Wolves of the Gods

CHAPTER TWO

The wolf leaped for him and Safar shouted, scrabbling for his dagger.

He rolled out of bed, landing in a crouch; bare toes digging into the rough floor for balance, dagger coming up to strike.

He blinked out of sleep, then gaped about in amazement. He was standing in an empty room- his room!

There was no wolf, there was no threat of any kind. Instead he was presented with the most peaceful of scenes-the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window, spilling across his writing desk where the cat was sprawled across his papers basking in the warmth. The window was open and he could hear birds singing and smell the fresh breeze coming off the lake.

Safar turned away from the strong light, dagger hand sagging in relief. He came out of the crouch and suddenly found himself shivering in his thin nightshirt.

Nothing but a damned dream, he thought. Safar padded over to his desk, set the dagger down and poured himself a goblet of brandy. He drank it off, shuddered at the sudden heat rising from his belly and started to pour another. The cat stared at him, an accusing look in her eyes. She was only irritated for being disturbed but the look make Safar feel guilty for entirely different reasons.

He glanced at the brandy jug and made a face, thinking, you've certainly been doing a little too much of that of late, my friend. But the nightmare had been so realistic he only felt a little guilty when he gave in and poured himself "just a bit more" to calm his racing heart. Safar had dreamed he was a small boy, alone on the mountain, with a wolf pack closing in. He'd awakened just as they were attacking-the pack leader rising on its hind feet and its front legs turning into demon arms, reaching for him with razor-sharp talons.

At the last moment, as he hovered between dream and consciousness, the wolf's mask transformed into a human face. Long snout retreating into a strong human jaw, sharp brow broadening and rising into a human forehead, a human mouth with human lips parting to speak … and it was then that he'd awakened

… just before the words were spoken.

Safar set the tumbler on its tray, wondering what the dream beast had been about to say. He snorted.

Don't be ridiculous! The brandy's got you. It was a dream. Nothing more.

He glanced down at his notes, a scatter of linen pages peeping out from under the cat who had gone back to sleep. Yes, nothing but a dream. Brought on, no doubt, by the long fruitless night he'd spent poring over the Book of Asper. Trying to make some sense of the ancient demon wizard's musings.

And yes, he'd imbibed a bit too much and worked a bit too late. The last thing he'd read before he'd fallen asleep was another of Lord Asper's warnings, maddeningly couched in murky poetry.

What was it? How did it go? Oh, yes:

" … the Age of the Wolf will soon draw near

When all is deceit and all is to fear.

Then ask who is hunter and who is prey?

And whose dark commands do we obey?

With the Heavens silent-the world forsaken-

Beware the Wolf, until the Gods awaken … "

Safar sighed. It was no wonder he'd dreamed of wolves. Too much brandy and Asper's poetry was a certain recipe for nightmares.

He put the jug down, found a robe, shrugged it on, then stuffed his feet into soft, hightopped slippers-a habit he'd formed during his years at the court of King Protarus. Felt-lined comfort on a chilly morn was only one very small luxury of many he'd enjoyed in his days as Grand Wazier to the late, unlamented by him, King of Kings.

Once Safar had possessed more palaces than there were cusps in the Heavenly Wheel. The finest food, wine, clothing, jewelry and women were his for the asking. Men and demons alike bowed when he passed, whispering his name for their children to hear and remember. Safar missed none of this. The rough, healthy life of Kyrania-the remote, high mountain valley of his birth-was all he'd ever really wanted. In the greater world he was Lord Timura, a wizard among wizards. A man to be to be feared.

Here he was merely Safar Timura, son of a potter and now village priest and teacher to giggling school children. A man whose main faults were a citified taste for warm slippers on a chilly morning and possibly, just possibly, a bit more of a desire for strong spirits than was good for him. The only spoiler was that his fellow Kyranians called him by the title King Protarus had bestowed on him. So even here among the people he loved, the people he had known all his days, he was called Lord Timura.

