John Dowdel sat at his computer, heavily engaged in a game of StarCraft. On the screen, his spawning pool popped into existence, and he grinned. Setting all his larvae to zerglings, he looked at the stopwatch by his side. One minute, forty-three seconds. Just seventeen more to go, and he would have it. He set the newest, just-spawned larva to a zergling, then quickly alt-tabbed out of the game and pressed a button on a small dialogue box. A message appeared: "Map Hack Enabled." He switched back to the game, satisfied to see the map laid bare for him. His opponent, a red Terran, was in the lower left, while he was in upper middle. Quickly he moved his 'lings out, keeping a close watch on the LED display flickering by his side. One fifty-eight. One fifty-nine. Two minutes.

Attack! He clicked right behind his enemy's base, and his 'lings moved in for the kill. Unable to resist a gloat, he pressed the "enter" key and typed a message, chuckling as he did so.

"hehe sux 2 b u" appeared on the screen in bright green letters. His only answer was a string of explicatives and the occasional symbol from above the number keys. He simply sat back and smiled. It felt so good to win; that pathetic lamer never had a chance

Just then a blue box appeared on the screen. "Waiting for player: Killz_u_69." John just smiled. Let him disconnect. It was after the two-minute mark; he was safe. The timer counted down the forty-five seconds, and he held his finger over the mouse, ready the instant it hit zero. He pressed the "Drop Players" button, and the blue disappeared. His units moved for a moment, then another box appeared: "The game ended in a draw."

"What?" He stared in disbelief at the screen. A click and the game statistics came up. His stared at the elapsed time: 1:58. For a moment he just sat there, stupefied, and then he realized the only possible solution.

That stupid lamer must have had a hack of some sort! He must have slowed down the game speed or something with his lag! John cursed a string of explicatives out into his room, mentally smiling at his range of slurs. Even Snaxxor had been impressed when he cussed out that Korean lamer on Bnet. Well, maybe he hadn't been Korean, but John had called him one and it was sure a vile insult in his book.

"John?" came a voice from outside his room. He quickly shut up. "Er, yeah Mom?"

"Get to bed, honey. It's almost 2 AM."

"Er...just after I finish this one math problem, okay?"

"All right."

Phew. Either Mom had either not understood what he was saying or did not understand that it was swearing (that was an advantage of using the latest Bnet slurs; his parents had no idea what he was talking about half the time). That, at least, was a relief. The last time Mom had caught him swearing, she simply handed him over to Grandma, whose only comment was "George, where'd I stick that lye soap?" The memory still curdled his tongue.

Sighing, he exited out of battle.net and StarCraft, that last game having spoiled his mood. And he had been on a good streak, too. Four unsuspecting newbies in a row. He chuckled. Stupid newbies. If they didn't know enough to be wary of L33T players like him, they deserved what they got.

He closed down the map hack, given to him just a few days before by Jerome, aka "PsYkO_DuDe." He had gotten rid of his old one because someone told him they had heard it had backdoor coding in it, and the last thing he wanted was someone snooping around his hard drive. Though, come to think of it, that would probably be a lot better than Mom or Dad stumbling upon the one folder he had cleverly named "Book Reports." Not even they would believe that all those pictures were research data.

He started up Internet Explorer, trying to think of something to lift his mood. The program opened its default page, displaying the metal-and-green front of the War Room. He smiled; that would work nicely. Clicking on the "Post Message" button, he ran through the different things he could post. There was always the old "God does/does not exist" standby, but someone had done that just last week and he would look like a copycat if anyone remembered it. Maybe ".999...=1." That usually got the feelings riled up. But that reminded him of the math problems he still needed to do for tomorrow, sitting tucked away somewhere in his textbook. Honestly, it was like the teachers thought a thirteen-year-old had no life outside of their class. Didn't they know he had important things to do?

He shook his head. Posting that might work if he wanted to relieve stress, but he needed a kick to boost his mood. Now, what else was there...

He smiled and typed out his subject line: "CANADA=LAMURZ!!!!!!!!!!" He did a quick count; yup, exactly ten exclamation marks. That should get their attention. Tabbing down to the message box, he rifled through a stack of papers on his desk until he came up with the list he had made, detailing the best Canada-slams he had seen in all his months on Bnet. Picking five at random, he typed them out, then went up and filled in his trademark handle, "SuperZerg." It lacked the flair of Jerome's handle, but John wanted something simple.

Smiling, he clicked the "Post Message" button. That ought to get a good response...

Over a thousand miles away, a low-level segment of code, so low that it did not even deserve the title "artificial intelligence," suddenly matched a bit of input to a preprogrammed subroutine. In a handful of milliseconds it processed the data and pulsed a small message packet outward.

The packet zipped through the channels of the mainframe, darting over to another, currently dormant program. A short data dump woke the routine, which immediately set to work, searching through database after database and tracing lines of connectivity according to the information gleaned by the first program. A quarter-second later it had the information, which it bundled up and shot on its way through the network.

The packet zipped along silicon interchanges and copper wiring, finally arriving in an adjacent building just over two seconds past the time the first program spotted its mark. The code flew by a handful of routers, then dumped its contents onto the screen of a sleepy technician. The techie blinked as a message window appeared on top of his game of solitaire, and it took him several seconds to assimilate what it said.

At this point he swore.

"Another one of these? I swear, sometimes I think the Emperor goes a bit too far with these things."

His neighbor shrugged. "It isn't so bad. At least it gives us something to do besides play the same four games over and over."

The techie sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He picked up his headphones and placed them over his ears. A quick check showed the microphone to be in working order. "This is London Control to Diplomatic Ops, do you copy? Over."

I copy, London Control. Go ahead. Over."

"Roger, Diplomatic Ops. We've got a code-four-seven on our hands."

"Another one? That's, what, three in the last week?"

"Just about. Coordinates are thirty-three degrees fifty-six minutes north, one hundred seventeen degrees thirty-two minutes west. One-zero-zero-four, Verley Court."

"Roger, London Ops. Dispatching now..."

John hit "refresh" on his browser again, checking to see if anyone had responded yet. So far, his only reply had been one guy agreeing with him and adding his own arguments against Canada (one of which John had added to his list), but that was no fun. The only time it was fun was when he got someone angry. Usually they just said really stupid stuff, but sometimes he could get a new swear word off them, or even a way to use ASCII characters in interesting and inviting ways. But if no one responded soon, he'd have to go to bed without being able to cuss out a single lamer. He hoped he got one soon.

Due to the orientation of his computer, John did not notice the blue light that briefly glowed under the doorway. He did, however, notice the knock at the door.

He slapped the power button on his monitor (Mom was so gullible she thought that when the screen was dark the computer was off) and grabbed his math textbook from off the floor. Frantically flicking it open, he called out. "I'll go to bed in a minute, Mom! Just one problem left." He tried to look at the book like he was concentrating on it, then suddenly realized it would look a lot better if he held it right-side-up. He flipped it around, just in case his mother decided to come in and check on him.

The knock sounded at the door again. "In a minute, Mom!" She ignored him, though, and the door handle turned. He redoubled his efforts to look studious.

One can well imagine his shock when the door opened to reveal, not his mother, but an average-looking man in white clothing trimmed with red that looked unmistakably like a uniform. John's jaw dropped open, his textbook forgotten.

"John Dowdel?" asked the man. John was too stunned to do anything but nod. How had he gotten in past his parents? Maybe they were downstairs, knocked unconscious or even dead. Or maybe this was someone from the future, here to protect him against killer robots.

Then he noticed the red maple leaf on the man's shirt. Maybe he had just screwed up royally.

"Hello," said the man, smiling pleasantly. "May I come in?" He did not wait for John to answer, but walked right in, closing the door behind him. He stepped over and sat on John's bed, giving the room a once-over with his eyes. His smile seemed to tweak a little bit higher at his Britney Spears posters, specifically chosen to be just this side of tolerable for his parents (though he had gleaned the word "slut" from when his Dad saw them).

"What do you want?" John asked bravely. Or, at least, he tried to say it bravely. It came out more like something halfway between a stammer and a squeak. The man just smiled back at him and extended an arm. "I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Lieutenant 11001001, acting captain of the Canadian Military Ship Borealis. And you are John Dowdel, or should I say 'SuperZerg?'"

"I...uh...er..."

"Oh no, I quite understand. You see, we've only recently started coming after people like you, so word hasn't had much of a chance to spread around yet."

"C-coming after me?"

"Oh yes. You see, we Canadians don't take very kindly to people insulting our country."

"I...er...umm..."

"So, which will it be? Explosive decompression? Incineration? Lethal injection? I hear Scientist Bob is trying to develop a power generator that can use any type of matter for fuel. How'd you like to go down in history?"

What frightened John the most was how the Lieutenant's smile never even wavered. He suddenly felt very small and very, very afraid.

"Mom! Dad! There's a psycho in my bedroom!"

Lieutenant 1101...something just shook his head, smiling still. "They can't hear you. A small bit of knock-out gas to the bedroom. Perfectly harmless. They won't even have headaches in the morning. So have you decided yet?"

"But you can't-"

"Explosive decompression it is, then!" He drew out something that looked like a Star Trek communicator. "11001001 to Borealis, two to recall."

"Wait!"

"Oh, so you've changed your mind then?"

"You can't do this to me! I'm a United States citizen!"

The Lieutenant's grin widened slightly. "Not for another four and a half years, you aren't. Oh, would you care to leave a goodbye note, just so your parents know you didn't run away?"

"I..." His arms shook. Things were going very, very bad. Forgetting all his thirteen years, he felt a stinging sensation welling up in his eyes. The Lieutenant put a hand on his shoulder.

"Ah, don't worry, kid. It only lasts thirty seconds or so. And after that...well...you religious?" At this point John had completely lost the ability of speech. The other just shook his head. "Ah, it's hard, isn't it? But we figure, after getting fair warning..." he trailed off, frowning. Then he snapped his fingers like he had just remembered something. "Wait, you're a first offence, aren't you?"

It took a second for John to realize what he meant, after which he nodded furiously. "Really! I just thought I'd try it just this once! All I wanted was a little attention. My mom doesn't pay attention to me, my dad doesn't either, even the dog-" maybe that was taking it too far "er, I mean my older brother beats up on me all the time..."

The Lieutenant held up a hand. "Look, I don't want to hear your life story, kid, especially since you don't have an older brother and I really doubt your nine-year-old sister beats you up. Just take this as a warning then, okay?" John was too shocked to do anything as the man calmly stood and walked to the door. He opened it, then turned back over his shoulder. "And remember," he said, "we'll be watching..."

The door shut behind him, and then a soft blue glow leaked underneath it. John hesitated, then got up and opened it. He looked both ways down the hall. No one was there.

He walked back into his room and sat down on his bed, staring at his hands. One thought kept going through his mind: How am I going to explain this to Mom and Dad?

Several hundred meters straight up, Lieutenant 11001001 materialized in the wake of a recall portal. He nodded to the Ensign on duty, who raised an eyebrow at the Lieutenant's grin. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"Of course. Everyone has their little sadistic streak in them. Besides, I guarantee we won't be hearing from him again."

"I bet. He'll probably have nightmares for months."

"Nah. He's young; he'll get over it." He walked to a wall intercom. "11001001 to bridge, set course for London, and inform the Emperor we've dispatched another ne'er-do-well."

"Aye sir" came the response from the speaker.

"That ought to brighten his evening," he said as he left.

