It was all going so well.

Neil and Calliope had not been a poor team, though whether he found it surprising, he hadn't really thought about it. The scoundrel had always had good eyesight, but he felt a bit more used to the dark ever since his resurrection. He couldn't see into darkness as if it was nothing, but he felt he could adapt to it better. At first he had the horrible thought that he might be a vampire, or one of the undead. That sort of life really didn't suit him. He'd rather be dead or alive than some faux realm in between, perpetually stuck in a single place or form. But after checking he had a heartbeat and could survive the sun, he was pretty certain he was still mortal. Maybe his vision was just him, or maybe it was due to the the Jymen's blood. Either way, it was a nice touch to his skillset.

Calliope was an entire thieve's toolkit along with an armed guard, all wrapped up in a darkly beautiful package. Sure, pretty much every other man that Neil knew that wasn't some pompous lord who thought they could control her would be off-put by many things about her, and the fact that...well, she tried to kill him twice and pretty much indirectly led to his death. But as excruciating as it had been, he found he liked her. Plus they were two dates in!

But after evading a few patrols, they wound up bumping into something that couldn't be controlled or even real without magic that was likely outlawed by every major magisterium's ethics committees across the continent. Calliope would know far more than Neil, but from what limited knowledge he had, necromancy was the art of soul manipulation. The minotaur this thing had been in life could not conceive the state of eternal slavery or the bodily invasion of eldritch spirits that caused it to still move and wave its axe around after its death.

Neil threw himself left as Calliope leaped right, the bone-beast's horns stabbing into the mortar of the wall, sending small bits of rock scattering to the ground. Neil hit the floor in a roll, planting his right hand behind him to halt the tumble. Just as he planted it on the ground, the faux stone gave way. Neil face went from surety to a surprised expression as he went from a sitting position to prone as his hand went from solid ground to empty air. He nearly fell down the hole, and if he didn't have a strong core that kept his body rigid, he would have.

He scrambled away from the edge of the hole, the carefully carved stone split from the minotaur's next attack, cracking the stone right where Neil had been just a moment ago. Neil dived between its legs, going behind the thing. It didn't have eyes, but somehow it could still only see from where it's skull was pointed. Meanwhile, Calliope whipped a line of black nether energies like a bullwhip emanating from her hand, cracking against the minotaur's femur, causing a hair-line fracture in the bone. Neil looked up at the undead monstrosity from behind, and he began to notice something as the abomination fixed its gaze at Calliope.

Some...aura. Something that glowed darkness, if that made sense. A weave of latent energies that wound around the thing, woven into the shape of a circle around the center of the skeleton. The lines of energies flowed through the black magicked runes like estuaries of abyssal power. He could tell it was extremely significant to this guardian of necromantic energies. Damn.

He had no idea how this could help.

Calliope controlled the black length of the whip as if she had years of experience, her feet firmly planted and her lips curled into a wicked smile. Unfortunately, the spell wasn't picking the guardian apart fast enough. The thing began to move, but not its legs. Rather, it lifted its huge axe up, and Neil knew it meant to throw. Calliope was more physical than Neil would have first thought, but at the range in this narrow corridor, he didn't know if even he could dodge the blow with certainty. He saw Calliope saw it too, trying to spin away as she sent the black whip at the axe to try and wrench it from the skeletal hands. Neil wasn't finished with her yet, so he hopped to his feet and sent his foot into the leg the sorceress had cracked.

It was a strong kick, in fact a donkey probably couldn't have done it better. Unfortunately it didn't break the bone and just lengthened the crack. The thing began to pull the axe forward over its shoulder to throw, and Neil did something stupid. He grabbed the minotaur's leg and pulled it off the ground with a great yank, causing it to lean off the stance it had. The axe swung, but when it left its hands, it flew awkwardly to the left of Calliope's position. Neil had other things to worry about, being pulled forward as the minotaur's weight fell forward into the trap-hole. Vainly it grabbed at the opposite end of the expanse, but its skeletal hands found no purchase as it began to plummet.

Neil began to fall too, but with a strangled yelp and quick reflexes, he pressed his feet down on the skeletal body below him, pushing himself against it and giving him just enough for a second, unimpressive leap to reach the other side. Desperately, he grabbed at the edge like a wet dog trying to get into a boat. Once he grabbed a flaw in the stone in front of him, he managed to haul himself out right at Calliope's waiting feet.

He breathed a sigh of relief, changed his face from desperate to debonair, and gave her a smile as if he hadn't just been in a manic state of survival.

"How was that? Hot right?"

“Its enough to make me regret that I had to kill you the first time,” Calliope responded. The words were glib but truthfully she was impressed. The minotaur thing was clearly designed to face of both magical and physical threats. But where a group of knights would have been hacked to bits, Neil had triumphed through guile and quick wits. It was a strange thing to have a partner, even stranger to have one that she was at least reasonably sure wasn’t planning to knife her in the back at the first opportunity. There was no time to ponder however. Whomever had set the necromantic guardian would notice the change in the spell eventually and very probably send someone to investigate. She examined the trapdoor the thing had been guarding. Potent wards were laid across it in complex patterns that seared Calliope’s mage sight. There were spells graven into the wood and surrounding stone that would strip the flesh from a woman’s bone, snatch her soul from her body and worse besides. Even more impressively, the spells were intermingled like the threads of a spider’s web. Calliope couldn’t pick them apart without triggering or alerting others.



“I have to find a way between,” she mumbled, not really intending the remark to be heard.

“Between what?” Neil asked. She opened her mouth to ask what she could possibly be talking about beside the spells but the words died on her lips. Between what. Neil was thinking in terms of physical locations, not the spells themselves.



“That isn’t so stupid a question afterall,” Calliope declared, her smile flashing bright in the darkness. Without another word she set off down the tunnel, moving deeper into the area that her mind map told her housed Therman’s mansion. She stopped when they came to another opening, this one filled with strange glowing fungus which clung to the walls.



“Are we going to have to fight mushrooms or something?” Neil asked uneasily. Calliope didn’t blame him, there was an unnatural smell coming from the cavern that seemed to compliment the sickly light.



“We would if we were going in,” Calliope agreed, “so we wont do that.”



“We go back then?” Neil asked, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the ossuary. Calliope shook her head.

“No,” she replied, “I have another idea. Lift me up.” Neil’s confusion was palpable.

“What?” he demanded.

“Lift. Me. Up,” Calliope responded speaking slowly as though to a child or an idiot. Hesitantly Neil crouched down and made a stirrup of his hands. She stepped into it and he lifted her easily, corded muscles bunching. Calliope balanced herself with a hand against the corridor wall and reached up to touch the ceiling with her left hand.

"Try not to admire the view too much," she teased as she ran her fingers over the carved stone ceiling, probing at cracks and small imperfections.



“If all the entrances are warded…” she mused, “Then all we need is another entrance.” She held her hand against the tunnel roof for a moment, reaching into a pouch to touch a spell component, then she climbed down.

“Ok… so…” Neil began, glancing up at the ceiling. A thin trickle of dust was drifting down from where Calliope had touched the stone. It began to increase to a flow of sand, like that through an hour glass. The took a step back as the deluge continued to increase, pounds of grey sand pouring downwards in eddying clouds. There was a cracking sound and heavy paving stones fell through the hole the sand was eating in the roof, kicking up shockwaves of sand and dust. Something heavy and wooden fell through and hit the pile with a thunk. It upended with a crack and hit the ground, beginning to leak dark liquid into the sand. Calliope made a gesture with her hand and the flow of sand stopped. Neil sniffed the air.

“Smells like wine,” he commented. Calliope nodded and they both stepped forward. The object was indeed a wine barrel, an expensive vintage judging by the seal. Above them was a three foot square hole, bored into the ceiling as though the stone itself had been nothing but sand. A smell of must and wine came down from above, and she could see heavy timber crossbeams.

“A wine cellar,” she observed, sounding pleased.



“If all the doors are warded, all we need is a new door.”

Neil had leaped like a cat, grabbing the lip of the hole and hoping to the gods it didn't break further. If it had, there was no guarantee he wouldn't tumble into the trapdoor hole a meter or two behind them. Luckily, he found purchase and hauled himself up. Far from the muscular hero, Neil had the lithe strength of a unscrupulous knave and it served him well. Once he was up in the cellar, and it was indeed a cellar, he glanced around and held his breath.

The wine cellar had racks upon racks of dark bottles of prime vintage, dimly lit by torches on the walls far from any glass or the neatly piled barrels on the south end. Little ferns were arrayed along the walkways, giving the room a tropical, coastal quality that was given a stylish finish with finely wrought paintings of warm colors. Neil wanted to whistle appreciatively, but he kept himself quiet. As he turned, his heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he saw movement, but to his relief he saw it was a small rat, the rodent scuttling across the floor with a chitter, disappearing into a hole in the stone.

Neil placed a hand on his chest and exhaled, still on his ass on the stone floor. Accompanying the silence, he could hear laughter and the low thrum of discussion. Not a meeting or a singular conversation, but a crowd. Now that he had a moment, he noticed much of the wine was missing from the racks around him.

Calliope cleared her throat impatiently, the sound oddly echoing from the tomb below. Neil grimaced and crawled over to the collapsed floor, whispering an apology to her and holding his hand out for her to take. She took it, and he lifted her up, helping to pull her onto the floor. For a sorceress with class, she didn't complain about getting dirty. He guessed murder and skulduggery made her a bit less nitpicky on a bit of dirt on her clothes. In the low light, her hair was as black as the abyss. Neil noticed a small gesture of her hand, a stiletto locked in her fingers as she looked around with a sharp, hawkish gaze that nothing could escape from.

"What now?" Neil whispered.

Footsteps. They didn't come from outside of the room, either. They were from across the chamber. Damn, had someone heard? Calliope peered down the walkway of the racks that framed their location, and ordered Neil to hide. He hesitated for a brief moment, unsure of what she was going to do, but he did it with only a facetious "as you wish, your grace" and hopped behind some of the casks and an iron distillery. Too late, Neil realized, there were two sets of footsteps and not one. But Calliope hadn't fled, or even cast a spell to hide herself or the hole. She tugged at a string on her bodice and flitted with her hair a bit, and to Neil's amazement she transformed from profession to salacious with but a few touches.