As for women-Safar glanced at the tangled covers of his empty bed-well, he hadn't had much luck in that area. Oh, he supposed he could wed just about any maid in the village if he so desired. He was barely in his third decade of life, after all. Taller than any man in Kyrania and stronger than most. In the past women had called him handsome, although his blue eyes in a world of dark-eyed people made some nervous in his presence until they had been in his company for a time.

He was also quite rich. Thanks to Lieria he'd fled Zanzair with enough precious gems in his saddlebags to match even the greatest miser's measure of immense wealth.

Since he'd returned to Kyrania the young maids had buzzed about him like ardent bees, making it known they were available. A few had even made it plain that marriage wasn't necessary and they'd be satisfied just to share his bed. Scandalous offers indeed in puritanical Kyrania. In the early days, when Leiria still graced his bed, many an old Kyranian woman's tongue had been set clucking whenever she passed. In the moral double-standard favored in Kyrania, Safar was not blamed. A man will do what a man can, was the motto. And it is a woman who must preserve respect for Dame Chastity.

Now that Leiria was gone, Safar's mother and sisters were constantly conspiring to get him betrothed to a "decent woman."

Safar had gently eluded their little traps. To tell the truth he thought it unlikely he'd ever marry. He had good reasons for this, although he didn't mention them to family and friends. It was his secret shame. A secret he'd mentioned only to Leiria, who'd told him he was insane. Insane or not, Safar was convinced he had caused the deaths of two women who had loved him and broken the heart of a third.

Safar frowned, remembering Leiria's final words on the subject…

…It was their last night together as bedmates. Neither had spoken of this, but it was understood between them. Leiria had come home that day after a long ride in the hills. She'd been in a reflective mood, but full of single-minded determination at the same time. Safar had watched in silence as she gathered her things, then whistled up a boy to get her horse and a pack animal ready for the morning.

Finally she'd hauled out the brandy and they'd both gotten gloriously drunk and had made love until they'd fallen asleep. But an hour so later they'd both awakened, made love again, slow and full of secrets and depths neither could decipher, much less plumb. Then they'd talked. Retold old stories about shared adventures. About the time the Demon King Manacia thought he had them cornered and they'd sprung a trap on him instead. And the trick they'd pulled on Kalasariz, who had seized Kyrania with a demon army. And then the even better trick they'd played on the demons to free the valley.

They talked until it was almost dawn.

And then Safar said: "I'm sorry, Leiria. I know I said that once before, but this time I have even more-"

"— Six years ago," Leiria interrupted.

"What?" Safar said, confused.

Leiria nodded. "Yes, it was six years ago almost to the day. I remember we were in the stable near the east gate of Zanzair. You didn't know if I was friend or foe and you were thinking about killing me. By the Gods, you were stupid! To ever think I'd ever hurt you!"

"Yes, and I'm sor-"

Leiria put a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Let's not make it three times," she said. "Twice is once too many. I deserved the first 'sorry.' Back when we were in the stable and you were doubting me. But I don't want, much less deserve, the second.

"As always, my love, you reach too deep for guilt. Be sorry that you ever doubted me. I'll keep that. I'll put it away for some weepy hour when I need to drag it up, along with as many others as I can. There's nothing I like more than a good cry on the eve of battle. It loosens the sword arm wondrously.

"As for any other 'sorries,' I say camelshit! You didn't break my heart, Safar Timura. I broke my own heart. It was a good lesson for a naV ve soldier. And it was also something every person needs for the future. Man or woman. If you're wounded early in life it gives you something to reminisce about when nobody thinks you are worth a tumble.

"So, camelshit! Safar Timura. You didn't break my heart, anymore than you killed Methydia or Nerisa!"

"You have to admit," Safar said, guarding the odd comfort of familiar guilts, "that if they hadn't met me they'd be alive today."