Fron rushed through the front door of the StarBucks, hot on Gaval's heels. For having been barely able to walk a few moments earlier, the Slayer could sure run fast. He heard Gaval yell "Rachel!" just before he disappeared up the stairway. Fron decided to concentrate on more immediate problems, like the main room.

It looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Chairs and tables were overturned everywhere, most of them blackened and scorched. His shoes crunched on broken glass, and the tang of smoke hung in the air. Behind him, he heard a handful of other CWALers step over the door, now flat on the ground. Everyone else was outside, spreading out across the streets for signs of whoever had attacked the HQ.

"You know," said Supernook behind him, "we really need to invest in a sturdier HQ."

Fron scanned the floor with his eyes, looking for any injured or dead. "I could get some titanium and duranium."

"Actually, I was thinking sun-dried whale blubber. Nothing can destroy that stuff. Mother Nook used to make it all the time."

"Mmm." Fron's eye caught something on the ground. A small runnel of coffee seeped out from underneath some collapsed drywall. Acting on instinct, he picked up the sheet and tossed it aside. Underneath were the shattered remains of a glass jar, a large coffee stain, and a wrinkled, pinkish-gray mass.

"Talruum!" Fron gingerly picked up the brain. "Tal, are you okay?"

"Coffee..." He coughed. "Must have...coffee..."

"Someone get this brain some java, stat!" He heard some footsteps running off towards the kitchen, skittering slightly on debris. Gently he cradled the brain in his hands, trying to jar him as little as possible. "Don't worry, Tal, you'll be fine, okay?"

"If...if I don't make it...will y-you do something for me...please?"

"You name it."

"Downstairs...file cabinet...way back is a...a hidden folder full of photos. Burn them...don't let...women..."

Fron nodded. "Will do, I promise." After I have a little look-see at them, of course. Mid_Night stepped up next to him, holding a full coffee pitcher. Fron gently dropped Talruum into it, then wiped the sticky brain-residue off his hands. The CWALer bobbed gently in the dark liquid, and Fron thought he heard a contented sigh.

He righted a toppled table and placed the coffee pitcher on top of it, then turned to continue his sweep of the room. A few meters away, Gunslinger stepped into the black membrane that separated most of CWAL Headquarters from the Back Room. No one quite knew where the spatial anomaly had come from, but so far it had not done any harm, so they let it be. A moment later he stepped back out, shaking his head. "The Back Room's trashed. Looks like multiple explosions with some incendiaries thrown in for good measure."

"We've got backups, right?"

"Of course! One of the first things we did after we lost the first Rask was to start weekly backups, with an emergency data dump port if necessary. Rask herself'll be fine, but all the hardware's shot."

Fron grunted. Two CWALers safe. Seven more to go.

He heard a cough from under a pile of rubble. Jumping over an upended chair, he grabbed hold of what used to be a countertop. "I've got someone!" he said as he strained to lift the heavy particleboard. Norf had always been the muscular one, though, and he only managed to raise it a few inches before Grorx stepped up. "Let me try," he said. Before Fron could respond the robot had grabbed the chunk of rubble with his right hand and effortlessly lifted it several feet up. He grinned. "Servo-motors are wonderful things, wouldn't you agree?" Fron glared at him in return, then dropped to his knees to see who was under it.

Smaller fragments of debris covered the body, but only one person in CWAL had wings and hair like that. "Just a sec, DE," he said, "I'm coming." He stretched out his right hand toward her. "Ni!" A dozen glowing green strands leapt from his palm and wrapped themselves around her waist. Focusing hard to keep the stringweave cohesive, he inched his way backwards, pulling Dragoneyes out from beneath the rubble. "Oof," he said. "You've gained..." suddenly it came to mind exactly what the result would be of finishing that sentence. "...er, a lot of bruises, haven't you?" he finished lamely.

"Nice...save." she croaked out.

When he finally dragged her out from under the particleboard, Grorx slowly let it down to the ground. "Keep looking," Fron said, "I'll help her." The robot walked off over the litter, and he propped Dragoneyes up against a toppled table.

"You all right?" he asked, suddenly realizing that that would have been a much better question to ask before he dragged her six feet and twisted her upright. But she just nodded and flashed him a smile. "A few cuts and bruises, nothing that won't heal quickly." She coughed again, sending little streamers of smoke into the air. Fron judiciously moved out of the way of any stray flames. "Who did this?"

She shook her head. "Don't know. They were dressed all in black, and at the first sight of them the HQ seemed to explode from every direction."

"Rune magic." Fron and Dragoneyes turned to the new voice. Fron's eyebrows creased in concern. "Brighteye, what are you doing?" The woman was standing a few meters away, supporting herself by leaning against the wall. "You need to get to the infirmary almost as much as DE." Brighteye just shook her head. "I can feel it. There, and there." she pointed to two sections of wall that looked as they had taken a bazooka hit dead on. "Whoever attacked used rune magic, I'm sure of it."

"Well then who do we know that uses rune magic?"

"I do. And Nighteye. If anyone else, I haven't encountered them."

"Great," said Fron. "Yet another egotistic, self-proclaimed master of all-that-is-Evil out for us. You'd think they'd have something better to do."

Brighteye shrugged, then started making her way slowly back across the room, taking each step as if it required all her concentration to stay upright. Fron thought about helping her, but decided that Dragoneyes needed it more. He turned back to her.

"Can you stand?"

"I...think so."

"Here, I'll help." He rose and offered a hand to her, but she waved him off. Bracing herself against the table, she slowly rose to her feet, then gave him a wan smile. "Thanks but no thanks."

He dropped his hand. "No problem. Just get to the infirmary ASAP, okay? I know Mu's got some emergency defenses on that thing that can hold up to almost anything. If we're lucky, it survived intact."

"I'll do it in a bit, after we find everyone else, okay?"

"You sure you'll be alright?"

She shot him a glare, a thin streamer of smoke rising from her nostrils. He backed off, hands up. "Okay, okay. Just don't overdo it, all right?"

"All right." Fron nodded and turned away, looking back over his shoulder once to make sure she was still standing. She gave him a glare that told him any more attempts to baby her would result in fricasseed Emperor.

After he left, she stood still for a moment, keeping an eye on those searching the main room for survivors. When no one was looking, she rotated her shoulder, snapping it back into socket with a soft pop. She stifled a growl. Yes, she had to maintain pretenses, but Heaven that hurt!

ßetamantis opened his eyes to white ceiling, low lights, and the smell of antiseptic. Groaning slightly, he tried to sit up, only to have a wave a pain wash over his entire body. A hand came from somewhere off to his side and pushed him back down. Turning his head, he saw a blurry humanoid shape. A few blinks of his nictitating membranes cleaned off the thin layer of protective mucus from his eyes. Whyte's concerned face came into focus. "Don't move, we still don't know how far you've healed."

"I...what..." He struggled, trying to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order.

Whyte must have guessed the intent of his statements. "When you failed to complete the connection, COTS operatives were dispatched immediately to see what was the problem. They found you unconscious in the parking lot, critically injured. We had informed them that you were in the area, along with limited data about your unique physiology. They were able to locate your supply of Ventolin and administer it quickly enough to keep you alive. The increased metabolism appears to have healed most of your injuries to the point of safety, but even at the current rate it will be several hours before you are fit to move about freely."

ßetamantis stared at ceiling, his mandibles clicking in frustration. In a handful of hours his double could be anywhere in the city or beyond. There was a high probability that he already was.

He sighed. Another chance to learn to reverse his change, gone.

Whyte coughed. "Though I hate to bring it up at a time like this, perhaps you could inform me as to what exactly happened to you?" ßetamantis nodded, then regretted it as a flash of pain seared through his head. He waited for it to die down. Finally, it did, and he spoke. "It was my duplicate, again. The one I met in the Shadowlands. I do not know how long he followed me, but just as I was to make my report he assaulted me. I attempted to stop him, but somehow he has acquired strength far in excess anything I ever achieved."

"And the prototype deflectors I gave you? They did nothing?"

He almost shook his head, but caught himself soon enough to prevent pain. "No, no energy weapons this time. He was armed with a...a level."

Whyte's right eyebrow arched. "A level? Odd choice, but I've seen odder."

"It...he had made some modifications to it. Spring-loaded ice picks on either end, perhaps more. But...there was something else."

"Yes?"

"At one point I was able to closely examine one of its ends. Crudely scratched into it was a name: 'Vankoughnett.'" Whyte waited, uncomprehending. ßetamantis hesitated, working against his emotions to get the next part out. "My...given name. From before my transformation. My father owns a level exactly like that; he was a carpenter for a time."

"So you believe he may have harmed your family? If so, I can have a local cell check to be certain."

"No, not...exactly. It is a bit more complicated than that, and I have only circumstantial evidence."

"Circumstantial evidence is sometimes the most correct. Please, proceed. You have my undivided attention."

He took a deep breath, stalling for time to order his thoughts. "I...believe we may have an invasion of sorts on our hands. Robo-Gerbil told me of a night months ago when Gunslinger told CWAL of an Earth covered in evil, where the Sin War had been fought and finally won at some point previously. He witnessed the destruction of the remnants of CWAL, and only a quirk of trans-dimensional sliding saved him from a similar fate. Shortly after his story, that Gunslinger disappeared, followed by a pair of CWALers apparently in pursuit.

"It is my belief that my double harks back to that alternate dimension."

Whyte cocked an eyebrow. "A big claim for such scant evidence. Have you any more than this story in the way of proof?"

"No. Only my double's behavior, which I cannot see myself ever acceding to, and the apparent duality of the Newbie Patroller Adrien's location. My fear is, if those two do come from an alternate dimension, so could others."

Whyte nodded. "I understand your concern, and I will take it into consideration." He stood and turned for the door. "But for now I think it's time I let you recuperate. You've got some hard travelling tomorrow."

ßetamantis tried to sit up, and then his screaming nerves told him flat-out no. He gently lowered himself back down, trying not to grimace. "Why? Surely you are not going to transfer me now?"

"Surely I am. Not only are you apparently in grave danger in Irvine, but you also have inroads into CWAL that we can make better use of elsewhere, at least for the time being."

"But Irvine is CWAL. Where else would you send me?"

Whyte smiled. "You, my insectoid friend, are going to be paying a little trip to Siberia."

The building sat in the middle of arctic tundra, the only structure flanking a downbeaten road for kilometers in either direction. It was not a large building, not by any means. It had but one story, capped by bright red roofing shingles. A small dirt parking lot lay beside it, empty save for one beat-up car (also painted bright red) with a golden sickle-and-hammer design on its front hood. Lastly, up on the roof was a large, plastic decoration: the world's only existing pair of Golden Sickles. Were one to drive by it, one would never guess that it represented the last bastion of Freedom for an entire nation.

Well, actually it represented two last bastions of Freedom for an entire nation, but one of them is rather silly and unimportant.

It will be left up to the reader to decide which is the silly and unimportant one.

If one were curious (or hungry) enough to investigate the roadside restaurant, the first thing one would see upon entering would be a nice, brightly-painted sign in Russian:

Right beside the sign was a life-sized plastic figurine of Pitr McBolshevik, the Enlightened Working-Class Proletariat Farmer, with his sickle in one hand and hammer in the other, and a suitably stoic expression on his face. Going around the sign, one would find a gnarled old man standing behind a counter, dressed in red coveralls with a sickle-and-hammer stitched over his heart. Above him hung a neatly-painted menu, advertising such delicacies as "Ground Capitalist on a Bun," "The People's Fried Potato Sticks," "StalinShakes" in four different flavors, and "Proletariat Chunks of Fried Foul" (plus the usual array of condiments, like mustard, mayonnaise, and "Congealed Blood of Capitalist Scum," known in most of the world as "ketchup").