"Need that bloody book," Calliope whispered under her breath. Neil thought the comment it curious, completely out of the loop as to what Inganok or Kor Kalen’s Workings was.

Two Therman guards turned the corner, their tabards the gaudy brown and red of the lord's house. Conical helmets with opened visors donned their heads, and they brandished wicked billhooks more suitable for gutting horses than fighting would-be thieves, not that they wouldn't be an effective weapon if push came to shove. The men looked as if they had expected something, but not her. The taller one hefted his weapon in an attempt to intimidate, but the other pushed the weapon down, staring. Looking back, Neil saw Calliope lounging like a call girl, her body faced towards Neil as she downed a bottle of Balcet champagne like it was a draught of rum. Seemingly noticing the men, the woman pushed off the barrel she she had rested along, the movement granting the guards a good look at the bounce of her chest, Calliope's top having been gently lowered to give a hint of what lay beneath. She had worn practical trousers for the job, but they hugged her strong legs more prominently than early, which Neil couldn't begin to guess if this was magically done or not. He hadn't seen or heard a spell. The woman's dark hair was lightly tousled, giving it an appealing, disheveled look.

Despite this performance, there was something off about her. Calliope was stunning, but there was a quality about her that screamed danger. Watching her work was like seeing the sinuous movements of an intricately patterned viper, or a venomous, multi-colored spider traipsing along a web. Enchanting, but raptorial. Neil had been intimidated since the beginning, the difference was, Neil was very self aware he was a daredevil in life and romantic interests. These guards weren't crazy like the thief, they were merely ignorant, which made him feel a modicum of pity for them.

"My lady, what are you doing back here?" The shorter one asked cautiously.

"Did you cause this floor to cave in?" The other demanded.

"What, that?" Calliope glanced at the hole in the old mortar and stone, as if this was the first time she had ever noticed it. She turned back to them with a raised eyebrow. "Why do you want to ask about some old, rotten floor? What are your names, hmm?"

"Grant."
"Jon."

They spoke in unison, and then looked at one another with jealousy. But it was when they looked at one another's eyes that they took hold of their wits for a brief moment. Perhaps it was seeing their partner there in full guardsmen regalia. Neil could see Calliope sauntering around the hole to get closer to them, a knife carefully concealed behind her hand. Perhaps using magic here might be dangerous, or 'loud' to other mages? Or perhaps her only quick, quiet spells could kill one and not two? Idly, he thought of the possibility she simply liked the feel of stabbing better. Who knew with assassins?

"Answer the question, my lady. Lord Therman's stash is not just for anyone. There's plenty of drink in the grand hall." Grant, the short one, began. His mustache wriggled like a caterpillar as she chewed on what had to be tobacco.

"Is lord Therman there?" She asked, her interest piqued.

"No," Jon spoke up quickly, subconsciously hoping to garner her approval. "He should return soon though, if you'd like to be escorted."

"She will be escorted when she has answered our question." Grant told him sternly. "She does not even look as if she was at the party."

"Well if she's underdressed, then I really need to change," Neil said, having crept up behind the two. He had a stabbing dagger, but he didn't want to draw blood where it could be found. Nor could he reliably knock them out. Instead, he opting for a third option. The men leaped in surprise, but couldn't turn fast enough. Neil promptly shouldered them when they were off-balance, using determination and a swift trip to send them both careening into the hole. Yells rose up for a mere second, but the two clanged together and fell heavily and ferociously into the gloom. Only Neil had expected to hear groaning, or an end to the yelling. It was only getting more faint. Neil crept to the edge of the hole and squinted, seeing the last glint of their armor as they fell into the trap the undead minotaur had fallen into. Their screams still echoed as the moments crept on, and Neil bared his teeth to show he felt he made an 'oopsie.'

"I'm not used to being the distraction, but good job. Less messy this way," Calliope applauded him with a casual air, taking another drink of the bottle. Neil didn't feel like correcting her, so he took the compliment.

"Hey, how come you don't get all seductive with me?" He asked. She tossed him the wine bottle in a daring, uncaring throw. Neil caught it easily with one hand, looking at her questioningly.

"You haven't earned it," She said, fixing her hair. "Yet."

A haughty laugh drifted into the storage area, followed by a giggle. Calliope and Neil glanced at the direction of the source in unison, then back at one another. The sorceress moved like a panther, gliding to her feet and sinking into the shadows as Neil knelt and peeked through one of the racks, glad half the rack was empty from whatever get-together was happening. He couldn't see the corridor that fed into the main hall or ballroom, but it gave him visibility of the northern side of the chamber. In stumbled a servant woman, a tight bodice hugging her curves like a glove. She was playfully grabbed by a man who was clearly an aristocrat, wearing an expensive vest with wings that accentuated the shoulders, and a belt of brass and gold, supported by stylish dark trousers.

Guardsmen Grant and Jon's yells had drifted to nothingness, but there was still the matter of the hole and needing to hide, right? If there was a party, this was going to keep happening until they killed everyone or were discovered, unless Calliope had a plan. In Neil's vision, the woman tip toed down one of the walkways, the man chasing after her in a way that looked so unbecoming of a noble aristocrat, it made the thief cringe. He saw the belt fly into view, clattering to the ground. Neil turned to the right, expecting to see the two lovebirds skittering across any second. To his surprise, he saw Calliope there. He turned around and then back to her, bewildered on how she had teleported!

"Where did you go, my little sweet?" A heavily accented voice called. Neil couldn't tell if it was Vrettonian or Dre Costan, or one of the smaller provinces with peculiar speech and even stranger dishes. The serving wench bounded into view, her smile broad and suggestive, and her eyes far from innocent.

And then she was gone.

Neil blinked, stared, and then rubbed his eyes. He didn't know what he just saw. The woman passed by Calliope, and then both were just...gone. Neil felt his breathing falter for a moment. He knew full well he wasn't on the menu, and in fact had killed himself during one attempt and survived another from her, but he felt both unsettled and intimidated.

What a woman.

"Madam, are you here?" The man called, still chuckling wryly. He was next into the walkway, and instead of the shapely woman, he saw Neil, dirty and somewhat smelling like a sewer. The two stared at one another like two dogs across a fence, alert and frozen. Neil pursed his lips when he saw the man go from surprise to pain, an unseen force tightening around his throat. Neil knew because he literally saw his throat shrinking, the noble's face turning blue. Red veins appeared in his eyes, and with a quick unceremonious snap, he fell to the ground dead. Neil looked around, and then slowly walked over to him. To his left, Calliope walked out of another walkway. Or...he thought it was her. She did not look like herself, or the wench that had been plucked out of existence.

"Change into his clothes. We don't have much time." She said.

The party above made things somewhat easier. Calliope had assumed that once they were within the manor she would be unable to use magic without giving herself away. Above her she could feel the workings of a half dozen mages, all at the small time level, probably entertaining guest or performing minor spells. So long as she didn’t get too fancy, she ought not attract any attention. That went doubly for any spells she had prepared earlier, needing only a trickle of magic to wake them. With a flick of her wrist she altered her clothing, turning her dusty but practical gear into a black silk evening gown with slitted leg and a plunging back that made it all the way to the bottom of her waist. Jewelry was a different mater, literally. Conjuring metal up out of the ether was an energy intensive and noisy business. Inspiration struck and she crossed to a brass wall sconce and removed the lantern that hung from it. Then she cut her thumb and pressed the bead of blood to the sconce. The brass began to move, shimmering and slithering and separating into strands which polished each other with a rasp as they dripped from the wall and onto Calliope’s arm. The strands of metal coiled up her arm, weaving the gleaming brass into intricate nets around her wrists and neck. There was no easy way to create stones but it would probably do.



“I don’t suppose you can wiggle your fingers and make mine fit any better can you?” Neil asked as he finished pulling on a doublet that was several sizes too big for him.



“I could try, but there is the off chance the spell would remember that you aren’t me and try to strangle you with your own hose,” she confessed. Neil shuddered slightly and plucked at his doublet.



“Not to worry, breathable is so in this year.”



They reached the party by ascending the winding stairs. It was audible long before it was visible, a muted cacophony of tinkling laughter, shifting feet and orchestral music. They emerged from the cellar onto a grand ballroom. The floor was set with interlocking squares of white and green marble and vast columns of the same material lined the walls. As with the cellar, tropical trees were growing, apparently out of the solid stone floor. Lush vegetation and tropical flowers gave the hall a strange cast. Glistening purple fruit hung from fern fronded plants and black and gold flowers seemed to follow the guests hungrily. There were perhaps a hundred people in attendance, all dressed in colorful silks and shimmering cloth of gold. Judging from their dress they were members of the Mageocricy and local nobles of the kind who were always willing to kow tow to them. An orchestra lined one wall, playing a dance that Calliope was not familiar with. She was no judge of music but she suspected it was a masterful performance. Wine, drink and drugs were all flowing freely, carried on platters by servants in orange and puce livery. Other forms of entertainment were also being enjoyed. Sheets of silk had been hung across the entrances to small bowers. It was sheer enough that the silhouettes of the couples, or larger groupings cavorting on the other side could be made out, even if the individual figures were anonymous. As Calliope watched a chained girl with a gag in her mouth was half led half dragged into one of the bowers by a haughty looking noble. Another staggered clear of the silks, long knife cuts running down her naked back and weeping blood. She took a few despairing steps towards the dance floor before a jowly woman, wrapped in a bloody sheet, stepped out and grabbed her dragging her back in. Worst of all was a grotesquely fat man leading a trio of slack featured women to a bower. The followed in perfect step. All three were dead, having been reanimated by one of the mages present. Judging by the ligature marks around their necks they had all been strangled, probably during the first course of this evening’s depravity. Calliope could very clearly hear the fat man giggling, an oddly girlish and grating sound, even across the noisy hall.



“Charm the paint of walls these people,” Calliope muttered loud enough for Neil to hear. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to gently lead her across the floor. She took a drink from one of the servers as she passed, though she didn’t drink from the fluted goblet of crimson liquid. A drunken man bumped into them and leered at Calliope but she ignored him completely, sweeping regally on.