"That's ridiculous!" Leiria said. "They were on whatever road the Fates decided. Sometimes you're ambushed. Sometimes you turn it around and ambush your enemy instead. Either way, you're on the same road the General commanded you to take. So you do your job. March when they say march. Fight when they say fight. Rest when they say rest. And when you're resting you pray to all that is dreaded in the Hells they keep for soldiers that you meet somebody you can love. Methydia and Nerisa had that, Safar. And if they were alive today they'd both give you a piece of their minds for feeling sorry for them.

They weren't the kind of women who could bear that sort of thing. If their ghosts were to speak they'd tell you exactly what I'm going to tell you now. Which is this:

"Almost no one ever really experiences love, Safar. You get bedded. You get warm. Maybe you even get a sort of intimacy. I don't have much experience at such things, so I can't really describe what I mean.

I've only been with two men in my life, after all-you and … Iraj. And yes, I loved him too … once. And that's my own 'sorry.' Hells! I have more sorries than I care to think about when it comes to Iraj.

"Sorry that I didn't see who he really was. Sorry that I gave him everything I had to give. Sorry that for a moment, however small, I really did think about betraying you. One thing I'm not sorry about. You killed him. And good riddance to Iraj Protarus. The world is a better place without him.

"So don't you feel guilty, Safar Timura. Especially not about the women who have loved you.

"I speak for all of them!"

That was the end of the conversation. They cuddled for awhile in silence. Then Leiria rose, bathed, and dressed in her light armor.

He didn't watch her leave. He stayed in his room, head bent over the Book of Asper. He heard her ride away. Heard the clatter of her armor. The creak of her soldier's harness. And just before the sounds faded from hearing he thought he caught a whiff of her perfume on the morning breeze.

In his whole life he'd never encountered a scent that lingered so long and lonely…

Safar shook himself back to the present, thinking, no matter what Leiria had said, his hesitation would remain. It would be a very long time-if ever-before he chanced being the cause of harm or sorrow to another woman. But guilt, large as it was, had only a supporting role to play in the drama that made up Safar Timura. To him it seemed whenever his emotions came into play it exposed him-and, more importantly, his purpose-to danger.

Take love, for instance. The last time Safar had declared himself to a woman … say her name, don't dodge the pain of that old wound … her name was Nerisa.

Nerisa was a former street urchin who grew to became a woman of beauty, wealth and power. These three things-but mostly it was his love for Nerisa-had brought him into conflict with the king. And Iraj Protarus had used that love to find a weakness to betray Safar. The incident had ended with Nerisa's death and Safar's bitter repayment. The epilogue of the tale saw Safar kill Protarus and bring down his empire.

He'd fled the glorious demon city of Zanzair, leaving palace and riches behind in the flames that had consumed the city-flames evoked by the great spell he'd cast to slay Iraj.

Six years had passed since that day. A little longer, actually, since it had been several months since the day Leiria had noted the tragic anniversary. Six years of relative peace-at least in Kyrania. In the outside world things were much different.

Safar went to his bedroom window and looked across the beautiful valley he called home. His house-a narrow, two-story cottage set on a hillside near the cherry orchard-overlooked the dazzling blue waters of Lake Felakia, named for the goddess whose temple was now in his care. On the lake he could see fishermen casting their nets. In the rich farmland surrounding the glistening waters men and women were tending the green shoots that were just now poking their heads from their warm blankets of soil to greet the spring sun. In the distance two boys were driving a herd of goats up into the mountains to the high meadows where the lush grasses made their milk sweet. The shouts of the boys and bleating of the goats drifted to him on the breeze flowing down the mountainside. It was an idyllic scene, which Safar doubted could be matched anywhere in the world.

Yet his thoughts were not on the beauties of his native valley that morning. Or even-after he'd stirred through the pot of guilt-were they permanently fixed on Leiria, Methydia or even Nerisa.

He was still troubled by the dream that had awakened him. It was no ordinary nightmare. It was so strong an experience he wondered if it might actually be a vision. But there was no magical scent lingering in the nightmare's aftermath, so he was fooled for a time, thinking that maybe it really was only a dream.