All this constituted one of the two Last Bastions of Freedom for an Entire Nation.

The other was located in the men's restroom.

Or at least, it used to be a restroom. The current occupants had brought in large amount of equipment to help supply their needs, such as computers, battle maps, important-looking buttons and blinking lights, and one disgruntled artificial intelligence.

"And I'm telling you you're making a big mistake." said the AI, "watching" as Adrien, the leader of the recently-reactivated Chaotic Element/Unnamed Faction, rapidly moved troop deployments around on the screen. "I know what I'm doing," replied the young elf. The AI just gave an electronic sigh. Scavenged from the destroyed Flenser Zero, it was a nearly-identical copy to the program residing inside Blizzard Entertainment's Head Programmer. The most obvious difference between this one and its Irvine counterpart was the fact that it was not bent on destroying the CWALers, thanks to some heavy-duty algorithms implanted by Robo-Gerbil (the reprogramming also left the AI with an intense hatred for anything Pokèmon, but that could be ignored).

A few dribbles of sweat ran down Adrien's forehead. This was it. If he won this battle, the CE/UF would have made a critical thrust into enemy territory, setting the stage for deeper excursions in the future. If he lost, the back of their forces would be broken forever.

Suddenly the ground around his troops erupted with hundreds of creatures straight out of Hell. They clawed and slashed at the CE/UF's men, striking them down before they even had a chance to respond. Adrien was quick, though, and deployed the heavy-duty artillery even as the infantry began to fight back. He smiled thinly as the enemy disappeared into pools of blood, blown clean apart by the heavy weaponry. When the dust cleared, over three-quarters of his troops had been lost, but the enemy was vanquished.

"See?" said Adrien. "I told you I-"

Suddenly the computer beeped a warning, informing him that more attackers had been spotted. It took him only a moment to find the offenders: huge, bat-winged creatures soaring through the sky, pounding mercilessly on his troops below. The infantry died first, taking only one of the monstrous creatures with them. Then they turned on the artillery, and though Adrien tried to bring them back, none of them made it through the unrelenting assault. The enemy flew off victorious, and Adrien knew that even now they were massing for an attack on the heart of CE/UF operations.

"See? I told you the 1.04 AI wouldn't fall for that. I was in charge of it, after all."

"Oh be quiet."

"Look, far be it from me to question the people who took me from a perfectly nice and pleasant mainframe and stuck me in this old P200 piece of junk, but I really think that playing StarCraft is not going to help you win your little war."

"Sure it will! Already my tactical strategies have advanced tenfold."

"Yes, I noticed. Now it takes the computer twelve whole minutes to crush you without mercy. Wonderful improvement, there."

"If you had a body I'd hit you right now."

"Magnets and rocks may break my box, but words can never hurt me."

"Grrr..." Suddenly the computer beeped. "Our units are under attack!"

"What the..." Adrien hit the space bar, and his view instantly centered on CE/UF headquarters.

"Oh my, my, my..." said the AI, "Are those ultralisks? And, oh, defilers too. Look at that dark swarm go."

"Shut up." A few seconds later, all that remained of his base was a floating barracks and a command center. "Ha! At least they can't get those" As if to add insult to injury, at that exact moment dozens of scourge appeared on the screen. Two seconds later, the blue "You failed to achieve victory" box popped up. Adrien grimaced as he pressed the "continue" button.

"Oh, nice." said the AI as the battle statistics popped up. "Twelve minutes, thirty-six seconds. I think we may have a new record here."

"Hmph." Just then the door to CE/UF headquarters opened, and Dei'Nar'Ys walked in. The Nez'Chre-human hybrid closed the door behind her and walked up to Adrien, then glanced at the screen. "More 'tactical practice'?" she said in her native Nez'Chre. Thankfully, Adrien had been around her long enough to understand most of the language.

"No, but there is a half-eaten hamburger over there if you want that instead. It's a few days old and starting to turn green, but that doesn't mean much."

Of course, this is not to say that he got it right all the time. Dei' repeated herself, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. Adrien appeared to understand it this time, though he did not seem to realize that it was the same sentence as before. "Yeah. I figured that it would be better to practice with a computer-generated army before spending real troops."

"Adrien, we don't have any troops."

"Well, not yet. But any day now they're going to start flocking to us, eager to save Mother Russia from the blackness eating away at its heart."

"That's what you said last week."

"And I bet they're on their way right now."

Dei' thought of the huge, empty tundra outside the McBolshevik's, then decided to drop the point. She had long ago learned that when the elfling got his mind fixed on something, it was easier to divert a glacier than his mind (which moved just as fast, at times). She switched topics. "Any word from Robo-Gerbil back home?"

Adrien shook his head. "Not since a few days ago. I told him to keep me posted on things, but apparently that digital memory of his isn't all its cracked up to be."

"Maybe. Hmm..." the sound came out remarkably like a purr, and Adrien had just enough time to wonder what she was thinking before someone started pounding on their door. He got up and walked past Die' to answer it.

He was met by the scowling countenance of Ivan Ivanovich, manager and sole employee of the world's finest (and only) McBolshevik's restaurant. As soon as he saw Adrien, he let out a string of fast-paced Russian, which sounded to the elf like something halfway between speech and gargling. He stared blankly back, not quite sure what to say. "Er, hi, Comrade Ivanovich. I...er..." All the times previous, they had had Robo-Gerbil there to translate for him.

A string of Russian suddenly came from behind him. Turning, he saw Dei' walking up, an intent look on her face. Adrien just stood back and watched as the two conversed. Mr. Ivanovich was upset, no doubt about it. Anger was international, and right now his could probably have qualified for interstellar. Dei' spoke calmly and slowly, and eventually it seemed she brought him down to some semblance of being rational. They spoke for a few more seconds, then Ivanovich punctuated some remark with a downward chop of his hand, turned, and left.

Adrien looked at Dei'. "You speak fluent Russian, yet can't say a word of English to save your life?"

She shrugged, then spoke in Nez'Chre. "He says he wants the rent. I convinced him to let us put it off another week in return for extra pay then. Unfortunately, that puts us another few thousands rubles behind, and Mr. Ivanovich isn't too happy about us taking over a place designed for his customers."

"But how many fruit salads does he get in an average week?"

Dei' blinked, then sighed and said it all over again, slowly and clearly.

"But he doesn't have any customers."

"Try telling him that."

"I think I will." Adrien moved to go out the door, then paused. "Er, could you come translate please?"

She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Fron found Gaval on the roof, sitting morosely off to one side. A fine layer of ash covered the entire rooftop, making little gray puffs as he walked over to the Slayer. "Gav, I don't know what you're doing up here but we need you downstairs. Gunslinger's in critical condition, and Krath and Shriek..." He swallowed hard, unable to continue. DE had said what happened to the two draconians. His imagination painted an all-too-vivid picture. "No one else was very hurt, but-" he stopped cold. At that last sentence Gaval had turned to look at him, and the expression in his eyes sent ice down Fron's spine. Somehow the Slayer seemed to have aged years in the last hour.

"I told her to stay here, so she wouldn't get hurt. Now..." He drooped an arm out to encompass the roof. The far corner had been completely blown off and lay shattered on the street below. A patch in the middle seemed to be clear of the fine ash, but Fron was too concerned with Gaval to look closer. "What do you mean?"

"She was here, and when she needed me I wasn't!"

Suddenly it clicked. "Rachel?" Gaval nodded. "But we haven't found any..." suddenly the implications of that hit him. We haven't found any trace of her. He had a sickening, irrational feeling about where the fine, evenly-distributed ash might have come from. "Did she...maybe go back to her apartment?" Gaval shook his head and held out his hand. In it was a small silver crucifix, of the type one might find on a key ring. He had seen several exactly like it before, and knew it to be standard ASG-issue. "I gave this to her on our third outing, just in case the vampires tried to go for her. I found it there." He pointed. In front of where he sat was a small circle, five centimeters across and completely cleared of ash. Fron swallowed. "I...I'm sorry."

Gaval sighed and dropped his head. Fron wished he could leave the Slayer to his grief, but that would have to wait. "Gav, do you have any idea who did this? We've got some clues downstairs but..." The sentence needed no completing. Gaval's only response was to lift his left hand and point at the center of the roof, at that cleared spot Fron had seen earlier. Knowing that was probably the best he would get out of the Slayer, he walked over and looked at the patch.

It took him a moment to match the image to memory, and when he did he sucked in his breath. It was a five-pointed star circumscribed by a perfect circle. The cleared area was the space in-between the lines of the design, where for some reason no ash had accumulated. Looking closer, he thought he saw something else. Brushing away the thin streak of ash forming a line of the star, he saw that underneath the roof had been discolored with some sort of brown pigment. No, brown-red.

The color of dried blood.

He stood and walked slowly back to Gaval, who was in the exact position as when he left. "Gav, I wish I could leave you be, but we need you downstairs. Please."

For a moment he thought the Slayer would ignore him. Then Gaval sighed, and slowly picked himself up, wincing as he put weight on his wounded leg. He looked at Fron with a face that could have been chiseled from stone. "Let's go."

They walked into the main room, which had improved considerably since their return. Most of the debris had been moved outside, and CWALers were in the process of rebuilding the computer stations, the most important part of the HQ as far as they were concerned. Iolaus and Dragoneyes stood off to one side. Fron led Gaval to them.

"He was up on the roof. They...got Rachel."

"I'm sorry," said Iolaus. Dragoneyes laid a hand on the Slayer's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "It'll be all right. We think we know who did this."

"You do?" asked Fron. This was a new development. Iolaus nodded. "Look at this." He pointed to the wall, where a small yellow smudge covered part of it. Iolaus wiped up a bit with his finger, then held it out towards Fron. "Take a whiff." Fron did so, and felt his sinuses sting. "Mustard," he said. Iolaus nodded and wiped it back onto the wall.

"We've found a few splotches of this stuff around, but that's not all." He led them to another part of the room, where a clear liquid had splattered against the wall and ran down its side. "Take a taste, see if you get what I did." Fron cocked an eyebrow, then dabbed up a small bit of the liquid and touched it to his tongue. Instantly his lips puckered up. "Ugh. Sour."

"Lemon juice, highly concentrated. And Brighteye says she can feel residual rune magic. Who do we know that would carry lemons and mustard into battle, and have the ability to cast rune spells?"

"OEEP." Gaval's voice was like white-hot iron.

"That's what we're guessing. They did a pretty good job of hiding it, but not good enough."

"So when do we retaliate?"

"Whoah, not yet." Iolaus held up his hands at the Slayer. "We're not going to leave the HQ wide open again. Tomorrow at the earliest. I've already sent Arcturus and Legion007 to scout out their HQ, see what they can find. They should be back in a few hours."

Gaval nodded. "Get me when they come. I'll be in my room." He turned and walked up the stairs, like stone come to life. Fron made to follow, but Iolaus held him back. "Let him go. He'll have to deal with this himself."

Neither of them noticed the small smile at the corners of Dragoneyes' mouth.

Rachel woke to a pounding headache. She tried to bring her hand up, only to find her arms and wrists firmly tied down. Confused, she opened her eyes.

The light, dim as it was, nevertheless sent a shooting pain through her eye sockets. She had experienced only one bad hangover in her life, and this made that look like a walk in the park. Blinking and trying not to move her head suddenly, she was gradually able to look around.