The music changed to a waltz she did recognize and she guided Neil’s hand to her hip and the other to her bare back, turning slowly in the steps of the dance to take in the entirety of the ballroom jungle. She noticed for the first time that the ceiling had been replaced with a starscape that wasn’t familiar to her. Small lantern’s shaped to look like the moon in various stages of the lunar cycle floated twenty feet above them to illuminate the spectacle bright as day. She leaned close to Neil, whispering in his ear.



“The book will be in a library or strongbox,” she cooed, “it will be defended by physical and magical traps.” They swept passed another couple as the tempo increased. Neil seemed to have a good sense for the pattern even if he didn’t have the flawless execution of a noble scion.

“It’s bound in black leather and is about the size of a man’s palm,” she continued. It probably would have been wise to impart this information earlier, but she had not honestly expected that they would make it this far.

Neil had never been much of a dancer by practice, but he had a good rhythm and a quick mind for coordination. They stepped together in relative harmony, Neil glancing around every so often, if not for his curiosity than to not be too distracted by being in such close proximity with his partner in crime. He was not one to be nervous around women, but an assassin sorceress made him just a smidge on edge. Still, he was smoother than anyone else would have been, considering.

Neil shifted his weight and pivoted his foot, lifting Calliope's arm over her head. She took the cue and spun, before falling into his arms, the scoundrel capturing her dramatically. "Noted," he whispered, and then blinked in surprise when he felt her hand slid into his pants. No, wishful thinking. She had placed some small ornament in his pocket. He raised an eyebrow.

"For the magical traps, in case you need it," She winked.

"It's as good as yours." Neil pulled her back up, and they continued with the gingerly spinning dance the others around them had simultaneously begun to perform. The room was such a strange juxtaposition of aristocratic order and heretical obscenities, which meant he was entirely out of his element considering he wasn't a sadist or a rich man. They glided past another couple, both dancers veiled in masks the likeness of leering animals. Abruptly the spinning stopped as the music softened before quickening pace again. Neil's left foot went back as Calliope's right stepped forward, both suddenly sidestepping to Neil's right, hands together and moving right continuously for six paces.

Now the two were at the edge of the dance floor, and they broke apart like a crashing wave. Calliope spun and fixed her hair as if she had just stepped out of the bar-room, meanwhile Neil continued his sidestep for another few steps until he bounded up a stone stairway that led deeper into the keep. It was entirely probable they would never see each other again, he mused. One of them could die and the other would have to flee, and a betting man would count on Neil's demise in that scenario.

"If I killed myself and died permanently a few days later because of the same woman, I'll only be able to blame myself," He breathed, quietly but casually making his way up the steps. The stone must have been magically wrought, He thought. It was too smooth for human laborers. To his horror, a serving woman met him at the top of the first flight, but made sure to avoid eye contact and act as if she wasn't even there. She merely walked passed him after giving him a sideways glance, not deigning to question him. You learned at a young age that if you acted like you were meant to be somewhere, only rarely would people question it.

The second flight of stairs fed into an elaborately furnished long gallery, busts of ancient men and regal lords framed the walkway next to tropical plants that swayed lightly. Neil hesitated for a moment, eyeing any traps he might find, before realizing they wouldn't be set so close to the festivities. He walked down the hall, trying not to make sounds but not being overly concerned. As far as any distant listener would know, he was a watchmen or a maid. The long gallery looked rather ostentatious, almost to the point of being gaudy. It would be a good guess to say Therman wished to imitate the higher arch-dukes, though the portrait of a demon erupting from a child's ribcage in a maelstrom of blood on the gallery wall was a unique bit of flair.

Neil turned and continued down the corridor, impatiently looking for the library. He hoped the books were separated by title or else he'd have a bad time. Every door he passed was locked or ajar, and a few were mysteriously gone as if paved over with mortar and stone. The doors that he could poke his head into were empty bedrooms or offices, and he passed by a large and immensely embroidered dining room that looked like it hadn't been used in centuries.

The next floor was much the same, though he could swear he heard a crying child somewhere within. He wasn't going to fall for that.

The fifth floor was where he knew the book would be, because the very archway that fed from the stairway led into a grand library, filled with tomes and scrolls spilling off the shelves. Floating lights kept the floor in perpetual illumination, with cushioned, leather backed chairs dotting the carpeted landscape. Every bookshelf was at least thrice the height of a man, and as thick as a castle's walls. Neil couldn't shake the feeling this might be the most dangerous room in the keep, and when he stepped onto the floor, an incessant whirring sound erupted from the left, betraying the approach of a swinging axe that would slice him twain.

Calliope continued to dance, moving through partners as they came, keeping one eye on the door to the wine cellar and the other on the stairs up which Neil had moved. She hoped she hadn’t just sent him to a second death. The magical tool she had created was a potent one but Therman was renowned for his traps both magical and mundane. Could she really hope that she could triumph over him? That was the reason she had planned to kill him and steal the book from his heirs after all. Well they were committed now, all she could do was wait for Neil to return or an alarm to sound.



“May I have this dance my dear?” a deep basso voice enquired. Calliope turned to find herself staring at a portly man in quite the most remarkable outfit she had seen, even among a company so distinguished by garish extravagance. It was made of a checker board pattern of rich burgundy and cloth of gold. The gold was stitched with red silk thread and the red with gold in perfect counterpoint. Complex scenes of some mythological motif were woven through in waves that shimmered and seemed to move as the eye tried to follow them. Each seam was picked out with a ruby the size of a child’s tooth held in an intricate setting of woven gold and silver. A dark green half cloak was thrown over the man’s shoulders and his balding pate was set off by a head dress made up of a score of peacock feathers wrapped in gold filigree. Bejeweled rings dripped from his fingers and a great gold chain depending an onyx pendant hung around his neck. It was Magister Therman himself. Unable to think of anything to say, Calliope held out her hand with courtly propriety. The band struck up a lively roundel and they began to dance. Despite his weight and the elaborate costume, Therman was a remarkable dancer, moving with unexpected grace. Calliope whirled through the steps of the dance, the music growing faster and faster. One by one the less adventurous dancers stepped aside until only Calliope and Therman remained on the floor. The Magister moved impossibly fast, whirling and lifting the sorceress in time to the music before finally catching her around the waist and lowering her in the crescendo, back arched and hair hanging down towards the floor. The onlookers erupted in cheers and applause and Therman slowly lifted Calliope and bowed to the crowd before turning to her.

“You dance very well my dear. It is almost a shame I will have to kill you Calliope Black,” he said conversationally. Whether by some orators trick or some subtle magic, his word carried and the applause died by degrees until the only sounds were the grunts of passion from the bowers where the revelers were too drunk or too lost in their pleasure to notice. Calliope straightened.



“The,” she said, brushing a curl of hair out of her face. Therman arched an eyebrow in indulgent interest.

“Hmm?”

“Calliope ‘the’ Black,” she explained, taking a step back from the magus. Therman nodded.

“Has a better sound for the epitaph I suppose,” he agreed, “now do you intend to come quietly or shall I impose on you for a second dance?” As he spoke Therman shifted sideways, taking up a duelist’s stance. Quiet murmuring filled the room and armed footmen began to appear in the doorways. A woman in one of the bowers cried out in ecstasy. Calliope sighed and seemed to deflate, then flung up her arms. The brass wristlets exploded into their individual strands, shards of razor sharp metal flying towards the Magister. Therman didn’t even flinch. He flicked his left hand and scattered the blades away with a clatter while at the same time he lifted his right. Fire flashed from his outstretched fingers, meeting a counter spell from Calliope that deflected it into the floor in a spray of sparks.



“Oh bravo miss Black,” Therman mocked, then clapped both hands together. Calliope gasped as the stone floor seemed to liquefy beneath her. She leaped upwards, catching a branch of a tree as the stone flowed into hands that grasped for her with long ugly nails. Snarling a word, she hurled lightning at Therman who ignored her as completely as ever, his own counterspell stopping her working dead an arm’s length from his head. Screaming in frustration, Calliope raised both hands and crossed them with a savage twisting motion. The metal filigree in the elaborate gown tightened, ripping seams and tearing fabric. The priceless rubies fell to the floor like drops of crimson fire that sparkled and clinked. The feathers writhed as if alive and began to wrap around Therman’s neck, digging into the pudgy flesh. A flicker of annoyance crossed the Magister’s face, the first emotion other than smug superiority he had shown since the uneven duel had begun.



“You are becoming a bother Miss Black, do you have any idea how much this garment is worth?” he inquired, then flicked his wrist again. An unseen force hit the sorceress in the chest, driving the air from her lungs and sending her sprawling across the floor. The crowd retreated like the water before her and Therman saunted after her with lazy self assurance.

“I think we are about done here,” he declared as he stood over her. Calliope began to laugh, a high weird sound that set the teeth on edge. Therman kicked her in the head with his pointed boot, the tongue of it hanging loose from where her previous spell had ripped out the eyelets. Calliope continued to laugh, chocking slightly from the blow.

“Very well, what is so amusing witch?” Therman asked. Calliope pushed herself up onto all fours and then slowly lifted her head to face the Magister. Blood dripped from her split lip and made a long streak across the floor.



“Thou shalt invoke not blood or vitae, lest ye die,” she intoned, quoting the first line of the prohibition against blood magic. Therman’s superior grin just had time to take on a shocked look before Calliope shouted a word. Every paver that had been speckled with her blood exploded upwards in a shower of dust and flying chips of masonry. People began to scream as sharp shards of stone cut into them like bitter hail. Therman stepped back, done toying with his prey now, and lifted his own arms to finish the bussiness. Calliope shrieked an invocation and lightning crashed down from the faux sky above. Therman deflected the energy and the overspill struck two guests dead in smoking piles of salt. Several refreshment tables exploded, scattering burning fragments of table cloth into the air like enchanted confetti. Therman began his own chant, drawing back his hand as he conjured a spear of sepulchral blackness. With a shout he hurled it at Calliope’s heart, but even as he moved, one of the trees tore itself free of the ground and staggered into the path of the bolt. Grave dust and leaves exploded in a cloud and Calliope dove aside, rolling into the stunned crowd.