So when Safar looked through the window he barely saw all the beauty that so beguiled the rare outsider who visited Kyrania. Instead he focused on all the troubles the beauty hid.

Three poor harvests in a row, followed by harsh winters, had sorely tested the people of Kyrania. They had lived in ease for so many generations they were ill prepared for the hard times that had descended on the world in recent years.

The income from the great caravans that had once crossed the Gods' Divide from Caspan to Walaria and back again each year had ceased. Kyrania suffered from this. Yet once again in the age-old Kyranian story, Safar's people didn't suffer nearly as much as everyone else.

In the outside world-the world beyond the foothills of the Gods' Divide-all was chaos.

Protarus' shattered empire had turned Esmir into a confusion of petty kingdoms, so weak they couldn't keep the bandits off their own roads, so unstable that any bold warrior prince with an army at his back could easily step into the gap left by the mighty Iraj. Kyrania was cut off from the rest of Esmir, so Safar couldn't be certain that such a prince hadn't risen.

In the past, news would have come through the great merchant princes who knew the route over the mountains to Kyrania. But they were either dead, or huddled at home praying the chaos would soon end.

Safar thought it unlikely their prayers would be answered anytime soon. If at all.

He looked north and saw the Demon Moon-a silver comet trailing in its wake-rising over a mountain peak. As long as that moon ruled the heavens, he thought, plague and war and hunger would ravage the land. From his studies he knew things were likely to get worse, not better. Someday the Demon Moon might reign over lifeless seas and plains and mountains. The world, Safar believed, was slowly poisoning itself-shedding humans and demons and animals and plants as if they were so many parasites, like lice or ticks or aphids.

Once Safar had thought he might find the answer-the means to end the abysmal reign of the Demon Moon. It had been this search that had brought him to Protarus' court and all the terrible things which followed. Now, after more than six years of study and magical experiment, Safar was starting to wonder if he had been a fool from the very beginning. And that there was no answer to the riddle.

That damned old demon, Lord Asper, claimed the gods were asleep in the heavens and didn't care a whit about the fate of human or demonkind.

Safar eyed the brandy jug, thinking, if Asper were right, why should he, Safar Timura, care?

He picked the jug up, thinking, why should I fight the natural course of things? The gods must hate us, he thought. From what Safar had seen in his three decades of life the gods had good reason to abandon this world to its fate. Humans as well as demons were masters of misery, striking out at themselves as much as at others.

He started to pour himself one more drink, thinking, to the Hells with them all! If that's what the gods want, who am I to say nay?

Then he heard a small voice in the other room:

"You show him!"

Another voice protested.

"No, no, you show him!"

"He'll get mad."

"No he won't."

"Yes, he will."

"All right, all right. I'll do it."

Listening, Safar smiled, thinking-There's your reason, my friend!

He heard his son call, "Come here, father! Come and see quick!"

Safar laughed and went into Palimak's room. He entered cautiously, not knowing what he'd find.

The smell hit him first.

It was like something had died, then risen from the dead just short of complete mortification. It was more redolent than flesh. It was more like … Then smell shock became vision shock and Safar jumped back as a huge creature lumbered toward him.

"Surprise!" Palimak shouted.

The creature confronting him was buttery yellow with holes running through it so huge you could see to the other side. One of those holes opened-Safar imagined it might be a mouth-and then he knew he was right when the creature spoke:

"Cheese!" it said in a deep bass voice. Or at least that's what Safar thought it said. And then he was sure because it spoke again, saying: "Cheese!"

It waved clumsy arms at him, like an clockwork toy from a child prince's chest of pleasures.

Safar buried a smile, then made a motion and the creature froze in place.

Palimak clapped his hands, chortling, "What do you think, father? Isn't it good?"

He was a handsome boy, not quite eight, with curly brown hair and a slender body with long legs and arms splayed across the bed. He had a long elfish face, with rosy cheeks and skin so fine it was almost translucent. At the moment his normally hazel eyes were huge and golden-dancing with magical fire.