She was in some sort of room. The wall was painted cinderblocks, while some sort of large metal dividers had been used to partition it off from the rest of...wherever she was. A narrow opening lead out, but she could see nothing but more wall beyond it. It took her groggy mind several seconds to recognize the partitions, and then her confusion only increased. Who would use a deep-fryer to make a wall? She actually came up with several answers, all of them friends of Gaval. But none of them would have tied her to a chair. The thin cords bound her wrists, arms, and legs to the wood, and try as she might she could not budge them an inch.

Unable to move, she decided to see what else was in here with her, in case it told her who her captives were. Unfortunately, there was not much. The only real things of interest were the maps taped to the cinder-block wall. One she recognized as a road map of Irvine. Several thumbtacks had been pushed into it, and one area had a red circle drawn around it. The circle had been scratched out, though, for some reason. She was too far from it to read the names of the streets, so she had no idea where it was supposed to be.

Another map showed much of Asia, of all places. Many red thumbtacks had been pushed into it, with a large cluster up in northeast Russia, somewhere in Siberia. The last map looked like an elementary-school projection of the world, with each continent colored a different color. Someone had taken a marker to it, too, and extended some of the divisions. North America's green now extended through all of Central America and the top part of South America. A few intrusions of Europe and Asia's colors covered the top of Africa, though Australia and Antarctica appeared unchanged.

If only she had the slightest clue what it meant, she might have been able to figure out some sort of meaning attached to it. With nothing else to do, she tried to relax and hold her head in such a way as to minimize her headache.

She stayed like that for a few minutes, and then someone walked through the "door."

He was a young man, somewhere in his twenties. He had jet-black hair set off by blue-gray eyes, strong facial features, and Rachel would have been crazy to say he was not handsome. He was also holding her captive, which killed any benefit that might have gained him.

"Ah, so you're awake now," he said cheerfully. His voice perfectly matched his face, charming and alluring. Yet there was something in it, a half-heard undercurrent that sounded black and viscous. "I hope you're enjoying your stay?" His smirk made her want to break that perfect Roman nose right in half.

"I don't know who you are, but you won't get away with this!"

The man chuckled. "On the contrary, I already have. You, my pretty, are going to be a wonderful gift for my Father." She could hear the capital in his voice, and she repressed a shiver. But it gave her an opening. "And who is that?"

"Oh, no, you're not going to learn everything right away. Let's just say that dear old Dad has a use for people like you." His smirk turned into a leer, and she had no doubt what that use was. Her blood dropped a few degrees. "What do you want with me?"

"Didn't I just tell you? You're a gift, nothing more. Of course," he said, stepping up to her and running a finger under her chin, "Father would not be horribly upset if I tested his gift first, just to make sure it worked." She whipped her head and tried to bite his finger, but he was too fast and jerked it away. "Oh, a feisty one, eh? This will be so much more enjoyable, then." He knelt down on one knee, careful to keep out of range of her teeth. There was a look in his eyes that sent ice water down her spine.

"Are you sure you feel that way?" His voice had changed; it sounded like liquid music, oil wrapping in and around and through her. She felt dizzy, floating on air. "What...?" was all she managed to get out.

"You would not be disappointed, I assure you." The silk-smooth voice bound her up stronger than steel, and she felt her breath coming faster. Hot blood pounded through her veins, sending tingles down her nerves. "I would not be ungentle." His finger reached up and stroked her chin, sending lightning down her spine.

What are you doing to me?! yelled a small part of her mind. Another shuddered guiltily at the electric sensations going through her. He leaned close, towards her lips, and she was shocked to find herself leaning forward to meet him. She closed her eyes as his finger traced across her chin and down her neck, heading for her chest...

"Crogoth!" Rachel felt something shatter, and she plunged back into icy reality. The shock of it disoriented her for a moment, then came the realization of what the man had tried to do. Before she could think she whipped her head forward, catching him across the temple with a blow that made pain explode across her head. He fell back, sprawling on the ground. He brought a finger to his head to check for blood. Finding none, he slowly stood up. "You will regret that. I promise." His voice was back to normal now. He turned to face the newcomer. "And you too." Rachel looked up through the pain-haze and gasped. A small surge of hope and joy lanced through her, only to be killed instants later by the look Gaval gave her. There was no affection in his eyes, no kindness. Merely cold consideration, like he was looking at some specimen.

"You never let me have my fun," said the man, Crogoth. "At the least, you could have let me complete the spell."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged, if you want."

"Just try it. Pez wants you in the main area for some reason. Go. Now."

"As you wish," he said with a sneer. He pushed past Gaval to leave, then turned and blew a kiss at Rachel, smiling a snakelike smile. "Until next time, my fair lady." She shuddered in revulsion. She still had no idea what had happened a minute ago, but she would die before she let him do it again.

Gaval walked to the maps and started glancing them over. He pulled a white thumbtack out of the map of Irvine and replaced it with a purple one. Rachel just stared at him. "What are you-"

"None of your business." The callous tone shocked her more than seeing him had. Surely this was some sort of bad dream, an illusion created by randomly-firing synapses or indigestion. But the pain in her skull told her that it was far too real. She tried again. "What are you doing?"

He seemed to sigh. "We're plotting the destruction of the world, thank you very much. Now be quiet or I'll get Magni in here with the duct tape." She sat in silence. What had happened to Gaval? She had seen no hint of any of this. It was almost as if he were an entirely different person.

Finally, she could stand the silence no longer. "What about CWAL?"

He turned and stalked at her, one hand raised to backhand her across the cheek. "I told you to shut up!" She stared up at him, unblinking. Whatever had happened, she was not going to give him the pleasure of seeing her cringe. He held his hand up for several seconds, then let it drop, apparently satisfied with her response. "CWAL is dead, or soon will be. I intend to personally make sure of that." He went back to the maps and pulled out a small notebook, jotting down notes while occasionally glancing up at the colored tacks.

She hesitated, but she had gone this far. Might as well go the whole way. "Why? I thought you loved it."

His muscles tensed, then relaxed. "Love ain't what it's cracked up to be, sweetheart. Trust me."

"But-" she did not even see the slap coming. He moved faster than she had ever seen him, and the next thing she knew her head had whipped back, the flashing pain in her cheek adding to the already present throb. He glared down at her. "No more questions." Rachel stared back up, an involuntary tear leaking out of the corner of her eye. The expression on her face left no room for the thought that it was for sadness. Her eyes could have bored through steel.

He seemed not to care, and turned away. He had taken one step towards the maps again, when suddenly his hand flew to his chest and he doubled over. His face contorted in pain, jaws clenched tight enough she could hear the teeth grind. A small cry of pain escaped him, but it was almost too quiet to hear. Then after a few seconds he relaxed, his breath coming in gasps. When he opened his eyes, they were tinged with an already-fading luminescent red. He glared at her, his expression telling her to keep quiet more than words ever could, then stood and turned back to his work, the only sign anything had happened being a slight shakiness as he walked.

Rachel stared at his back, thoughts pouring through her head. His eyes had definitely been a bright, crimson red for a moment there. But hadn't his eyes always glowed blue?

Something was going on here, and prisoner or not, she was going to find out.

She remembered Crogoth, and she gulped. She hoped she had enough time.

Leach stood above him, looking down like some sort of god about to bestow judgement. Nighteye slowly inched backward, attempting to buy just a few more seconds before his foe plunged his pilfered lightsaber down. Every movement sent tiny spikes of pain through his muscles, every second bought was a second of pain. Leach just stared down at him, the red blade of his weapon humming at his side. Why did he wait?

Suddenly he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. There, just a few meters away, was the Darksaber. All other thoughts fled his mind. If only he had a few more seconds...

Leach stepped forward, apparently tired of letting his prey cringe. "Remember this one," he said, his voice like stone, "it's the last you'll see. Sheathing the Sword." He raised his lightsaber up, angling it to stab right into Nighteye's heart.

No more time. Nighteye flung a hand out and Force-pulled the Darksaber to it. Reflex took over, and in less than an eyeblink the black blade had sprung from its tip. He swung the saber up and forward, jabbing it into Leach's chest. He gasped, and his lightsaber clattered to the ground. It flickered twice, then went dark.

Nighteye stood, facing his enemy eye to eye, then plunged the Darksaber in deeper. Leach dropped to his knees, his hands close to but not touching the singularity-black blade. From where it pierced, a gaping hole ate its way outward. The blade drank deep of Leach's energy, sucking him dry. Nighteye watched it coldly while muttering a healing spell under his breath. His wounds began to close over.

Leach stared down at his chest, watching in apparent fascination as the black cancer ate its way through him. And then he looked up. Madness glittered in his eyes, a madness that sent cold lancing through Nighteye's spine. Leach smiled as the blackness ate its way up his neck.

"I win."

And then he was gone.

Nighteye's eyes shot open, glowing a faint red in the tent's interior. He had been meditating, attempting to focus and channel his thoughts for the coming battle. Yet somehow a memory had slipped its way into his consciousness, become almost a dream.

He shook it off. That was enough meditation for now. He would do more later, after the battle.

He stood and stretched his muscles, working his viscous black blood into them. In less than an hour, his army would go forth to attack one of Belial's strongholds in the mountains outside of La Esmerelda. So far the Lord of Lies had proved to be a most disappointing opponent. They had lost but one battle to his forces, and that was due to incompetence on the part of the local commander. He was lucky to have died in it; Lord Diablo's executions were much slower and more painful than any battlefield death.

Walking over to his bone-and-ebony trunk, he picked up the Darksaber from atop it and clipped it to his belt. Its weight in his hand brought the odd memory back, but he shook it off again. Dreams had no relevance, not when the world was ruled by Evil. Ironically enough, Leach had ensured that. As far as Nighteye had been able to ascertain, he had been the last of the force of Good on the planet, aside from the inanimate stones embedded with human psyche. Dying was a very unconventional way to win, especially when the only ones who would make a martyr of him had died themselves months previous. He discounted it to whatever madness had taken the CWALer through the years.

Checking to make sure everything was in order, he swept back the sewed-skin flap of his command tent and walked out. His forces stood arrayed across the entire rolling plain, engaging in whatever activities they chose in order to pass the time between battles. Torturing prisoners of war was a favorite pastime, and essentially the only reason prisoners were taken at all, since none of the Evils cared to make exchanges.

Something tickled his mind. Turning, he searched the skies. At first he saw nothing, then he picked out a slight ripple among the gray-green clouds. It came closer, circled for a moment, then descended and lighted upon the ground in front of him.

It was a cloudbeast, a gray-green winged reptile whose scales shifted to match the clouds above. Looking vaguely like ancient pterosaurs, They made perfect scouts, and their grapefruit-sized eyes rarely missed anything. Nighteye opened his mind, and images of the battlefield floated into his vision. Troop deployments, terrain, state of readiness...everything a commander could want. When the cloudbeast had finished its psychic dump, Nighteye nodded at it, its signal to take off and circle over the army. If it saw anything important, it would swoop down and relay the information immediately. If something important happened and failed to report, it would die. Simple and effective.

Nighteye ran over the reconnaissance in his mind. The enemy undoubtedly knew they were near (they would be blind not to), but right now they seemed lax. Though he could easily find worse times, he could hardly get better. He absent-mindedly fingered the Bloodstone medallion around his neck. Given to him by Diablo Himself, it consisted of a small red gem set in a golden pentagram. The raw power it contained was incredible, and had boosted Nighteye's power to levels he had hardly dreamt of before. With it in his possession, it would take an Evil Himself to stop him.