“Take her!” Therman screamed at his guards, his face contorted with rage and hatred. One of his apprentices stepped forward, weaving his hands and mumbling his own spell. Calliope snapped her fingers and a hundred champagne glasses shattered and flew into the air like sand on a drum head, then she slashed with her arm and the mass of razored glass came down like a whip, dropping the luckless apprentice in a shower of blood, gristle, and flayed bone. It was pandemonium now. People were screaming and trying to flee, others were trying to fight. Lightning struck from three different sources, in some cases striking those trying to help Therman. Guards rushed in towards Calliope, one nearly reached her before another of the now animate trees caught him by an arm and a leg and tore him in two, flinging the gory halves into the crowd before a ball of fire from Therman blasted it into flaming woodchips. Another apprentice conjured a rope of inky darkness, but just as he tried to snare the sorceress the trio of undead sex slaves burst from the bower behind him. All three were naked and one of them was slicked with blood from mouth to breasts, the binding that had been placed on her shattered by the titanic forces being unleashed. They pounced on the apprentice, ripping his neck open with their teeth and gouging at his stomach with their fingers. Crossbow bolts flashed past Calliope, one so close it plucked at the hem off her dress. She screamed a word of power and two knights and a damsel, who a moment ago had been a tiled fresco on the wall ripped there way free in showers of plaster dust. The knight cleaved the head of one of the crossbow men in two, and the damsel grabbed the other and hurled him at the wall which suddenly sported a fresco of a screaming crossbowman frozen in an aspect of terror. An armsman ran at Calliope with a billhook but a tree branch as thick as a mans leg swept down and caught the soldier across the chest, cracking ribs and launching him across the room into one of the columns, the snapping of his spine audible even over the incredible cacophony of destruction. Hoarfrost coated everything and weird ball lightning hovered and snapped from place to place. Dismal phantasms swept through the sky between the two wizards, locked in mental combat. The whole place stank of eviscerated bodies, burning blood, and the odd spicy scent of untrammeled magic. Men and women died as they trampled each other running for the doors, as the two mages hurled energy at each other. The glittering whip of shattered glass cracked over Therman’s head but he fended off the strike while he prepared his next spell, screaming in an infernal tongue. A great roar sounded as a being of pure flame stepped up out of a glyph Therman had marked on the floor. It strode towards Calliope, the bodies it trod on flashing into steam and flame. Two of the animated trees grabbed for it, only to recoil as they two burned. Calliope stopped running and lifted both hands, screaming at the top of her lungs. The pavers she had ripped free flew into the air, coiling and whirling into the form of a great misshapen dragon of animate stone. It flapped its wings, showering the devastated ballroom with mortar dust before lunging for the fire elemental, great marble teeth grasping for its neck.



Calliope was sweating now. Literally sweating blood as she worked her spells. It covered her in a tacky film that mingled with the dust, she tasted it in the back of her throat as she screamed her arcana at her foe. Therman was worse for wear too. A great and mighty Magister he might be, but he hadn’t been prepared for the level of destruction that had been unleashed in his own home. The costume he wore was ragged and the peacock feathers were smoking where spell fire had singed them. Sweat rolled down his bald pate and blood ran from a pressure cut in his scalp where he had been caught by a piece of flying tree. He glared hatefully at her, casually obliterating one of the mosaics knights with a thunderous detonation which flung shards of brightly colored tile in all directions. His acolytes, wide eyed and terrified were trying to drag him away to safety. Hatred and balked pride turned his face a livid purple and he stretched out a hand. A vast bird of inky shadow flowed from his palm and streaked towards Calliope. She laughed at him, the same weird high pitched laugh she had uttered when the duel began a subjective lifetime before, then raised both her palms and ripped the stars from the faux sky. Destruction rained down across the ballroom. incandescent stars, balls of planar fire the size of watermelons fell indiscriminately. One struck the shadowy bird, breaking its back and driving it to the ruined floor. Other fell among the fleeing crowd, reducing great lords and noble ladies to blazing gobbets of flesh. Everything burned, smoked, or exploded, the floor itself shattered and fissured under the assault, even the great columns cracked, raining hundreds of pounds of dust and masonry down in an obscuring cloud. Burning leaves and flower petals fell like snow, covering corpses with rhymes of ash. Calliope staggered out of the ball room and up the first flight of stairs, just as Therman’s apprentices managed to hustle their master out of the side door of what was now a shattered charnel house. One of Therman’s guards was on his knees, gibbering madly from a phantasm that had been conjured. Calliope cut his throat with one of her knives and half staggered half crawled past his cooling corpse, watching with morbid fascination as blood ran down the steps in a series of crimson cataracts. She managed two step and then fell to her knees, vomiting blood across the front of her ruined dress. Her vision swam through blown pupils and blood dripped from her nose, eyes and fingernails.



“Though… shalt… invoke…” she mumbled and then fell forward onto her face, swimming in darkness.

Had Neil been present during the duel, he would have cheered her on and whooped without shame. Perhaps he could have even helped. Most men wouldn't have had the courage or audacity, but Neil Edwards was certainly an exception. Instead, however, he found himself upstairs and about to lose his life to a massive cleaver-like blade swinging via a pendulum. The thief was given a fright, not that he didn't expect a trap, but he didn't think the entire bloody library was rigged! Neil leaped forward, the blade shearing off the back half of his loose noble's vest, giving it the look of having its back half bitten by an overly huge canine.

"Fuck! Already!?" He said to fate, who was a cruel mistress. He tore off the vest, leaving himself with the top fit for a fashionable duelist or barista in certain circles. He hated wearing anything gaudy but jewelry he had freshly stolen, but when he turned to see the trap he had narrowly avoided, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished blade. Neil took the moment to fix his hair and puff up his chest, noting he cut quite the figure. "Look at you, you handsome rapscallion."

The fortress shook, something massive occurring elsewhere. Reverberating rumbles sprang up from the stairway, along with distant cries he thought might be screams. The shaking caught him off guard, Neil falling onto the carpeted floor on his ass. A small swiveling sound drew his attention upwards, and with a cry of alarm he rolled as a stone pillar shot from one of the sectioned bit of stone above, smashing into the ground a mere hand from where he had been. The wind from the stone had filled his nostrils with dust, and as it raised back up, the floor began to roil and crumble. The rogue found his foot was sliding into a forming hole, and he scrambled away as quickly as possible, bypassing a bookshelf, noticing almost too late the pressure plate his knee had pressed upon.

Spikes as long as Neil's forearm were unsheathed on the edge of the bookshelf, the great piece of furniture swinging towards Neil's position. Luckily, Neil was still crawling, merely getting pummeled by the flying books and cedar frame, pushing him perilously close to the massive gaping maw that had formed from the previous trap of stone. To Neil's surprise and utter bewilderment, the hole was glowing, an impossibly bright pit of liquid metal belching steam that could permanently burn a man's flesh from his bones. Neil's head was nearly over the lip of the hole, and without bothering to glance around, he grabbed one of the spikes from the swinging bookshelf and let it drag him across the floor, away from the traps.

"Why are wizard's like this?" He asked the lonely room of death traps. "Why can't they just be fucking normal?"

He felt a small rug burn on his ass, but it was better than being skewered so he just let his weight get dragged, and found himself about halfway through the room. In fact, he could see a small, secondary room at the back of the great chamber of knowledge. And within was a dias, with a book bound in black leather? He thought that's what it was, at least. "Good," he said aloud, picking himself up and dusting the bits of debris off himself. Gingerly, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the item Calliope had gifted him. In the palm of his hand was a perfectly smooth orb, entirely black save for the silver thread in the shape of a serpent slithering across its surface. He didn't entirely know what he was supposed to do with it, but it looked pretty, if nothing else.

The sound of steel on steel drew his attention, and from the wall across the expanse of the right wing of the library, there was an opening he hadn't seen before. Three footmen stood there, swords at the ready and eyes blazing fanatically. "You! What do you do here!?" The front one asked. He had a square jaw Neil was certain could carve granite. The other two stepped beside him, a lanky one and a more hefty man, all bedecked in the finest steel breastplates and open faced helms.

"I was just looking for the bathroom."

"Magister Therman told us to check this room for an intruder. Do you insult our intelligence or his?" The man growled, taking a step forward. His eyes darted from Neil to the ground, and the thief realized they weren't invulnerable to the traps. They had them memorized! He watched their eyes intently, trying to judge where they looked to ascertain the best way to proceed. The fatter one stayed in the back, a bit more wary than the other two as they inched their way towards Neil. That is, until halfway across the expanse of carpet, the man with the sword offered his hand and lowered the blade in his other. "Bring yourself in quietly, and we will forgive you for your transgressions against our master. Perhaps we'll throw you into the atrium portal and send you somewhere where you might live comfortably?"

"Look, no offense but your master is a big asshole," Neil remarked with a grin, now on the balls of his feet. He could surmise a few of the hotspots to avoid now, and though he didn't know everything, the guards here actually were a benefit.

"You dare!?" He cried.

"We must kill him," the lanky one said, hatred in his eyes.

"Ok ok, I take it back. I shouldn't say he's an asshole. You're right, I'm sorry. All I meant was, Magister Therman has shady, closed door dealings with men of ill repute across the city at late hours doing unspeakable things." Neil admitted, holding his hands out as if to assuage them. They looked confused at that statement, not understanding the bait. Another smile bloomed on Neil's face a moment later when he added: "Just like your fucking girlfriends."

"THAT'S IT KNAVE!" The fat one roared as the other two brandished their swords with murderous intent. Somewhat older than the front two, the bearded man barreled forward, evidently stepping where no traps lay. "No one insults my Hilda and lives!"

Neil then did all of the wrong things. Stepping wherever they didn't want him to step, bouncing off the wall with a kick and landing at different locations of the carpet and beside desks, before leaping back as swiftly as he could to the relative island of safety beside the killer bookshelf. What followed could most readily be described as a bloodbath. Mines that shot spikes flew up and punctured throats. A draconic statue erupted flames from its maw across the carpet, singing the fabric and immolating the front guard, but the worst came last. The lanky footman had somehow gotten out of it with but a flesh wound, making it to Neil and swinging at him. Neil ducked, the sword biting into the cedar as it stuck fast. Kicking out, Neil sent the whispy fellow stumbled backwards, his feet tripping over a small cord, now broken from the man's weight.