"Well? Say it!"

Safar put on a solemn face and examined the creature, trying not to laugh, which was difficult because behind Palimak was a small, green creature, doing its best to keep out of sight. It was an elegant little figure-about three hands high-dressed in fashionable tights, tunic, and feathered hat. It had the body of a man, but the face and talons of a demon. The creature was Gundara, Safar's Favorite. Gundara knew he was in a great deal of trouble with his master, ducking behind the boy, teeth chattering like a monkey's and giving him away.

Safar ignored Gundara for the moment and observed his son's creation. It wasn't yellow all over as he'd first thought. It also had brown, loaflike arms and legs that bore neither hands or feet. And it was indeed, shaped like a man-a stick figure with a big ball for a body and a smaller ball stacked upon that for a head.

Safar couldn't quite tell what the creature was made of. He sniffed the air. "What's that?" he asked.

"Guess!" Palimak demanded.

Safar looked past the boy to glare at Gundara. "Come out here," he said.

Gundara grumbled and hopped out onto the bed. "It wasn't my fault, Master!" he said. Suddenly his head swiveled around, little eyes fixed on a small stone turtle sitting next to Palimak.

The turtle had the mark of Hadin painted on its back: a green island, outlined in blue, and on that island was a red mountain with a monster's face spewing flames from its mouth.

Gundara's long delicate demon's tongue flickered out, and he said, "You just shut up, Gundaree. You hear me! Shut up!"

"That's not nice," the boy admonished Gundara. "You shouldn't say shut up!"

Gundara was hurt. "You used to say it all the time, Little Master," he said. "'Shut up,' were the very first words you spoke. Why, I remember when-"

"Never mind that!" Safar broke in. He pointed at the moldy, man-high thing. "What's this?" he asked Gundara.

Gundara hung his head. "Cheese, master," he muttered. "Just like it said." And he lowered his voice to match the creature's, intoning, "Cheese!'"

Despite himself, Safar laughed. For just as Gundara said, the magical creature Palimak had created really was made entirely of cheese-other than the legs and arms, which he now realized were made of bread.

"It's breakfast, father!" Palimak piped. "See. I made you breakfast!" He wrinkled his nose. "Although, maybe it doesn't smell too good."

"I told him not to use the stuff under his bed, master," Gundara said. "But he wouldn't listen. I said, 'that's somebody's old snack … some dirty little thing's old snack. Some dirty little thing who sneaked under the bed to eat." Gundara glared at the stone turtle. "I won't mention any names, but we all know who I mean."

Palimak clapped his hands. "Gundaree!" he shouted. He grinned at Safar. "Gundaree likes eating under the bed, father," he said. "And he likes his cheese, really, really old." The boy pinched his nostrils to show just how old Gundaree preferred his cheese to be.

Gundaree was Gundara's twin. The two of them had dwelt in the stone turtle for at least a millennium. A gift from Nerisa, the idol and the Favorites it contained had been created in Hadin-a world away from Esmir. Whoever owned the idol had the decidedly mixed blessing of the twin's magical assistance. They had a constant war going between them, making it quite disconcerting for whoever was their current master. The only consolation was that they couldn't appear at the same time before normal beings.

Gundara serviced humans, Gundaree demons. Only little Palimak-who was part human and part demon-could see them both at the same time.

Mischievous as they were, their magic was very powerful and Safar had ordered them to protect Palimak. The boy kept the idol with him at all times, giving him a permanent set of child minders and magical playmates.

At the moment Gundara was doing his best to appear the innocent above all innocents.

"I warned Palimak, master," he said. "I told him, 'Oh, no, you shouldn't use that smelly old stuff to make a breakfast spell, Little Master. Your father will be angry.'"

"You never said that!" Palimak protested.

"Yes, I did!"

"You taught me the spell!"