Not that he would take unnecessary risks. That was what the army was for.

And now it was time for them to do it.

Focusing inward, he drew a small fraction of the Bloodstone's power and sent out a psionic pulse, specially aligned so that only his troops would detect it. It consisted of a single word: ready.

Instantly the mood on the plain changed. Creatures of all shapes and sizes suddenly drew themselves up, readying for the attack. No such things as battalions or divisions existed in the ranks of the Burning Hells; none could be maintained if they had. The army knew of few things, but foremost was a simple directive: kill what you're told to. It had worked well enough for several thousand years, and could not have been changed if they wanted.

Which they did not. Swarming hordes might lack finesse, but they made up for it in brute force. Nighteye drew the Darksaber and ignited the black blade. The power of the Bloodstone surged through him, and he released another simple command as he pointed towards the enemy fortifications:

Charge!

Ages ago, so long that no angel, human, or demon remembered, the Burning Hells broke into existence. Forged in human hearts and tempered with human fear, they represented all that the race of Man had to dread. Eyes in the darkness; things that went bump in the night; hungry predators at the edge of firelight; snakes, spiders, and crocodiles; all the fear and terrors of Mankind gave birth to a great, labyrinthine expanse, populated by the denizens of nightmares.

This was the seed. As Man became more sophisticated, other vices entered the brew: hatred, destruction, lies, sin...one by one they lumped together, congealing into the great, nightmarish landscape of the Burning Hells.

No one knows if they found the High Heavens before declaring eternal war on them, or if they simply always fought each other, like two poles of a magnet. No matter the reason, for all of human history the two remained immortal enemies, fighting often on the plane of mortal lives but occasionally in direct combat as well.

Then came the turning point. For reasons never well understood, a small span of time existed wherein the Sin War could tip to one side or the other, forever. During this time, two Heroes would arise, one for Darkness, the other for Light. Whichever of the two came out victorious, that side would be the fated victor of the eternal war.

The time came, and the heroes arose. In a fit of irony, they came from the same soul. Nighteye, Hero of Darkness, cast off his better half to embrace the Burning Hells and a demonic tutor. Brighteye, Heroine of Light, was formed by the merge of that cast-off fragment and a slain angel. Two of the same soul, fighting on opposite sides.

In one universe, off by a few years relative to most, the battle came and went, and Evil emerged victorious. As if sounding the gong, the Burning Hells leapt forth from their shadows, and consumed the world.

The fear and terror, pain, hatred, and lies of the Hells spread across the land, wiping humanity away as it went. For without humanity, without a source of that which is Good, the High Heavens could never rise again. Evil was victorious, and would be, forever.

Fear covered the land, the fear of thousands of years of history, an almost tangible force that devoured the planet. And thus did Fear rule the world of Inferno.

And yet, with only Fear to feed it, the question inevitably comes: what is Fear afraid of?

The battle was in full force. Black and red and green monsters swarmed up the slopes of the foothills. More of the same came down from above, defending their posts with the suicidal frenzy only a demon could muster. Nighteye spotted a cluster of Belial's hawkfiends swooping down to tear apart his ground troops with razor-sharp talons. He pointed at them, then shot a fireball with all the power of the Bloodstone behind it. The spell glowed white, not red, and when it detonated it lit up the entire battlefield like a nova. He turned away when it did, to protect his black skin, and when he turned back there was no trace of the hawkfiends, not even a charred corpse.

Already he could tell that the battle was going in their favor. Belial's fortifications were thin and poorly-made, easy targets for Nighteye's superior numbers. He could lose six fiends for every one of the enemy's and still come out victorious. Every battle had gone like this. Unless Belial had a major change in tactics, he would be defeated before year's end.

Remember Lord Diablo's warning, came the voice in his head, it would be just like the Lord of Lies to ease you into security, then destroy you utterly

Well noted, Ch'kar, he responded. Now let me concentrate on the battle or we'll both end up dead.

He cast another fireball at a group of goatmen storming down the hillside. When the flash subsided and he turned back, he was pleased to see a new, large crater in the ground, its edges rimmed in black. "Almost too easy," he said to himself. Little alarm bells suddenly went off in the back of his head. He had learned in CWAL all those years ago that anytime it seemed too easy, it was. They always had something planned as a surprise. Ch'kar's warning came back to him, and he suddenly took it a lot more seriously. He sent a call to the nearest cloudbeast, and a handful of seconds later it landed beside him. Nighteye received the images from its mind and went over them carefully, searching for something, anything that might be able to go wrong. Yet nothing seemed amiss. His troops still swarmed over the enemy's battlements, tearing apart the opposing fiends to satiate their bloodlust.

His subconscious pushed at him, telling him something was still not right. It took him almost fifteen more seconds to find it.

Clever, Belial. Very clever. Surrounding the enemy's fortifications was an arc of small foothills, nothing more that obstacles to a marching army. But they were spaced disturbingly regularly, and his troops were right in the middle of them.

At that exact moment another cloudbeast swooped down beside him, its scales flashing across their entire gray-green range in less than a second. Nighteye immediately opened his mind to it; only something urgent could get a cloudbeast that ruffled.

He was right. Each of those hills, and a dozen more he had failed to notice, now had smoke rising from large holes in their sides Out of each of them thousands and tens of thousands of hellspawn swarmed out onto the plain. Already the rear fiends had moved to form a pincher behind Nighteye's forces. In less than a minute they would be completely cut off from retreat.

Well, that just made the game so much more challenging.

He had just aimed towards the closest area of the onrushing horde when a giant something erupted in front of the approaching army. It looked like a black cyclone, made of a million dark specks and rising straight up into the sky. Thinking it another of Belial's tricks, he completed the spell and fired off the white-hot ball. It streaked forward as Nighteye incanted a healing spell, knowing that he could not afford to turn his back to this one. A second's delay could cost him his life. The spell took hold just as the fireball hit the side of the swirling black. It exploded, and Nighteye felt a brief jolt of pain from his exposed skin. But it was far less than he expected. Looking at the impact, he saw the fireball being stretched out by the tornado, wrapped about its base and then slowly dissipating. Absorbed, almost. Nighteye chanced a glance upward, and saw its tip towering hundreds of meters above the ground.

And then it twisted. Like a thing alive, the whirling top bent and slammed down, striking the ground like an adder. No rock flew, but Nighteye could hear the psionic screams of the fiends it hit, torn apart in waves of something they did not understand. And the screams were coming from everywhere.

He looked all around the battlefield. Everywhere he turned he saw more of the monstrous cyclones, dipping into and out of the ground like snakes. Any semblance of order forgotten, the fiends on the field merely tried to run for their lives. Most never made it. Almost intelligent in their moves, the things struck at Belial's and Diablo's troops alike. There must have been at least a dozen of them, each of them over two hundred meters long and with gaping, swirling maws ten meters across. Where they passed, the ground glistened and glowed in eerie patterns.

The screams echoed in his mind. No matter what he did now, this would come out as a defeat. He had no idea what Belial was up to, but with his army scattered he could not hope to defend this area even with every last opposing minions dead.

A swirling black maelstrom rose in front of him, and he was looking right down its maw. Taking no time for thought, Nighteye released two fireballs in rapid succession. They hit one after the other, sucked into the black mists and doing no damage that he could see. They swirled down its length, disappearing as they went. Beginning to panic, he called up the most powerful spell he could think of. The Bloodstone glowed bright crimson as he channeled every gram of power he could get from it, then let it loose in a writhing hail of black energy. Any other time, Nighteye would have been appalled at the lack of control he had given it, but right now he did not care. The negative storm swept forward, erasing the light from the air until it hit the living cyclone.

The deathshatter spell, which could destroy hundreds of fiends if channeled properly, hit the whirling black mist, and vanished.

No, not vanished. He could see splotches of darker darkness working their way down the creature, but they disappeared within a matter of seconds.

The thing plunged forward. Instinct took hold, and he Force-moved to the side, missing its edges by mere centimeters. His one arm felt like it was boiling and freezing simultaneously. The pain was enough to make him see stars, and he knew he would not be able to focus properly for the next time. He waited for the killing blow...but it never came.

As the fog of agony cleared, he gradually made out the battlefield. Not one of the strange creatures remained in sight. As suddenly as they had appeared, they had disappeared. A quick healing incantation started repairing his arm, letting him stand and focus on other things.

The area where he had stood earlier was now a criss-crossing spiderweb of magma puddles and sheets of ice. Looking around the battlefield, he saw the creature's tracks, laid out in that same glowing red and glittering silver pattern all across the hills. He counted perhaps a hundred fiends still standing; of the others he saw no trace.

That left him alone, without any real forces to speak of, on the border of enemy territory. Staying here was suicide; he would have to make a trip back to Darksbane to inform Lord Diablo of the defeat, which might also be suicide.

But first, he had to figure out what in the Hells had just happened.

Leach sat on the countertop, watching. The CWALers had been assigned to three-shift rotations, alternating among repair, defense, and rest. Each lasted a few hours before going on to the next. Right now, it was his rest shift, and though he technically did not need any he still wanted to take a break. Something was wrong, and he had no idea what it was.

For the past week or so, he had felt or saw things, like strange flashes in the corner of his vision. Yet he could never pin then down. At first he thought they were just the stray bits of magic he occasionally detected from Crystal or Laeryn's spells, but after a while he had thrown that idea away. They had the wrong texture.

He had tried explaining to other CWALers what exactly he sensed when observing the local electromagnetic fields. Words failed, since humans and pretty much every other species in CWAL except him had not been designed to pay very close attention to them. So he did his best, kludging together words from other senses in an attempt to sound right. There was the white-hot, peppermint flavor of magic, for example (even though he had never tasted peppermint, he had a sensation associated with the word. He could only assume it came from deep within his programming). Normal electricity was a smooth white-yellow, while bio-electric fields had a greenish-blue cast and felt like bitter sponges. His own body was simply a hole, an area where no fields existed, at least not that he could sense.

Among all the local fields, something was amiss; something felt out of place. He just had no idea what. It was as his everyone's perceptions of purple and yellow had suddenly switched, and he was only left with a vague feeling that that color was not really purple. So he gazed intently at the CWALers moving about, rebuilding their headquarters like they had so many times before. A flash of transparent energy whizzed in front of Laeryn as he levitated a particularly heavy piece of debris out of the way. Bland, vanilla current flowed through some parts of the walls, conspicuously absent from others. Earth's background magnetic field, a dull orange like rose petals, permeated the room and provided constant overtones to an otherwise cacophonous display of EM field potentials. So many things, all bunched together, all looking normal. And yet he was certain that something was indefinably wrong about it.

At that point, Dragoneyes walked in front of him, temporarily obscuring his view of the room beyond.

It took him three seconds to realize this.

His head whipped around, following the retreating draconian as she headed towards the stairway. He could see her, but he could not see her. The fields passed right through her, the only change being the slight bend caused by her tissues. But she generated none of her own. Not one. No neuron activity, no nerve impulses, not a single spongy spark of blue-green bio-electric energy lit her frame.

As he stared after her, he became aware of something else, something that did wrap her body. It felt slick and oily, and tasted of decaying fish. Yet he had to strain hard to even make it out, and before he could do any serious observing she turned the corner and climbed the stairs, disappearing from sight.

He continued to stare at the point he had last seen her, completely confused. He had never seen anything like it before. Anything living generated a field. Robots and machines sparked with electrical current. Even undead like Fuji or a tapefiend had a twisted sort of black webbing throughout their bodies.