A small vial fell from above, turning end over end until it hit the ground with a quiet, almost majestic shattering of glass. At first, Neil only witnessed a bit of black oil seeping out of the vial. The only thing he felt off was that the oil moved as if it had a mind of its own, stretching to two meters and forming a weird, oval shape. The guard sat up, a few feet from the newly formed hole. He eyed it warily, clearing his throat so he could chuckle.

"You thought you got me," He taunted Neil. The thief was about to admit that wasn't a very good trap, until tentacles the size of Neil's torso burst out of the hole with impossible speed, slithering over the helpless guard, who could only squeak in panic before he was enveloped. Neil shuddering, even seeing one of the tentacles violating the man in every hole that could be found. Wherever the hole led to, it wasn't the material plane of existence.

Neil walked forward, stepping where he thought he should and making sure not to get his dirtied from the corpses or feet wet from the blood.

"Unsummon," Neil said, holding out the small black sphere in the direction of the eldritch abomination. He saw in rapt amazement as the tentacles shuddered as if fighting the command, then sliding back into the darkness from whence it came, dragging the body of the guard with it. The 'oil' that had formed now lessened until it was no more, and Neil looked at the ball in his hand. How had that worked? And how did he know to do that? It was Calliope's doing, likely. Best to just count himself lucky and continue on. The next dozen feet were slow, but it seemed the room had been spent of traps. Neil breathed a sigh of relief once he entered the small room, not seeing any hints of mechanical triggers now that he could look up close. Slowly, he pressed his foot on the dias and then backed up.

Nothing.

He stepped back on, pocketing the orb and then grabbing the book. It was completely unremarkable, except for the spine of the tome that stung to look at, etching of blood in an unknowable language wreathed upon its surface. He gave a tired breath, sighing. That had been too close too many times. He was just thinking of how pleased Calliope and he would be once they left, money and the book in their grasp.

That was when the keep shook, and not the shuddering of earlier. Neil felt like a god had grabbed the stone, and was slowly crushing it to death...

---

Minutes later...

"Hey babe. Babe wake up!" Neil smacked Calliope's face as hard as he dared, which wasn't that hard truth be told. But it would have woken her up if she could, and it looked she was out cold. "Come on, wake up you dark, scary, gorgeous murderer!... dammit!"

Masonry crumbled and people screamed as the ground undulated from some unknown force. Some people in the bower were still under the influence of whatever dreamed narcotics they consumed, lost in ecstasy, but most understood their plight and ran for what they perceived were the exits. Neil had the distinct feeling the guests weren't going to make it. He groaned in annoyance and swept her up in his arms, the book firmly nestled within his shirt. He started for the doors, running after two noble ladies into an archway, until Neil was nearly thrown to the side and the stone cracked, crumbling atop the women, their screams muffled until they were no more.

"Ok, think. Think, what-" And then it dawned on him. "... portal, got it."

Neil ran back towards the stairway, dust and light debris hitting his head. He didn't know why he was blocking most of it from hitting Calliope. She had used him quite a bit, after all. That was you volunteering too, idiot, he thought. "True, plus she's really hot." He said to himself as he leaped up the stairs two to three steps at a time. An Atrium would be at the top floorm right? He wasn't great with terms of architecture, but it was there or nowhere. He passed by an older butler with the neck of a turkey that hustled down the stairs, fear in his eyes.

Neil's breathing was labored once he got to the fifth floor. He didn't know how much further it was, and though Calliope wasn't heavy, carrying any adult up the stairs was taxing, particularly after all of the normal acrobatics. Another floor...another... The fortress was now growling and teetering, some of the hallways Neil passed were already falling into the abyss. He wheezed and stumbled, holding Calliope tight and getting back up, using another burst of energy to make it to the top of the keep. He wanted to talk to Calliope or make a quip, but he hadn't the breath. He couldn't even gasp when he saw the portal itself.

The atrium was huge, shattered glass lay on the marble floor and potted plants and beakers of alchemical variants were scattered and fallen. A chair was on fire from one of the vials spilled contents. But it was the center of the room, where an archway made of brass and swirling with energies beyond Neil's comprehension loomed. Beside it was a stone, connected via some sort of silvery seam that met both the archway, the stone, and the ground. Neil didn't have time to tinker with it, as parts of the central floor were now giving way. He went into a dead sprint, Calliope bouncing in his arms as he ran, stumbling nearly into nothingness before one last, great, leap.

The two flew into the archway, and reality spun as they were sent hurtling through time and space. To where? Neil knew not, his chest boiling and his eyes feeling like they were about to be plucked out of his sockets. He screamed, but there was no sound. He could see nothing, but existence was in his sight. And then he and Calliope were falling, and he felt sunlight on his skin, and distantly he saw mountains and forests, and the fire from dozens of chimneys, and the two hit a snowbank with a loud crunch. Neil didn't know where they were...but it was cold.

Calliope never afterward knew how long she lay dazed in the throes of the spell burn.. Indeed, given the method of their escape, it was possible that the question itself did not make sense. Spell burn, aetheric dissonance, witches ague, arcanis magus synoscopia, all were names for the illness that descended on a mage who drew too much power too quickly. Most mages suffered a bout the first time they successfully worked a spell and were smart and careful enough not to experience it again. Calliope was in a worse state than Therman would be, assuming he survived, because she had used blood magic. In addition to the normal spell sickness, vitaemancy had boiled away a significant portion of her blood plasma and afflicted her with blood sweats. Unconsciousness in such a state was a blessing. Not an entirely unalloyed blessing however. Her mind whirled in strange fever dreams. Versions of herself made entirely of blood offered her cryptic advice and dire warnings she couldn’t quite understand. A parade of those she had killed filled past, each balancing the exact amount she had been paid for their lives on their heads. Neil arm-wrestling the gargoyle she had animated to kill him. A dead Neil making wise ass comments at his own paupers funeral. A great wyrm that burrowed beneath the earth, hungering to devour entire cities. Her own body transformed so that vast black wings and a long tail shadowed the sun. A forest made entirely of metal tress stretched from horizon to horizon, each copper leaf, burnished and razor sharp, clung to branches that dripped with ancient verdigris. Armies of animate bones, not arranged in skeletons but simple masses of spindly limbs marched spastically across night mare landscapes, to tear mindlessly at other such armies with endless clacking and splintering sounds to keep the beat. Faceless gods threw dice for stakes beyond her understanding. Cold… cold…. cold…



The dreams pulled back as she opened her eyes. Immediately the feverish delirium didn’t seem so bad. Her body was shivering and burning all at once. She was nude, save for her undergarments and a badly soiled but finely made vest that had been drapped over her like a blanket. Her stomach roiled and she tasted blood. She was in some kind of a hollow perhaps the kind cut under a bank by spring floods, with the roots of saplings interweaving the dirt of one wall. The other wall was piled snow, disturbed where a doorway had been dug out and then resealed. A small fire, pushed as close to the dirt wall as possible , smoldered low. Calliope shifted closer trying to pick up a piece of timber to add to the meager flame. It was hard. Her fingers were clumsy and she had no strength at all. The battle she had fought with the Magister had drained her to the breaking point. A few more spells and she would have been among the corpses cooling in the ballroom. The timber fell from her fingers and onto the fire with a shower of sparks. A simple spell would have been more than enough to warm her, but even the thought of magic made her vision swim. Where was she? Had Neil brought her here? That seemed likely, she was pretty sure the vest was his, but things got a bit hazy in her memory. She remembered cutting the throat of one of Therman’s flunkies and then trying to climb the stairs, but nothing beyond that. There was a scratching at the snow bank. Calliope turned as best she could looking for some kind of weapon, but she hadn’t found anything by the time familiar hands dug through the snow. Neil squeezed in, looking extremely cold and carrying a pair of silvery fish on either end of a short stick.



“Hey, you’re finally awake,” he said as he saw her by the fire. He stepped in hurriedly, set the fish down, and hurriedly began heaping up snow to seal the entrance. There was a howling wind outside that gusted in fresh snow as he worked, but it only took a minute to seal up the hollow.



“Where are we?” she asked, wrapping the vest around her chest. There wasn’t enough fabric to warm her whole body and she coiled her legs closer to the fire. Neil must have been freezing too, having gone out into a snow storm in what appeared to be nothing more than an undershirt and trousers.

“No clue,” he admitted, “just grabbed you and jumped through some portal in the atrium right before the whole place collapsed.”



“The building had collapsed? How?” she asked. Had they unleashed so much destruction they had leveled the palace of a Magister? Apparently so.

“You tell me, I came downstairs to find everything on fire and the whole damn place falling in on itself. I only just managed to drag us out of there before the whole thing went down.”



Calliope was silent for a long moment. She had probably killed half the nobles in the space of a few minutes. Violated the sanctuary of a senior magister, killed several members of the Arcane Council and destroyed one of the most ancient and venerated palaces in the city. If there were any witnesses, they were in big trouble. She was going to have to do something very difficult, something she rarely did, but there was nothing for it so she pushed on before she lost her nerve.

“Thank you. For pulling me out of there.”

Neil extended the first fish to her, waiting patiently until she took it. As much as he felt she owed him, and as non-traditional as he tended to be, he was an old fashioned gentleman when it came to women. Particularly ones he was interested in. It was just lucky for the both of them that he had the dexterity to fish. Neil was a city dweller, unused to surviving in wilderness beyond a few tricks he had learned traveling from place to place. He was more comfortable stealing the necklace off someone's neck than the meal out of a bear's den, but at least he could make this little dwelling survivable.

"Aw, you noticed." He said jokingly. It seemed mean spirited, but his smile grew warm. He put another bundle of sticks into the flame, blowing on it gingerly. "You can make it up to me when you're well, and this time you can buy me dinner."

Once the fish were cooked, Calliope bit into the fish hungrily, but weakly. It was strange seeing her like this. He supposed a lot of people with dead friends, lovers, or relatives would have given their life savings to find her in a state like this. Noticing her lovely legs and bare shoulders, Neil could relate, though under different circumstances than in a dirt hole.