"No, I-"

Safar clapped his hands twice. The first won him silence. The second commanded the collapse of the cheese beast. There was a pop! and it returned to its original, disgusting shape, which was a small mound of old cheese and bread piled on the floor. Safar swept the mess up and dumped it out the window, counting on Naya, the old goat who made her home in his yard, to make short work of it. Then he mumbled a cleansing smell, snapped his fingers and the air in Palimak's room was sweet again.

When he turned back Gundara had vanished-fleeing into the retreat of the little stone idol where he would, no doubt, continue his argument with Gundaree.

Palimak sighed. "I'm awfully tired," he said. "Making breakfast is hard work."

"I suppose it is," Safar said.

"The hard part was making the Breakfast Thing talk," Palimak said. "I thought that'd be a really, really Big, Big Surprise!" He spread his hands wide to indicate just how amazing the effort was.

"It said, 'Cheese!'" Safar said. "You can imagine how surprised I was. I've never had breakfast speak to me before."

Palimak hung his head. "I'm sorry it was so smelly, father," he said. "There's some good cheese in the kitchen, but Gundara said I couldn't get out of bed until you woke up." He shrugged his shoulders. "There sure are a lot of rules in this house," he said.

Safar aped the sigh, making it long and dramatic. "I guess there are," he said. Then he shrugged-again mimicking Palimak. "But what can we do? Rules are rules!"

"I suppose you're right, Father," Palimak said with weary resignation. "What can we do? But I'd sure like to know who makes up all those rules!" He yawned. "Well, maybe I'll go back to sleep for a little while."

Palimak made a magical motion and soft dreamy music floated out of the stone turtle. He hugged his pillow tight, yawning again. "Wake me up when it's time for breakfast, father," he said.

Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Lips trembling with his last words. The child went from wakefulness to sleep in less time than it took for a heart to beat. Safar smiled at the boy, watching how the sun streaming through the window lit up his milky skin. Palimak positively glowed and Safar could see, deep, deep, under the child's skin, the faint gleam of bluish green. Demon green. And his little hands, clasped together, had pointy little nails, so paper thin you could only tell they existed because of the darker blush of the pink skin beneath them. When Palimak became excited and forgot himself those pointy little nails could hook out like kitten claws and accidentally draw blood from an unwary adult.

Palimak possessed amazing magical powers for his age. Although he called Safar "father," the boy was a foundling, a child of the road, whom Nerisa-an orphan herself-had taken pity on and adopted. Safar had assumed responsibility for Palimak's care after Nerisa had died, raising him as if he were his own.

How a demon and a human-bitter ancestral enemies-had come together in love to make the child was surely a tale of complexity and tragedy. Unfortunately, Nerisa had died before she could tell Safar much about what she knew of Palimak's origins and as the boy had grown older it had become increasingly difficult to explain that his all-wise father should be ignorant about something so important.

Safar tucked a blanket around the boy and returned to his rooms, purpose renewed. He washed, dressed-leaving on his soft slippers-and ate a little yogurt and drank cold strong tea left over from the day before. A village woman would bring breakfast soon, so he had a little free time before Palimak would be thundering around.

He slipped behind his desk and retrieved the little book from beneath his notes. It was an old book, curled and dry and quite small-no bigger than a man's hand. It was a master wizard's book of dreams.

The musings of Lord Asper, who was perhaps the greatest wizard in all history. Asper had lived long ago and in his old age had started recording his thoughts and discoveries. The old demon's writing was so small that Safar found it more comfortable to use a glass to read. There was no order to the book, making it even more difficult for the reader. A theoretical phrase or two about the possibilities of mechanical flight might find itself on the same page as an elaborate magical formula whose only purpose was to keep moths away from a good wool cloak.

Maddening as it was, all that was known about the world was contained between its brittle covers. And all that wasn't cried for recognition's ink.

Safar opened the book at random. On one page was a large sketch of the world-showing the two halves of the globe in a split ball. The four major land masses were inked in, but as actual formations, rather than the usual stylized maps of Safar's time that showed the turtle gods carrying the lands across the sea. The names of the continents were inked below each drawing. Floating in the Middle Sea was Esmir, the land where Safar lived. To the north was Aroborus, to the south, Raptor. Last of all was Hadin, on the other side of the world-directly opposite Esmir.