And he had just seen Dragoneyes, who had nothing at all.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by Z, who walked by with several two-by-fours over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you've been smitten by the lust bug," he said.

He turned to the Xel'Naga and shook his head. "No, not that. Something else, though."

"Like what?"

"I wish I knew."

Fron walked over the last bit of clearing to the London Spaceport. Looking over the monumental spread of concrete and metal, he could not help but feel a tinge of awe and envy at his double. Wherever their timelines had diverged, this Fron had apparently done quite well with his starships. He even saw a Trudeau-class ship, halfway completed in dry-dock. Looking closer, he saw that it did not quite match his memories of the old Canuck's design, but it was close enough. Perhaps he would even be able to see the old bird in there somewhere. He smiled; just think of what he could do with that.

He heard a car coming down the road. Looking back, he saw it was a Canadian military jeep, with a single occupant driving it. That was just what he needed. He flagged it down, and it was obvious by the expression on the man's face that he was not used to picking up the Emperor on the way to work "Uh...er...may I help you? Sir?"

"Yes..." he read the rank insignia on the man's shirt, "Lieutenant. I decided to take a walk to the spaceport, then halfway here realized it was a bit longer than I thought. Mind if I catch a lift?"

"Er, sure." The man's puzzled expression said he thought he was being lied to, but that there was probably good reason behind it. "I, er, that is, fine by me."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, Emper-" He never finished the word, as Fron reached up and snapped his neck with a simple twist of the wrist. He hid the body in some underbrush by the side of the road. Climbing into the jeep, he made sure to buckle his seat belt, then put on a pair of sunglasses he found in the glove compartment, shifted the car into gear, and pressed on the gas.

After madly braking and bringing the jeep to a stop, he shifted the stick into forward and tried again, this time heading off in the right direction.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up to the security gate, the jeep battered, dented, and smoking from three separate locations. Reanimation could only do so many things for driving skills. To his left was a small stand with a speaker and a black plate. Large steel gates blocked his way in. The speaker crackled to life, and a cheerful, synthetic voice came out.

"Welcome to London Spaceport. Please place your hand on the imaging plate." Fron did so, and a thin red line trailed its way from top to bottom. His palm tingled slightly as it passed.

Thank you. One moment please. A few seconds passed. Error reading signature. Please place your hand on the imaging plate." Fron replaced his palm, a little tingle of worry starting to form. If somehow his print did not match his counterpart's...

"Access granted, Emperor Auriga. Have a pleasant visit." The knot in his stomach eased as the gates slid open. One obstacle down, a few dozen to go. He stepped on the gas, and, after nearly hitting the retracting gate, finally managed to head for the heart of the Dominion space force.

Commander Susan Issacson was a moderately-high officer in the Dominion Space Corps, and she had been the lucky one assigned to escort the Emperor on a person tour of the spaceport for his surprise inspection. That is, if you defined "lucky" as trying to leave a good impression with a man who could fire you with a word and seemed to know almost nothing about the way his own facility worked. She assumed it was some kind of test, and just told herself that she had better be getting a raise after this. Already the day was hot and muggy, making her uniform stick to her sweating skin. She would have much preferred staying in an air-conditioned office over this. But duty called...

"And there's the Borealis. Acting-Captain 11001001 took her on a shakedown cruise last night, per your standing orders regarding anti-Canadian slander. The engineers detected a few structural anomalies, and are now fast at work fixing them as we speak." She pointed to the handful of tiny figures running over the ship's aft end. The Borealis was all but complete, and soon Canada would have another of the most advanced ships on the planet in its fleets.

She pressed the gas petal on the small golf cart and drove towards the next berth, half a kilometer away. This one was surrounded by the large, inter-connectable walls of late-construction dry-dock. When the ship was finished, the entire assembly would be disassembled and moved on giant caterpillar treads to the next site, thus providing a reusable, mobile enclosure.

"I think you'll be pleased with this next one, Emperor. Logistics has doubled its allocations to get her back in working order ASAP. We figure another two or three weeks, and she should be ready to be tested."

"Sounds good," he replied. She risked a sideways glance at him, and saw only a grim face and lips set in a line. His eyes were hidden behind reflective, wraparound sunglasses. She would have to do something to impress him or risk her job. He might report she did well just out of courtesy. Then again, he might not.

She angled the golf cart towards the massive doorway on the near side of the enclosure. A quick flash of her ID and the guard waved them on through. They passed into the relatively dark interior, and were hit by the smell of metal and the sounds of construction. The giant ship nestled among the docking struts dwarfed any of the machinery around it. It was nearly complete, with only a section of the rear covered in scaffolding. As her eyes adjusted, she spotted a huge sheet of duranium being lifted by a crane to fit onto the warp nacelle.

"There you are, sir. The Canuck."

"What?"

Thinking he had not heard her, she turned to him and said louder and clearer. "The Canuck, sir." His expression was blank for a moment as he looked at her, then he seemed to come to himself. "Oh, of course, the Canuck. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you right." He turned and looked the ship over, a low whistle coming from his lips. "Impressive. Most impressive. And how long until it's complete?"

"Two to three weeks, the engineers estimate. Then of course there's the shakedown cruises, and all the extras."

"Ah. And what about the other one? The...Borealis?" It almost sounded as if he had trouble remembering the name. She ignored it. "She's technically ready to go anytime, sir. Though the engineers'll have a fit if they don't get to check every nut and bolt beforehand."

"I see. Well, I believe that's enough for today. Thank you for the tour, Commander. Please drop me off back at Ops."

"Yes sir." She flipped a U-turn and drove out of the Canuck's bay. Yes, the tour was not even half-complete, but let someone else, someone with a more secure job, tell him that.

On the drive back to Main Operations, she stole a sideways glance at the Emperor. He was smiling slightly, and she let herself relax. Maybe she had not done such a bad job after all.

Fron, Iolaus, Gaval, Dragoneyes, and Brighteye sat in a circle in Iolaus' room. It had escaped the attack remarkably unscathed, and also managed to be several floors away from most of the noises of construction. The CWALers had worked the whole night through, staying conscious on a diet of caffeine and sugar that would have made the American Medical Association blanch. Brighteye looked much improved over the night before, having been one of the few CWALers to get any sleep. She still looked weary despite that, as if another day's worth of rest would not be unwelcome. Gaval looked the worst of them all, with an expression carved of granite and eyes that seemed always on the verge of slipping into nothingness.

Iolaus leaned forward in his chair. "Okay, so anyone have any ideas?" Fron raised a hand. "I say we carpet-bomb OEEP into subatomic particles. A few quantum torpedoes would do that nicely."

Iolaus shook his head. "Even assuming you could aim them exact enough for the primary blast not to kill us, they're still only a few blocks away. The shockwave would blast the HQ apart like so many matchsticks."

"Oh yeah..."

For a few seconds they were all silent, the only movement being Gaval's compulsive fingering of a small silver cross. Then he spoke up. "I don't care how, but I want to personally take care of whoever killed Rachel."

"We don't know she's dead, Gav. After all, we haven't found a body."

Dragoneyes coughed. "And we haven't seen any remains of Krath or Shriek either." Several of the others involuntarily grimaced. Dragoneyes' description of their deaths had left little to the imagination.

"Actually...there may be a way." It was the first time Brighteye had spoken.

"Do tell," said Iolaus. She hesitated for a moment, then went on. "I...might be able to see what happened to her. It's very difficult, though, and I might not get anything at all."

Gaval's eyes riveted on her. "How?"

She looked down at her lap, as if she did not wish to go on. "We need to be on the roof, and I'll need something personal of hers."

"Will this work?" He held out his hand. In its palm was a silver cross. She took it, twisting it around in her hand. "I think so."

"Then let's go." Gaval was out of the room before the others could even rise from their chairs. Iolaus just looked at the others and shrugged, then motioned for them to follow.

Once on the roof, Brighteye had Gaval show her where he had found the cross. She placed it down.

"Now, Gaval, try to position it exactly like you found it, the closer the better." He looked at it for a moment, then turned it a few degrees and slid it a few centimeters to the left.

"I think that's how it was."

She nodded. "All right then, let's give this a try. Everyone stand back please. I'm not quite sure what will happen." She paused and cocked her head, as if listening to someone, then started tracing a pattern of lines in the air. Her fingers left glowing white trails, and after a minute she had formed an intricate, interlocking web of lines. Though none of the others could read them, they still exuded a sense of power. Taking a deep breath, Brighteye made one last line, then gave it a flick.

The design floated down and draped itself over the silver cross like an ephemeral handkerchief. It glowed brighter white for a moment, then seemed to be sucked inside the crucifix, leaving it with a slight whitish glow.

Suddenly the glow expanded outward, the crucifix lifting into the air as it did so. The translucent white mist took on a form, and in a few seconds a ghostly apparition kneeled at the roof's edge, the cross in its palm. Though the edges were ill-defined and specific features nonexistent, it was still obviously a human female. The CWALers watched with baited breath as its ghostly hand fingered the cross. Then it turned its faceless head to the side. It stayed like that for a few more seconds, then the head jerked forward, as if hit from behind. The cross fell to the ground, almost exactly where Gaval had placed it. The figure started to blur into something that only vaguely resembled a human.

"Okay," Brighteye said. "As more time passes between her last contact with it, the image will get fuzzier. We've got perhaps two minutes at most." As they watched, the mist suddenly rose up in the air and floated to the center of the roof, where it settled back down. It was now nothing more than an elongated fog bank, but still they watched. For over a minute it remained that way, getting more ephemeral each second.

"Is that it, then? She died there?" asked Dragoneyes.

"No, the image still exists. We'd know if she had died yet." They waited longer, and just as it looked as if the image would dissolve without yielding any further clues, it rose into the air, a shapeless white blob, and started heading away from the HQ. It vanished somewhere over the street.

Brighteye leaned against the roof ledge, suddenly short of breath. She wiped a few beads of sweat from her forehead. "That was harder...than I thought."

"But we do know one thing, at least," said Iolaus. "They didn't kill her, at least not right away."

Gaval's eyes filled with new light. "So it's possible they just took her captive?" Brighteye nodded, and he drew out a stake from his bandoleer. "EVAAL!"

Fron laid a hand on the Slayer's arm. "Hold it, there. Before you go on a mad staking spree, let's make a battle plan, okay?"

Gaval looked about to protest, but then nodded. He seemed to deflate. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But a quick one. Every minute more they have her..." he trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

But what about Nighteye?" asked Dragoneyes. "You've said he doesn't spend most of his time at OEEP HQ. If he was the one that ordered her kidnapped, wouldn't he be holding her in the Shadowlands right now?"

Brighteye pushed off the ledge. "I'll check that up. I'd meant to pay a visit to the CE/UF after the Black Mecha was defeated, to see if they might have learned a way to combat the Shadowlands. Things got a little busy, though."

"The CE what?" asked Iolaus.

"Er, a group of newbies over in Russia."

"Oh. You sure you're up to it?"

"Once I get a little more rest, yes. I'll take Robo-Gerbil back with me, and we'll see if anything is up. If I find anything, anything at all, I'll tell you, okay Gaval?"

The Slayer nodded.

With nothing more to do, they left the roof. Dragoneyes was the last to go, and she smiled as she watched the others descending the stairwell. "Yes, split your forces," she said to herself. "After all, we can't have you actually win, now can we?" With a soft chuckle she started down after them.