He bit into his fish, the meat stringy and a bit coarse, but Neil hadn't eaten in a day, it felt. The earthy scent of the hollow was strong, but his hungry body was now overwhelmed with the scent of cooked fish instead. The two ate in silence, too busy consuming their food to quip or discuss anything for the moment, When they needed to, they grabbed snow to drink. Neil reached over and felt Calliope's head, which caused her to flinch, but after the unexpected movement, she didn't pull away. He wondered if he would still have that hand attached if she could do what she was normally capable of.

"You did have a bigger fever for a few hours, but it seems like it's weakening," he commented.

"Not fast enough," she replied, feeling the subtleties and exhaustion from her magical battle. Neil barely knew medicine, much less magic. She seemed annoyed at the topic, and so he decided to change it. She huddled closer to the fire, warming her hands and face.

"By the way, promise you won't get excited," Neil started slowly, watching her gaze move up to meet his. "Two things. One, I don't know where we are, but while I was out, I did see a town a few miles away. Once we get warm enough we can try to get there. But two, and more importantly to you probably..."

Neil pulled the grimoire he retrieved out of his shirt, giving a sly smile.

Calliope sat up suddenly and wished she hadn’t as a wave of nausea washed through her. It was only with an effort of will she managed to avoid vomiting. Her hand reached out for the book, fingers literally trembling as they approached the spine. Then they froze, hung for a moment and finally retreated.

“I better not,” she said at last. Even reading the book might be enough to set her spellburn off again, and if it started now she might not be able to stop it before it killed her. The book seemed almost disappointed as Neil slowly lowered it.



“Put it away will you?” she asked, but the thief was already tucking it back into his tunic.

“In a couple of hours, maybe a day I can take a look at it, but its too much of risk now,” she told him, though she didn’t elaborate on exactly what kind of risk it posed. Artifacts like that had their own ways to influence the world, and Calliope didn’t much care for being the pawn of some ancient wizard. She picked up the fish and took another bite, chewing mechanically.



“Do you still have the token?” she asked suddenly. Neil reached into a pocket and withdrew a handful of dust.

“Huh,” he said, letting it spill to the ground. The token had taken the majority of the magical backlash of the portal they had traveled. Likely if he hadn’t held it they would both be dead now. Seeing they weren’t dead that meant they had to make some decisions.



“We…ummm…” she paused trying to come up with a politic way of saying what she had to tell him.

“We don’t have any way of knowing where we are, or when, or even if we are in the same world as we started out in,” she admitted. Traveling anywhere by portal was always a risky endeavor, and a portal in collapse could have thrown them nearly anywhere.

“What do you mean when? Or world?” Neil asked, his voice raising in alarm. Calliope held up her hands.



“Relax, the fact that we are anywhere probably means we are on our own world and fairly close in time, otherwise wed have been more likely to be thrown into the black of the void than land anywhere.” Neil arched an eyebrow, picked up his fish and took a bite.

“You know,” he said around a mouthful, “if this is your attempt to reassure me, you are fucking terrible at it.” Calliope sagged back close to the fire, feeling much warmer now that the wood had built it up.

“Well if you want comforting words you should have jumped through a mystical portal with a priest,” she retorted holding her hands out to the flames.

"I would have, but there was a priest and an assassin on the ground and I chose looks over virtue." He said with a wink. Well, he hoped things weren't too wacky. But seeing as they were breathing air, the sky was blue, and there was a village that looked ordinary if not somewhat exotic showed they were probably on their on world, though time might be a factor. Then again, he doubted Therman kept his portal on a different time as its base 'setting' if he could call it that. Either way, they'd deal with it.

Neil waited for around half an hour, letting the food settle and allowing Calliope to warm herself. During that time, assuming they were on Torek, they needed an alibi. Calliope would be a noblewoman, traveling with her beau, when their caravan was attacked and they escaped with their lives. If they were in one of the northern climes, the two would use fake names and they went with two names from the most common northern regions, The Grey March and Bania. Neil would have chosen Norgard, but he truly did not look the part, so he went with the endless expanse of borderlands above Andred as his region, using the name Pate Galloway, and Calliope would be Dragoslava Grigoriev. Once they were sufficiently warm and in agreement over the names and backstories, the two were ready.

"Must we?" Calliope complained, understandably annoyed. Surviving an ordeal like hers that weakened her, and then waking up frozen, only to now leave when it was warm.

"Unless you want to sleep here tonight, yes. If it's this cold during the day, at night we might want to be in a bed." He reasoned, knowing she reasonably understood that but wanting to drive it home. Neil kicked the fire a bit away, not dousing it but moving it and letting the flames get some distance from them, before he scooped her up in his arms. She was as wound up in the garment as she could be, but she clung to him to help his burden and to keep warm. He didn't make any quips, but it felt extremely nice in his opinion, even if he felt like her pack mule.

Neil carried her out of the gulley, the river babbling beside them was beautiful, glimmering in the distant sun and flecked with ice and fallen leaves. Across the short expanse of water, a muskrat washed what was likely a crustacean it was going to devour, eyes on the two as they stepped out of the river bed and onto the road. To the right, there was a small expanse of open ground, sloping into a distant woodland where the river fled. To the left, the trees were far closer and more ominous, gnarled but thick with leaves. Ahead of them, smoke rose in the distance, and beyond the fires was a mountain range that dwarfed any Neil have ever bore witness to in the southern lands.

"Looks like I chose my name well," Calliope congratulated herself once they came over the next rise. Neil wasn't privvy to what she meant, but when he got a look at the town, he saw it was shaped strangely for a normal settlement. The majority of it was made of wood, but the tops of the taller buildings and towers almost looked like the sweeping spires of the desert kingdoms. Most buildings were squat and sturdy, with a fine edge to its architecture. Integrated into the intricate designs of the obtuse spires were sharp ones that speared into the sky, and a large, central building adorned with a curved large cube roof and patterns of green and gold across endless triangles. Oddly enough, despite the snow on the ground and walls, there was nary a puff of white on the tops of the roofs. Perhaps that was the point.

"This is Bania?" Neil asked.

Calliope nestled closer, eyeing the large town and likely too focused on plotting their next move for her to notice the swell of her bosom pressed against his neck. He hid his annoyance well, because this was a fucking tease and he didn't appreciate it.

"Once vee reach ze gate, let me do ze talking," She told him, flexing her accent. Words were spoken in strange, almost brutish tone interwoven with a graceful, silken air to them. She was good, he noted. He grunted as she shifted, hoping she could get them to an inn or a place to rest and get some drinks soon.

"Alright, just make it quick. You're getting a little heavy," He remarked, trying not to wheeze.

“Would you try to relax,” Calliope hissed as they neared the gate.



“Contrary to popular belief I haven’t exactly been laying back and drinking rum on the beach for the last couple of days,” he rejoined.



There was a shout from a sentry and then a brass bell began to ring. Within moments the gates of the place, stout wooden gates mounted in a palisade of pine trunks swung shut on their stone posts. Head began to appear on the parapet, marked out by red caps or long feathers that bobbed above the sharp points of the stakes. An arrow arced from a platform above the gate, wobbled slightly in the air and then plunged into the snow crusted ground a few feet from them.



“Come no clozer,” a voice boomed from the gate. Neil obediently stopped and then sank to his knees.



“Help! We need help!” he called out in a credible distress. There was a long pause from the gate and Calliope could almost make out a conversation in half whispers.

“Who are you?” a gruff voice called.

“I’m Pete Galloway, please, we were attacked we need help!” Another long conversation of whispers occurred before the gate finally opened and five men, each carrying swords long enough to serve as polearms emerged, fanning out into a semi circle. Their leader, identifiable by a crested helm stepped forward.

“It is a strange name Sveet Kalloway,” the helmeted man declared, “does this one have a name?”

“I am called Dragoslava Grigoriev,” Calliope said in a theatrically weak voice. The leader cocked his head and his men shifted uneasily.

“You are from Sebrovna?” he asked in surprise, “how did you get passed the undead?” Calliope had no idea where Sebrovna might be or why this man thought she might hail from there, but this was more than enough information for her to work with.

“We thought we might slip passed them in the mountains, my gresni and I barely survived, the rest of our caravan were not so lucky,” she told him. Gresni was a word that combined some of the characteristics of both lover and bodyguard in this culture, but without mapping completely to either term. The leader nodded his head taking in her battered condition and the burns and other damage to her clothing.



“Kalishni, bring them in,” he ordered, carefully lifting the massive weapon over his shoulder and slipping it down into a leather thong that was slung over her breastplate. The hilt projected above his shoulder like a cross. The men formed up and escorted them in.

“Where were you attacked Boyina?” the leader asked. Calliope mumbled something about hills and lolled in apparent exhaustion. It was an easy role given how completely rung out she was.

“The Gilded Bear has room, you have gold?” the leader asked. There was a slight jingle from Calliope’s belt.

“Ylga will take good care of you. Tell her that Gregor says to summon the witch woman to see to your wounds. When you are recovered we will talk.” They had reached the gate by now and pushed through, stepping into the muddy streets.

“Welcome to Jaliningrad,” he declared grandly.

Iron was unlatched, and the gate creaked open loudly before the two tired, unscrupulous rogues. Calliope still clung to Neil, the thief hefted her up a bit so he could do one last walk before he could put her down. Damn, as tired as his arms were, she felt nice against him. Taking in a deep breath, he strode in. Had he been less hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, he would have taken more time to look around. Still, what he saw wasn't wholly uninteresting.

He had never been to Bania before, and he hadn't known what to expect. It was off-putting seeing the town so very much alike to the ones he was used to, and yet so alien at the same time. The houses and less elite building were made of pure wood. Neil did not have a background in buildings, but he had a keen eye and could tell the timber was axe-cut if he hazarded a guess. Three men with large mustaches, one sporting a wispy beard that pierced the air all smoked from strange pipes, watching Neil and Calliope and commenting to one another in their native tongue. A woman walked alone on the otherside of the road with a strange rod in her hand, carved in the likeness of a wiseman, hurrying to finish some unknown business. Children played with a dog under the copse of a roof, and men and women occasionally passed by, going about some tasks of their own.