Hadin, land of the fires, the place where Safar believed the great disaster that was slowly consuming the world had begun.

He had seen Hadin in a vision long ago-handsome people dancing on an enchanted island under a threatening volcano. The volcano erupting, hurling flame and death. The dancing people were gone in the first few moments, but the volcano continued to spew huge poisonous clouds charged with such magical power that it had seared Safar through the vision. Since that time nothing in the world had been the same.

And it was Safar's obsession and self-sworn duty to somehow unravel the mystery of Hadin and halt the disaster.

Asper had seen the same disaster, not as it was happening, but in a vision hundreds of years before the incident. The coming death of the world-no matter that it was far in the future-so disturbed the old demon that he had made an abrupt shift in all his thinking. It was as if a blindfold had been lifted from eyes, he wrote, and suddenly "Truth was lies/and lies were truth…"

It was then that Asper began the greatest work of his life. Old age sapping his strength, bitter realizations stalking his dreams, he raced against Death's imminent arrival in an ultimately futile effort to solve the riddle that was the coming end of the world.

Near the end, during a moment of great despair, he had written:

Wherein my heart abides

This dark-horsed destiny I ride?

Hooves of steel, breath of fire-

Soul's revenge, or heart's desire?

Not first for the first time, Safar wondered what particular incident had caused Asper to write such a thing. After long study it was plain that Asper faced much opposition at the end of his life. He was speaking heresy after all. Uncaring gods asleep in their heavenly bower. A world doomed. And the greatest heresy of all-that humans and demons were not so different. He even speculated that the two species, who were historic enemies, were originally twins-the opposite sides of a single connubial coin.

Safar was both a wizard and a potter. The wizardly side of him tended to question everything. The potter's side demanded practical proof as well. He still had many questions about Asper's theories. But as far as practical proof went, he only had to look at Palimak, a child of the two species. What greater proof could one need to show that demons and humans had once supped the milk of a common mother?

Like Safar, Lord Asper had been forced to flee his enemies. Unlike Safar he had no home to return to and had wandered the world for nearly twenty years. Before he died-Safar guessed he lived nearly three hundred years, ancient even for a demon-Asper had visited all four continents and had made notes and drawings of his experiences and conclusions. In Aroborus, for instance, he spoke of trees that ate meat and could uproot themselves to chase down and trap their prey. On Raptor, Asper said, there was a strange birdlike creature that was nearly twelve feet high. It couldn't fly and hunted in packs, cornering its victims to hammer them down with huge, ax-shaped beaks. On Hadin Asper told of a once great civilization containing both humans and demons that had destroyed itself in a religious war so fierce only barbarians remained among the ruins.

It was at this point that the riddle of Asper truly began. The old wizard had suddenly, and without explanation, left Hadin. There was a great gap in months, possibly even in years, between the time of his flight-Safar guessed he was escaping something-and his arrival at a small island in the Caspan Sea about two hundred miles off the coast of Esmir. The island, Safar learned from his research, was the mythical birthplace of Alisarrian The Conqueror, who had welded demons and humans together under one rule many centuries before.

Safar eyed the brandy jug, sighed, then turned back to the book. Once again he looked at the small map of the world. And once again he traced the lines showing Asper's travels. His flight from Esmir to Hadin and back. Beneath the map was a tiny sketch of the island where Asper ended his days.

The island's name, scrawled in red ink, was Syrapis.

Musing, Safar said the name aloud-"Syrapis." Then, "I wonder what Asper sought there?"

Suddenly his fingers itched with a powerful desire to touch the drawing of the island-a need as strong as a thirsty man's obsession for water. His fingertips touched the paper and a surge of energy flowed up his arm.

There was a boom! of distant thunder and a sharp crack! of lightning quite near.

Suddenly all was blackness and his hair rose up on prickling roots.