Ehud Sharon left his home in Old Jerusalem and made his pilgrimage. Six days a week he followed the same path, resting only on the Sabbath, as Moses the lawgiver had proscribed. His steps were heavy and slow with age; every day it seemed harder to make the journey. And yet every day he went, faithfully, and he would continue to do so until Israel regained its station as a mighty nation, and the Lord's chosen people once more came forth in glory.

He passed by the Arab houses, as he always did. And as always, he heard the occasional jeer from behind the windows and doorways. He ignored them. They were the children of a forsaken birthright, and the time would come when the children of Israel would have claim on all that Ishmael had lost. He had kept to the faith for all his life; he would keep it until the end.

The road blurred into background, as it did so often these days, to be replaced by memory of years gone by. Of his years as a child, in Poland. He had learned the commandments as his father's knee, and read the Torah and the Talmud as soon as he was able. He had grown to be a young man there, anxiously awaiting the time when the children of the covenant would be gathered home to Israel. Surely the days were nearly upon them when that great nation would rise again. The Lord had seen fit to try his people through the centuries, scattering them through the Gentile nations to test and refine their faith. And they had proved worthy, had they not? For through all the countless years the division between Jew and Gentile remained firm, unbending. The Lord's people had stayed true to Him. Surely it was time for Him to bring His people to their birthright.

Yet it was not to be. The Lord in his infinite wisdom saw fit to try His people once again, to forge their faith in fires hotter than all that had burned before. He remembered the days the men came for them, all dressed out in military uniforms. He could still see the red bands, both hated and feared, wrapped around their arms to display a broken cross. He remembered the trip on the train, the air stale and stifling hot even in winter's cold. He remembered the officer, could still see his face, who had directed him down one line, while his parents and younger sister went down another, "to the showers," they said.

The showers with no water.

Something warm slipped down his cheek, and he suddenly realized he was weeping. Brushing the tear away, he forced his thoughts forward, to the time nearly ten years later. He had known many that lost their faith in the fires of tribulation, who shook their fist and cursed God, wishing to die. And many of them had. He had seen others who turned to Him in full, whose faith became as sharp as a two-edged sword in the camps. He liked to think himself one of the latter, and yet had there not been times when he had wished to die, to have it at an end?

Then came the day when the joyous news was announced: Israel, the nation of God's chosen people, was once again upon the earth. He had wept for joy at the news. Surely now God would fulfil His covenants. Ehud had kept his faith alive through all the five decades since, and would keep it alive still until the day he died. He lived in expectation of seeing Israel roll forth like the stone Daniel saw, shattering those who opposed it like the clay mingled with iron. Then would the world cower, and know that the one true God reigned.

But until then, he would make his pilgrimage, and he would pray.

Finally, he reached the Western Wall, the last remnant of the Temple of Herod, razed to the ground by the heathen Romans. With shaking fingers he withdrew the small piece of folded paper on which he had written his prayer. Folding it even tighter, his fingers stiff with arthritis, he slowly walked up and placed it between the cracks in the stones, there to join with hundreds and thousands of others, each one an individual's prayer rising up to the Lord.

He stepped back and closed his eyes. With the same focus that had not dimmed one jot through his entire life, he recited the prayer for the gathering of Israel, its glory to be heralded in by the coming of the Messiah, the Anointed One. For nearly fifty years he had faithfully observed the prayer, and he would do it for fifty more if the Lord so required. For the Lord ruled heaven and earth, and Ehud would sooner die than abandon Him. The Lord had covenanted with Israel, and Israel with Him. And until the Lord saw fit to bring those covenants into their fullness, Ehud would continue his prayers.

Forever, if need be.

Unnoticed by those gathered at the Western Wall, a change was talking place. The stones, miraculously preserved through two thousand years, through razings and rebuildings, sparkled. In the nooks and crannies between them, tiny specks of light sparked and flared, zipping about the stone, wrapping themselves on and in and through the tiny prayers placed within the wall's cracks.

Thousands of meters above the city, the air began to shimmer and dance.

Cralagh skittered over the broken rocks a few hundred yards from Nighteye's fortress. It had taken him days to get here, first by hitching rides on airplanes until he made it to Moscow International Airport, then doing the same for trucks until he came almost to the border of the Shadowlands. Most of the time he had managed to stay hidden, but one or two unfortunate humans had seen him attached to the top of their vehicle. They had provided some much-needed nourishment, at least.

From the border he had had to walk, moving day and night with only occasional breaks to feed. The denizens of the Shadowlands had a bitter taste, not at all like humans, but he had to live with it for now. The only one of their party to have actually been to Nighteye's fortress was Crogoth, so only he could open a portal there. And for Cralagh, the portal was just as likely to lead to the bottom of the sea as to the Shadowlands. More, actually. Though never spoken aloud, both knew each would not hesitate to dispose of the other, if the opportunity arose. So long as they had need of each other, their lives were safe. But Cralagh had noticed that he had gotten precious little use on this foray, and so decided to take matters into his own hands.

The trip through the Shadowlands had been remarkably uneventful. He had seen perhaps a dozen fiends in his thousands-kilometer trek across the wasteland. Granted, he had purposefully avoided obvious gathering spots, but even then the security was incredibly lax. They could march an army through here and Nighteye would not know of it until they were halfway to his fortress. Sloppy planning, that. His father, at least, could do much better. Had not Diablo appointed him chief of the campaign against Belial? That required more tactical knowledge than this Nighteye had demonstrated.

Peeking over a boulder, he surveyed the fortress. Not surprisingly, there were guards posted. Lots of guards. Cralagh kept low, not a hard thing to do when only three feet high, and tried to gauge the best way in. Twisted ramparts and claw-like flying buttresses extended at all angles from the structure, making it look like some sort of nightmarish Gothic cathedral. Which was only fitting, of course.

Most of the guards simply milled about, keeping an eye out for anyone or anything that attempted to approach. A few had gathered to pass the time in game, with the most popular being a contest to see how long one could keep an imp alive while systematically relieving it of its skin. The uneven clumping of fiends left several sizeable gaps where he could slip through to get to the structure beyond. None were located anywhere near the massive front doors, unfortunately. But then again, doors were for those who could not climb.

Keeping behind cover as best as he could, he skittered rapidly over the blackened stone. His eight legs made easy going of terrain that would turn a human's ankle at every opportunity. In less than a minute, he had positioned himself a few score yards away from one of the gaps. A few flying fiends circled overhead, making him keep to the shadows to hide the long red fur running down his back. Gauging the guards' attentiveness as best as he could, he made a quick dash across the open ground, staying low and running as fast as his eight claws could take him. He reached the shadows of the fortress without incident.

He allowed his muscles a minute's rest, then started scaling the wall. Walking vertically was only slightly more difficult than walking horizontally, and in a matter of moments he reached the tops of the ramparts. The buttresses overlapped up here to form a veritable maze of shadows and stone, with black, thorn-like spikes protruding at odd intervals. Lifting his head at the wrong time could be fatal.

He was just about to skitter further in when he noticed that one of the stone gargoyles was staring at him, its eyes glowing dull red.

He had just a moment to react, jumping up right before the creature's claws swiped through where he stood. The gargoyle hissed in frustration and turned, looking for where its quarry had landed.

That was its mistake. It obviously was not used to prey that could walk on ceilings.

Cralagh dropped onto its back, his fangs already out and poised to strike. They speared through the stone skin and into the softer innards of the beast, injecting it with a massive dose of magically-enhanced paralyzing venom. The creature jerked spasmodically for a second or two, then stood still, frozen as surely as the stone it so much resembled. Not one to waste a meal, Cralagh rapidly entombed it in a cocoon of acidic silk, then tucked it away among the rafters. He would come back for it later, if need be.

He skittered up through the buttresses, weaving his way through their nightmarishly-designed maze on pure instinct. The mind that had given form to them belonged to the body that had given Cralagh half of his physical birthright. Some things did flow from father to son, in that way.

He looked through one of the irregularly-shaped skylights set in the roof of the fortress. Nighteye was in the room below, the only room in the entire structure, through what he was doing Cralagh had no idea. A few fiends milled about the edges of the open space, creatures of all shapes and sizes taken straight from nightmare. They did not look like too much of a challenge, if push came to shove. And besides, a dramatic entrance greatly heightened his effect.

Attaching a daub of silk to the roof with his spinnerets, he braced himself, then jumped onto the skylight, bringing all his legs together to focus the force on a single point. It worked wonderfully, and the glass shattered around him. He got a few knicks and scratches, something he had not anticipated, but they could be ignored for now. As he dropped down into the room, suspended upside-down by a trailing thread of silk, he was pleased to note that all eyes in the room were on him.

He dropped lightly to the ground in front of Nighteye's throne, and immediately noticed a difference between this man and his father. This one had only one eye, the missing one being covered up by a scrap of black leather bolted to his skull. A vivid gray scar ran down the otherwise black face, showing the path the weapon had taken.

Nighteye stood and glared down at him. "Who are you to interrupt me like this? Answer quickly; if I like it, you might get a swift death."

Cralagh merely smiled, flashing two rows of razor-sharp teeth and a pair of saber fangs, then bowed. "I simply thought that you would enjoy seeing your son."

"My s--you have a lot of nerve, claiming that. Very brave. And very stupid." He raised a hand and shot off a bolt of blackness at Cralagh. The spider-child jumped nimbly to the side, not even having to work. The same applied to the next three bolts, which he dodged with ease. Finally Nighteye let his hand drop to his side. "Nice agility. Guards, kill him."

A half-dozen of the creatures in the room charged forward, wielding over two-dozen razor-sharp claws between them. Cralagh jumped and grabbed onto his silk thread, climbing faster than any of them could hope to follow. He reached the ceiling just as the first fiend made a vain attempt to climb after him. He allowed it to get a few yards up before slicing through the strand with a swift kick of one foot. The fiend fell onto its comrades below, impaling itself on a claw. Skittering along the ceiling, he kept expecting Nighteye to throw some more magic at him any moment. For some reason, though, he did not. His folly.

He positioned himself above the dark lord, then let himself drop, claws extended and fangs out to puncture. Though the dark lord might resemble his father, that gave him no qualms about bringing him into submission. Perhaps paralyzed, he would listen a bit longer. He had reached a point only a few meters above Nighteye's head when he stopped in the air, dead still. Nighteye looked up from below him, his one red eye showing amusement. He chuckled. "You really shouldn't attack a Sith lord that way. It's hazardous to your health." A hand came up, and purple-white lightning flared from his fingertips. It lanced through Cralagh's body, bringing pain like red-hot needles. The agony seemed to last for minutes, though it could not have been more than a handful of seconds before Nighteye stopped.

"You're from the alternate dimension, aren't you? The same as the man who claims to be Diablo's son, right?"

Cralagh, unable to speak, nodded.

"I thought so. We have an alliance, for now. And as much as I like to kill my allies, it's wasteful. I'll let you live this once. But if you ever think of coming back, just remember one thing: you are no son of mine."

An invisible Force slung Cralagh forward. He flew for a dozen yards before hitting the ground and skidding the rest of the way. The massive black doors opened before him, letting him slide into the night beyond.

He reflected, as he made his way back across the open field in front of Nighteye's fortress, that perhaps that had not been the best of ideas. No, not at all.

Nighteye Force-moved the doors to his fortress closed, then turned and sat back on his throne. He did not like being reminded of the alliance of convenience between him and that army from another world. If it could be called an army. A few gargoyles sent to observe their base of operations sent back word that they numbered just over twenty beings, most of them with counterparts in CWAL. A few true demons had been seen earlier, but none had appeared since the CE/UF had inadvertently destroyed the portal to the other world. Apparently they depended on the link for reinforcements, or indeed, any trappings of an army at all.