He saw temples with elaborate rooftops and statues of either men or gods, Neil could not tell, framing the short and wide stairways to their doors. Along a spring to the north, past two other streets was a bathhouse, and a strangely shaped windmill spun in the distance. All of the buildings around ten feet apart, if not more. Particularly the storage sheds and other outbuildings, likely to prevent the spread of fire. Neil realized halfway through his observations that Calliope was whispering in his ear and explaining bits about the town. He felt certain she was trying to remind herself to keep up the act, but he appreciated being the guinea pig, all the same.

Once they made it down what Neil guessed was half a mile, there was a clearing in the town. Neil didn't believe it was the center of town, but it looked to be a hub. The structures were broken up from a street pattern to a circle, leading to six different short streets that would look like a star from a birds-eye view. In the center was a stone firepit, ablaze with a lively bonfire. A man with a long beard and clad in robes chanted a litany in a language Neil guessed was not Banian, at least not the modern dialect. Next to him was a totem of a three headed god, and at the entrance of every road were big men with bardiches, watching the townsfolk go about their business like hawks. They did not look to be the normal guard Neil had seen swaggering around, armed with sabers or shorter but broad-bladed axes.

It was inevitable one of them would spot the sly, roughed up aristocrat carrying a pretty, regal looking dark haired woman wrapped in cloth.

"What are these guys?" Neil asked Calliope quietly as one approached. He bore a long hat that draped right, looking almost crumpled to Neil, and a thick, long coat that covered what he imagined was padded and iron armor. He looked strong enough to wield his huge weapon, and even used it like a walking stick, one handed.

"Streltsy," Calliope said, and called to the man in Banian. Neil heard the words Yiga and Gregor, but couldn't catch anything else as the sorceress spoke to the tall brute who eyed them. Neil had to admit to himself, Calliope speaking a foreign language by his ear did something strange to him, but he tried to push that away for now and think on the problem at hand. If there even was one.

The Streltsy barked something, and then motioned for them to follow. He looked like his face was set in a perpetual glare, but evidently was convinced to help by the dark assassin's speech. Calliope smacked Neil like a horse on his behind and Neil's legs started moving before he even realized, the two being lead to an aesthetically pleasing and homey building with a porch and a large sign above it in Banian text and the symbol of a golden bear's paw. Surprisingly, the Streltsy did not stop there, but stepped onto the porch and walked in. Neil followed in his wake, raising an eyebrow as he stepped into the blessedly warmer room.

All eyes turned to regard he and Calliope, who merely clung to Neil and met every gaze in hers. Neil didn't know what was happening, but everyone who looked at her turned away when she regarded them, shaken from some experience they saw in her dark orbs. Neil loved Calliope's mystique and she had his attention in more ways than one, but his arms were about to get pulled out of their sockets.

"Can we get a room and some clothes please?" Neil asked desperately, interrupting the Streltsy who spoke to a woman he guessed was Yiga. They both turned with unreadable expression, and with a small request from the woman, Calliope tossed her a small pouch of coins. Yiga mentioned one more thing to the Streltsy, who excused himself as the matronly woman led them up the stairs, and Neil felt relief.

Calliope let out a deep breath as Neil lowered her onto a lumpy goose down mattress. The room wasn’t palatial but it was large and relatively clean, with walls of handsomely grained dark wood and windows of thick lead paned glace. Neil let out a similar sigh though his was one of relief, he was a strong man, but even a strong man would be aching after carrying another person for several miles. The woman to whom Calliope had given the coins, Yiga, appeared at the door, her face professionally pleasant though probably masking some amount of avarice and concern.

“Az dar anything ee can get you?” she asked in halting common. Neil turned to Calliope and arched any eyebrow.

“Soup if you have it,” she responded, then repeated the words in the woman’s own language.



“And beer!” she shouted at her back, or tried to shout, it came out as more of a croak. There was a scuffled outside and three bearded men pushed past Yiga and into the door. All were muscular and none smelled too clean. One of them shouted in his own language and pointed at Calliope, veins bulging in his neck.

“I don’t understand,” Calliope lied, touching the back of Neil’s wrist to forestall him from drawing the knife he was easing out of his belt behind his back.



“He says you are Necromancer, with the Black Horde,” the leader of the group growled. “This means death!”

“Necromancer?” Calliope asked in feigned shock. “I can assure you I am no necromancer.”

“She must be tested, and burned before she can bewitch us,” the so far silent man snarled.

"This is absurd," Neil said, striding up to the big men with the poise of a man of authority. He had masqueraded as a courtier once at the Kalx Molaris Temple of Baelyr. Long story, he would tell it another time. As it was, he looked into the eyes of the man up front and held his gaze, and said nothing for so long it got extremely awkward for the Banian's, who looked away and back at Neil confused, and then looked away again. It was a power move they hadn't expected, and once they had lost momentum Neil spoke again. "My lady and I have traveled here half naked, bruised, and tired. Why would a necromancer come here in such ragged sha-DON'T INTERRUPT ME!"

The big man at the vanguard shrank back, eyebrow raised as if Neil were insane. "We did naut say anyving."

"Good, and you will not speak any further on this matter either. The Boyina is tired, and has been given leave by the gate captain to enter. Unless you want to fight here and now in Yigas' home I suggest you get out."

They looked less sure than they had been coming in, but their superstition, as plausible as it was, couldn't be deterred so readily. The one on his left pushed the front one to get him to regain his dignity, and stepped forward brusquely. He had the arms of a bear, and they were near as heavy. Neil could see his teeth gleam out of his beard, despite their yellowing.

"You haf no rights here, Suka!" He growled, and attempted to shove Neil out of his way. Neil lowered himself and lifted himself on the left of the man's arm, almost like he was running water morphing around the hard surface of a falling rock. He didn't attack the man though, merely sticking his leg out between the fellow's beefy legs so he tripped up, giving a grunt of surprise before he caught himself on the couch, his mouth hitting the back of the couch's wooden frame. Blood dribbled out of his mouth, and he shakily stood up.

Neil nor Calliope were in any condition to fight. Calliope less so, true. But Neil felt sore as hell and he was so hungry he doubted a punch from him would have anything beyond momentum behind it. Neil bluffed instead, taking out his knife and holding the blade against the neck of the burly man he had tripped, who had just started to rise. The men who had begun to move behind them stopped cold. The chilled iron bit at his neck, though it didn't draw blood. Honestly, it had not been sharped recently. He doubted it was effective beyond cutting bread or a quick stab. Either way, the bearish banian serf froze in the long gallery, tensed from the feel of the weapon.

"You are in the presence of Lady Grigori Dragoslava, daughter of the great boyar of Sebrovna and herald of the stars." He said, spouting complete bullshit. "You will afford her the respect of her station."

"Shust let Andrei goh," the third said. He had a loud gaptooth Neil could spot in the dead of night.

"We will leafe, but the priests vill vant to test har!" The man who was apparently Andrei warned.

"Then ve'll do it tomorrow, vhen I ahm ved and reested." Calliope said, betraying no emotion except a wintry disinterest in the whole affair. "Zere are streltsies just outside, and your town guard. I caun't go anyvhere or vlee, and even iff I do, you'll know my guilt. No leafe bevore I tell me mahn to keell you."

There was a long pause by all three, and gap-tooth said. "We'll go."

They left hesitantly, but they left all the same. Just as they marched down the stairs, Yiga appeared with hot soup of beef, potatoes, and vegetables, along with two mugs of beer. She looked at the departing men, and shook her head. Neil could not tell if she was embarrassed or worried. "Here, and I hop yor stay is vrestful."

Neil thanked her, and closed the door. He let out a long breath and opened his eyes wide to display his feelings of 'that was close' and walked over to set the food on the table in front of Calliope. She hadn't dressed yet except with a small towel, and it barely held her together. Somehow it made her look even better, and the land he had thought too cold was now a bit hot for his tastes. He took his mug and his soup and sat on the couch she was on, a few feet away.

"Good thing we have nothing to worry about tomorrow..." Neil started as she began to eat, and then he looked at her quizzically. "We have nothing to worry about right?"

"Depends on the test. I'm not a necromancer but..." He wiped a bit of her mouth with her fingers. "If they find what I'm good at, I doubt they'll be happy."

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we uh...tomorrow." Neil deadpanned.

"Why are you still here?" She asked Neil suddenly. Neil put his spoon down and looked at her. She looked at him, and if he didn't know any better, he would have called it suspicious. She continued. "You didn't have to defend me, you could have just thrown me to the wolves. Why are you sitting here and fretting over tomorrow? You can just eat and go find fortune. I am currently a liability and so far you've had little gain."

Neil cleared his throat and crossed his arms as if he were about to impart some great wisdom. "I'm a fucking idiot." He said lightly, shamelessly. He smiled at her, and it was clear he was smiling at his own manner. He held an open hand out, placing his off-hand's finger on his other hand's fingers as he counted. "Look, I like danger, hot women, and dangerous hot women. Secondly, you're the only person I know in almost four hundred leagues, and thirdly... So far I've died for you, kept you from dying, I've been your guard, your thief, your pack mule, and I've bought you two dinners. If you think I'm going anywhere before you pay up somehow you're more insane than I am."

Calliope lay back on the bed and felt the warmth of her own body reflected by the thick animal pelts.



“In my defense I did take you to a rather exclusive ball, even if… you know… I subsequently destroyed ballroom, castle, and guests alike and then hurled us an unknown distance through time and space,” she conceded.

“To be completely fair it was me who hurled us an unknown distance through time and space on account of you being unconscious and bleeding out of your eyeballs,” Neil corrected. Calliope considered this.



“Well I suppose I hadn’t factored in the fucking idiot part,” she said with a soft chuckle.

“I do owe you Neil, you saved my life, thank you,” the moment of sincerity was interrupted by a knock at the door and Viga bustled in with a pot of thick greasy looking soup and some coarse brown bread.

“You want wine, it extra,” she snapped, much of her good mood appearing to have evaporated. Calliope flicked a coin, apparently from no where and the innkeeper managed to snatch it, bite it, and tuck it into her apron without dropping her load of food.



“There are men downstairs, guards for you, so you no try funny busy ness,” Viga warned as she set the stew and bread down and then produced a bottle of wine and a couple of dirty looking glasses.

