust of wind smote the mausoleum, lashed the trees and tore the leaves from their limbs. Thunder pounded the temple in frustration. Fury lit the night skies and tears of rage drowned the stars.

Inside the mausoleum, all was warm and snug. Chemosh held the spirit between his thumb and forefinger and watched Krell squirm, like a mouse caught by the tail.

“Do you pledge me your loyalty, Krell?” Chemosh demanded. “I do, my lord.” Krell’s voice came from far away, sounded tinny and frantic. “I do!”

“And you will do whatever I ask of you? Obey my orders without question?”

“Anything, lord,” Krell swore, “so long as you keep me out of the clutches of the Sea Witch.”

“Then from this moment on, Ausric Krell,” said Chemosh solemnly, dropping the spirit upon the altar, “you are mine. Zeboim has no hold upon you. She has no way to find you, for you are hidden safely within my darkness.”

All this time, he was aware of Mina watching him, her amber eyes wide with awe and admiration. He was pleased to have impressed her, until it occurred to him that he was behaving just like a school boy, showing off for some giggling girl.

He gave an irritated wave of his hand and Ausric Krell, wearing the armor of his curse, stood before the altar. His red eyes, glowing like banked coals, flicked about suspiciously, taking in his surroundings.

“No tricks, Krell, as you see,” Chemosh stated, adding in grating tones. “You could at least say ‘thank you’.”

Krell knelt down ponderously, clanking and rattling, onto one knee.

“My lord, I do thank you. I am in your debt.”

“Yes, you are, Krell. And don’t ever forget it.”

“What is your lordship’s command?”

Chemosh’s thoughts kept straying to Mina. He was beginning to find the death knight an intolerable nuisance.

“I have no commands for you yet,” said Chemosh. “I have a plan in mind, in which you will play a part, but the time is not yet right. You have leave to go.”

“Yes, my lord.” Krell bowed and started for the door. Halfway there, he halted and turned around, confused. “Go where, my lord?”

“Wherever you want, Krell,” said Chemosh impatiently. His eyes were on Mina, as hers were on him.

“I can go anywhere?” Krell wanted to make absolutely certain. “The goddess cannot touch me?”

“No, but the god can,” said Chemosh, losing patience. “Go wherever you want, Krell. Commit what mayhem you will. Just don’t do it here.”

“I will, my lord!’ Krell gave another bow. “Then, my lord, if ‘ you have no further need for me—”

“Get out, Krell.”

“I await your call. Until then, I take my leave. Farewell, my lord.”

Krell clanked and rattled his way out of the mausoleum. Chemosh slammed shut the bronze door behind him and locked it.

“I thought you had done something quite clever in capturing that wretch, Mina. I see now that I could have sent a gully dwarf to fetch him.” Chemosh smiled at her, to show he was teasing, and reached out his hands.

Mina clasped her hands in his, moved near to him. “And what is to be my reward, Lord?”

Her amber eyes shone; her hair was red-gold flame. Her hands tightened over his, and he could feel the smoothness of the skin sliding over the hardness of bone. He could hear the rush of the pulsing blood in her veins and see the throb of her life in the hollow of her neck. He gathered her close, reveling in her warmth, the warmth of life, the warmth of mortality.

“How will I serve my lord?” Mina asked.

“Like this,” he said and took her in his arms.

He kissed her lips. He kissed the hollow of her neck. He stripped the shirt from her body, and holding her tightly, pressed his lips on her breast, above her heart.

His kiss seared her flesh, which began to blacken beneath his touch. Mina cried out. Her body stiffened and she writhed in pain and struggled in his arms. He held her fast, held her close. And then, slowly, he withdrew.

She shuddered, sighed. Her eyes opened. She looked at him, deep into his eyes. Then, wincing, she looked down at her breast.

His mark was on her, the imprint of his lips, burned into her flesh.

“You are mine, Mina,” said Chemosh.

The kiss had burned through flesh and bone, struck to her heart. She felt stirring within her the power he had just granted her and she leaned toward him, her lips parted, wanting his kiss again and again.

“I am yours, Lord.”

Desire ached in him, and he no longer questioned it. He would take her, make her his own, but he needed to make certain she understood.

“You will not be a slave to me, as you were for Takhisis.”

Chemosh caressed her neck, ran his hand over the imprint left by his kiss. Her flesh was charred and starting to blister where his lips had touched her. He traced the black kiss with his finger.

“You will be my High Priestess, Mina. You will go forth into the world and gain followers for me, followers who are young and strong and beautiful as yourself. I will be their god, but you will be their master. You will wield power over them, absolute power, the power of life and death.”

“What inducements can I offer them, my lord? The young do not like to think of death …”

“You will give them a gift from me. A gift of rare value, one that mankind has wanted since the beginning of time.”

“I will do all you ask, lord, with pleasure,” said Mina. Her breath came fast.

Chemosh brushed back the red hair with his hand. The silken strands tangled around his fingers. Her lips were warm and eager, her flesh warm and yielding at his touch.

He crushed her body against his. She gave herself to him with passionate abandon, and he no longer wondered how a god could find pleasure in the arms of a mortal. He wondered only that it had taken him this long to make the discovery.