“Given I can hardly stand my funny busy ness acumen is severely limited,” Calliope replied a touch snarkily. The inflection obviously went over Viga’s head and she bustled out of the room. Calliope rolled onto her side, the most physical activity she had been able to manage, and shoved a hunk of bread into the soup before biting into it. Her mouth twisted with distaste, her normal diet ran towards rare meat and the thick flower broth was not to her liking. Conscious of the spellburn she forced herself to eat.



“Any idea what kind of trials they might try tomorrow?” Neil asked, obviously still concerned by her fairly pitiful state.

“No clue,” she admitted around a mouthful of bread, “hopefully its more of a pinky swear type thing though.” Neil narrowed his eyes.

“And why is that?” he asked in a level tone. Calliope blinked innocently.

“Let she who has never animated a corpse cast the first stone,” she replied.

Neil watched her flick the coin, and wondered where the sorceress had kept it.

"Don't they have like, witch trials that tend to see the woman dead?" He asked her.

"Only if the woman is innocent." Calliope said casually, popping some bread into her mouth. Neil was glad she seemed undisturbed by the entire thing, and that she was eating well enough to get some of her strength back. Neil lay back on the couch at that, staring up at the ceiling as she ate. She must have sensed what Neil was thinking. She added: If a woman is a real witch, she'll probably live getting dunked under water for five minutes or being crushed by a rock. I swear, the tests they make are so uncreative..."

"Agreed, I have far more creative plans for what I'd do with you." Neil smiled and winked.

"Everybody wants me," She rolled her eyes, though he caught the smile on her lips. She gestured with a handful of biscuit. "But they'll want you too. If they think I'm a necromancer, you'll be in just as much danger."

"But if they find out you're not, they'll trust us, right?"

"Yeah, but well still need to afford to live here until we can leave." She said, wiping her mouth with one of the cloths provided.

"And we won't be able to leave if the undead surround the place." Neil added with a sigh. Running through the snow with a zombie horde hot on his tail wasn't his idea of fun.

"Might just be easier to take the town from the stapan," she said without putting too much thought into it. But she blinked, and glanced at Neil. He saw her look and raised an eyebrow. She had a wicked look, and even though it would have quelled many men's desires or curiosities, Neil liked it a bit too much, and he was more than a little interest.

"Stapan?" He asked her.

"The mayor." She explained.

"Well if we survive tomorrow, I'm behind you. Besides, can't have our third date until you have the energy to walk around."

Calliope lay back on the bed. She patted the coverlet beside her with one hand. Neil cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t bite,” she told him with a lazy lilt in her voice.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a lie,” he admitted and then sat down on the bed beside her. She could feel the pull of the spell book he was holding through his shirt. That was probably both a good and a bad sign.

“I can’t say that I love a situation where our best option is being surrounded by undead,” she muttered. Neil started to say something but Calliope’s arm shot out and caught him by the wrist. He jerked, coming half to his feet and looking for threats.



“Our best option is being surrounded by undead,” she repeated as a flash of inspiration raced through her brain.



“Oh…..kay…” Neil put in, slowly relaxing as his body caught up with his mind. He sat back down.

“I’m going to be honest, it dosen’t sound like a great option,” he confessed.



“You need to get some rest,” she said, pulling him down so he lay beside her. She didn’t have much strength but he didn’t seem inclined to resist.



“Why do I get the impression it isn’t because you just feel a sudden concern for my health,” he pressed. Calliope shook her head.



“After you get some sleep, and its good and dark, I need you to rob a temple for me,” she replied musily.

“You need me to WHAT?” he demanded, but she was already asleep.

Well, Neil didn't have a lot of willingness to rest after that. He didn't usually worry about theft, and perhaps it wasn't the catalyst for his lack of sleep. However, he was so tired he couldn't sleep, which was a dreadful combination in any situation, much less this one. He thought about what she needed from him, and he supposed he could just steal whatever he felt like, but eventually the warmth of the fire and the rhythmic breathing of the woman beside him caused him to nod off.

At some unknown time later, Neil gradually woke up. His eyes opened first, slightly just to peek and gauge there was no one else in the room. Once that was discovered and he felt safe, he blinked and cleared his throat, sitting up. The windows were black, and the only light was from the fire that still crackled in the hearth. Empty soup bowls and half-empty bottles of beer lay on the table next to biscuit crumbs. Beside him, Calliope still slumbered peacefully.

Her back was curved and her face pressed to a pillow above her arms. Neil had been to a royal enclosure before where great cats from the Arad Luin and the Southlands were set in cages to display the magnificence of the crown. He had seen a leopard sleep like she did, and the comparison suited her. Beautiful, soft looking, but deadly. As he looked at her, he realized something. He blinked and knew what he needed to steal, which was something he knew wasn't possible.

She stirred, and he could see a smile on her red lips.

Once he got outside, he'd think about that. Maybe running was the best option. Whatever she was planning it was going to be something wicked. Then again, self preservation was once again overridden by his affair with danger and the very real but strange realization that he had a thing for her. Pulling up his newly found coat, snow drifted lazily down from an endless black sky. No moon or stars were in sight, the only light accompanying him were torches and lanters raised across roads every, what he guessed, were 10 strides apart. Every now and then a guardsman or the fearsome streltsy marched pased him, but he managed to evade being detected by halting his progress far too often for his liking. The snow's crunch was way too loud for his tastes.

Eventually he made it to the edge of the square, where the temple loomed. He couldn't exactly call it a church, the structure only superficially resembling the more familiar temples and structures of the trinity faith. It had the look of a strange longhouse with a tower at its apex, and brightly colored supports at its sides set up to have the visual look of leaning. Even now, Neil could smell smoke and see a bit of a haze lazily floating out of the temple. It gave him an idea he hated, but there looked to be only one entrance and he had to get in.

"I do?" He whispered to himself, questioning again why he was doing this. Wow, the cold really sapped his normally gung-ho confidence. Then again, he was still doing it so he apparently had a lot of willingness, regardless.

Once Neil had reached the top of the timber and brick tower, he peered into the opening just below the sharp top, and saw a small fire alight about eighteen feet down. Taking in one last breath of fresh air, he scrambled in and pressed against the walls to shimmy down. He went slowly, and once he was man-height above the fire, he stopped to try and hear if anyone was walking around within.

Silence.

He dropped down and spread his legs to land and miss the fire. In front of him was a long, chapel-like room where a priest soundly snored on one of the pews.

"Oh," he mouthed. He could have just picked the lock and walked in then. Well, water under the bridge. Now about that looting...

3 hours later...

Neil sat by the fire, his arms criss crossed under his armpits to heat his hands up with his coat still draped over his shoulders. He had wanted to get a fresh beer, but he didn't want anyone to think he had been up at all during the theft. He merely finished one of the two bottles they had, and ate another biscuit. The night was still dark, and likely would be for another few hours if he had guessed correctly. He had sat there for a good half hour, and had just about dozed off again when he heard Callipe stir behind him.

In the corner of the room, two items glinted. A gilded mirror, with its frame carved into snarling wolves and big enough to showcase the upper half of one's body. Beside it was a glass chalice, silver vines snaked across its outer shell as if its base were roots and the cup itself was foliage reaching for the sun. Neil was warmed, but since the outer edges of the room was still cold, he shivered slightly and turned to regard the naked woman but obviously warm sorceress draped in the covers.

"I hope you like shiny things as much as I do." Neil remarked sardonically.

“Perfect,” Calliope purred. She had slept for a time, though in her dream she had felt something malign stalking her. She recalled being in a great library in which every book was a copy of the one they had stolen, its binding infinitely scaled up and down but always exactly the same tome. She got out of bed, felt weak, and hated herself for it. She wanted meat but the last thing she needed was servants or the would be guards sticking their heads in at this point. They needed to find some supplies, the gown she had worn to the ball being a little worse for wear. Carefully she wrapped the mirror in one of the small table cloths and then punched her fist into the center of it. It disintegrated in a quiet cacophony of musical tinkles. Calliope paused and cocked her ear, making sure no one was coming to investigate the sound, then she carefully poured the shards into one of the soup bowls she had cleaned out for the purpose.

“You know I think they make you pay for that,” Neil put in sardonically. She ignored him, breaking up a few of the larger shards by hand, careful not to cut herself.

“I thought you still couldn’t do magic,” Neil interjected as she picked up one of the large shards and turned it over in her fingers.

“Me?” she asked innocently, “no. You? Yes.” She cut him across the forearm with the tip of the shard drawing three drops of blood. They ran silver.



Neil and Calliope stood on a wind blasted heath, so formless that it made the mind ache. Phantom wind whipped around them, disturbing their hair but not their clothing. In the distance strange and indistinct shaped humped and crawled like blind maggots, just hinted at in the murky air.

“Gods damn it woman!” Neil complained, glancing around them in shock. He looked down at himself and found he was two Neil’s, one whole, the other slightly translucent and an inch or so out of alignment.



“Ok spill,” he demanded, crossing his four arms awkwardly. Calliope smiled up at him and lifted the bowl of mirror shards. They flowed together into a single sheet of glass so perfect it might have been quicksilver. Inside the mirror a second naked Calliope was visible behind him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her red lips close to his neck.

“I’ve removed your soul from your body,” both Calliope’s said in eerie synchrony, the words oddly sibilant as they came at Neil from all directions and maybe none.



“Don’t worry…” the Calliope behind him said, extending her tongue to scrape along his neck, something he could see but not feel.

“It isn’t permanent,” the Calliope in front of him said.



“Just a trick,” the Calliope behind him said, her lips closing around his ear lobe and tugging playfully.

“Just a trick,” the Calliope in front of him agreed. She clapped her palms together on the disc of quick silver at the same instant the second Calliope’s hands began to stray down the front on Neil’s tunic.



The mirror exploded silently. It fell into the bowl in a sound so similar to its original shattering that a musical savant could have found no difference, despite being having apparently been broken in a completely different fashion and falling rather than simply being contained by cloth. Neil thought he glimpsed himself in the mirror shards even though they weren’t oriented to reflect him, but it was only for an instant. She handed him the bowl then tucked the large shard with a drop of his blood on the tip away.

“Take a shard and focus on it, imagine what you want it to show,” she explained.