Still, they worried him. Not the least one being this new development. His son? That could certainly explain the centaur-like appearance, human torso atop an spider's base. Who knew what his association with Evil had done to his DNA?

The thought came to him of how Gaval would react to such a being, combining both the Slayer's hatred of Evil with his fear of spiders. It could be very entertaining He would have to look into the creation of some creatures like that. As long as Gaval did not go into some sort of enraged, Rush-enhanced killing spree (far too likely, unfortunately), they would make good troops.

He pushed the thoughts aside. Though his governance of the Shadowlands was going well, he hungered for action. Perhaps Diablo had some task he could set him to, razing a small village or something of that sort. With his master's plans accelerating, he did not want to provoke him by doing something without the Prime Evil's approval. Reaching into his robes, he drew out the ubiquitous symbol of modern technology, though one that most people would not think of in connection with Evil: a cellular phone.

Those who do not connect cell phone with Evil have obviously not used them enough.

Flipping the dialpad open, he hit speed-dial number six, a direct connection to the Burning Hells. They had recently been connected to the modern world at his insistence. Not only did it provide much easier access, but they were bound to get the occasional wrong number and could perhaps work out a contract for the person's soul (assuming they did not possess it already; most cell-phone-users were lawyers, after all). The phone rang two or three times, then picked up. A soothing female voice, probably a recording of a succubus, came on the line.

"Hello, you have reached the Burning Hells, the bane of mankind and source of all that is Evil. If you wish to speak to a sales representative about selling your soul, press one now. If you wish to speak to the deceased, press two now. If you wish to speak to a Prime or Lesser Evil, press three now." Nighteye pressed the "three" button.

"You have chosen to speak to a Prime or Lesser Evil. If this is correct, press one now. If not-" He pressed one.

"Thank you for selecting to speak to a Prime or Lesser Evil. If you wish to speak to Andarial, Maiden of Anguish, press one now. If you wish to speak to Azmodan, Lord of Sin, press two now. If you wish to speak to Baal, Lord of Destruction..." He waited not-too-patiently for it to run through the list. Finally it got to the D's. "If you wish to speak to Diablo, Lord of Terror, press five now." He pressed five.

"We're sorry, but Diablo, Lord of Terror, is currently otherwise occupied and cannot accept any incoming calls. Please hold, and we will attempt to connect you shortly." The voice clicked off, and was replaced by the sound of William Shatner singing karaoke. Nighteye thrust the phone away from his ear, grimacing and smiling at the same time.

"Oh, that is evil! I'll have to congratulate him on that one. You, minion!" He pointed at a random underling. "Here, take this. Tell me when I'm taken off hold." He handed the cell phone to the creature, who tried to grasp it between three claws never meant for such things. It also had to keep the cell phone at such a distance from its ears that it could know when the music cut off without having to actually listen to it. Generally, it was doing a bad job of both. Nighteye turned away, leaving it to its own devices.

Unfortunately, that still left him with nothing to do. Perhaps he should go personally to the Burning Hells. In all probability, the karaoke music would continue to play until the stars grew cold.

I would not recommend that.

I didn't ask you.

Nevertheless, I would not recommend it unless summoned. Your control on the Shadowlands is tenuous at best. Leaving it in the claws of beings famous for their lack of planning abilities is a less-than-desirable option.

Point. Then what would you recommend.

Consult the atchlazi. Perhaps it would have something.

You're probably right. "Atchlazi, get over here." The creature, looking vaguely humanoid but with an elongated face, black beak, and leathery wings, walked over to Nighteye, its talons clicking on the stone. "Yes, master?" Being one of the few fiends granted speech and intellect, the atchlazi were used mostly as repositories of knowledge, usually battles but sometimes other things, as well.

"Is there anything in that communal mind of yours that can tell the dangers of a course of action." If he could not go to Diablo for plans, he would just make his own. But he wanted to be sure he would be victorious.

The atchlazi stood unmoving for a few seconds, then bowed its head. "In times past mortals used the entrails of beasts to predict the future, master. Occasionally they met with success. By the aid of your dark powers, you could greatly enhance your chances of receiving a correct answer."

"I see. And did they require specific beasts?"

"No, lord. Though some were thought more potent than others. A slain human was thought to be the most accurate and precise, but few ventured to go that far."

"Pity. In that case...you'll do." Nighteye raised his hand at a nearby zombie and shot off a red bolt. The zombie did not even have a chance to react before it exploded in a shower of blood and gore, its entrails falling into a convoluted pattern on the floor. Nighteye and the atchlazi stepped close, peering at the patterns.

"Are you certain they're supposed to do that?"

"Perhaps it was a more literate zombie than most."

"No matter. Minion, get me a dictionary. I want to know the exact meaning of this 'fnord...'"

High above Nighteye's fortress, the winds stirred softly. If one looked very closely at a particular patch of air, one would see something decidedly out of place in this barren, blasted land. There, floating in the breeze, was a single, iridescent blue scale, of the kind that might decorate the wings of a butterfly...

PatN carefully opened the door to the CEO's office. The Chief Executive Officer of Blizzard Entertainment had been known to booby-trap his entrance before, and he had no desire to find out what the latest trick was. The heavy wood door swung open without incident, though, and he timidly stuck his head through the doorway.

The CEO's office was huge. At least twenty yards from end to end, it was completely empty except for the Pit and the mahogany desk below the picture window. No one really knew where the Pit had come from, except that one day years ago it had simply appeared in the office, looking like something straight out of The Empire Strikes Back. More than one unfortunate bearer of bad news had met their end at its bottom.

The CEO sat at his desk, his features turned black by the bright window behind him. He appeared to be watching something on a small pop-up screen in his desk. As always, his slinky sat beside him. PatN was grateful to notice that it lacked any sort of costuming. That usually meant the CEO was in a relatively sane mood.

He coughed discreetly. "You called for me, sir?" The CEO moved one hand over his desk, the index finger crooked as if preparing to press something. He hastily tried again. "You called for me, oh grand master of the universe, lord of all that is gaming, ruler of lives, breaker of dreams, shatterer of hopes, and...er..." Oh, what was the last one? "um...keeper of the slinky?"

The hand moved out from over the desk, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Come over here, Pat. I want you to see something."

He stepped inside the office and closed the door softly behind him. After making his way across the footbridge spanning the Pit (without a railing!), he stopped in front of the CEO's desk. "Yes, sir?"

The CEO spun the pop-up screen around so that he could see it. It showed a jumpy view of a bunch of...things attacking a village. He recognized it as a recent news clip.

"Do you see that, Pat? Look at how smooth they are. No polygons, no pixels...just simple, smooth animation." He looked up at his underling. "I want it."

He frowned. "Sir?"

"I want it. In order to distribute our mind-control to the populace, we must have the reputation of the best. The best gameplay, the best storylines, and the best graphics."

He suddenly saw where this was going. "But sir! Those aren't graphics, those are real! That footage was taken somewhere in Russia, with real demons tearing that village apart. Not even the ones we let loose through the Internet, real ones."

The CEO simply looked back at him with a calm, patient expression. That worried him. When the CEO was calm and patient, it usually meant something very bad was about to happen.

"Pat, we can take things out of video games. We can also put them in. I want those creatures in Diablo II before it goes gold, do you understand?"

"But sir! That's less than a month-"

"Do you understand?"

He swallowed. Hard. "Yes sir."

"Good." The CEO reached out and picked up his slinky. It made a soft metallic sound as he shifted its coils between his hands. PatN waited for him to say more, but he seemed entranced by the shifting metal. He gave a small cough, and the CEO looked up.

"Er, who would you like me to send to retrieve them, sir?"

"Hmm..." The CEO leaned back in his chair, making the leather squeak. "I know. Send the flensers."

"With all due respect, sir, the flensers are practically cannon fodder."

"No no no, not the mark-four's. Those other ones. The..." he looked at his fingers for a moment, ticking them forward one at a time as if counting them. "Thirteen. The mark-thirteens."

"Sir, you can't be-" The CEO's hand moved to hover over a prominent red button on the desk. "Er, that is, with all due respect, your omnipotence, I don't think the mark-thirteens are up to it, given their track record. Some members of the staff have even taken to calling them 'the four stooges.'"

"Well, then, we'll just have to provide some extra incentive for them, won't we?" He turned to look down at his slinky. "Oh, that's a good one, Slinky. Very good. Pat, send the mark-thirteens. Tell them that if they don't bring back enough to justify the expense of sending them over, they're going to find out what it feels like being melted into scrap, one chip at a time."

"Yes sir."

"Good. You may go."

He nodded, then turned and walked carefully back across the Pit. He opened the door from off to the side, and sighed when a hole irised open in the floor, right where he would normally stand. Hopping over it, he gratefully closed the door behind him and headed downstairs, to flenser storage.

When he got there, he found the mark-thirteen "ultraflensers," designed to be the most massive and powerful of the flenser line, playing poker. Not surprisingly, they were arguing about it. He had told the designers that full personality algorithms would detract from their usefulness, but they went ahead anyway. So now they were stuck with four large, expensive, temperamental death machines that seemed to have great difficulty killing anything more important than a slime mold, unless it was each other.

"I'm telling you," said the one called Pestilence, "a straight flush beats three of a kind!"

"And I'm telling you it doesn't!" retorted War.

"Both of you just shut up!" That was Death, the ostensible "leader" of the four, at least when they were all in one piece. For some reason the mark-thirteens had attrition rates almost as high as the mark-fours. It raised its arms to point plasma weapons at the two others. "I say that-"

"Ahem." The four machines turned to him, their digital tempers cooling instantly. He might be only a weak, puny human to them, but he was a weak, puny human who could order their disassembly at any time. Death stepped forward. "What do you want?" PatN made a mental note to speak to Lab Coat Guy about upgrading their servility subroutines. If he had to grovel to the CEO, then, by coffee, someone ought to grovel to him.

"The CEO has a job for you four. You're to go to Siberia and bring back demons we can stick in Diablo II before it goes gold. If you fail, then we scrap the ultraflenser project entirely and move onto other, less costly endeavors. Understand?" They nodded in unison. "Good."

Death started moving towards the recall outlet. "Hold it!" cried PatN. The flenser stopped. "Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to recall through most of a planet?"

"Er...a lot?"

"Precisely. And right now we can't spare the power for such a low-priority mission as this. So instead, you four will be taking more conventional methods to get there."

The twelve-foot-high machines stared at him blankly. Apparently they did not understand. He sighed. "Get in the cargo van. We need to make a stop first, then on to Los Angeles."

A pillar of black fire appeared in the middle of Diablo's throne room, and when it subsided, Nighteye stood in its wake. He waited the handful of seconds it took for his one good eye to adjust to being in the Burning Hells. Things never looked quite right at first, and unless he gave himself those seconds he was just as liable to try to walk up a wall as across the floor. It did not help that every now and then the walls became the floor. A lack of depth perception due to his one eye made it even worse. But finally everything settled into a semblance of order, and he looked around.

He never failed to be impressed with Diablo's decor. Sickly red-and-black walls that looked like diseased muscle tissue, giant black thorns and bony spikes jutting at odd angles, dim lighting...the Lord of Terror had the perfect home for an avatar of Evil. And, of course, most impressive of all was the giant throne, which looked not so much carved as grown from a single piece of black granite, with jutting spikes and twisted edges that made it look more like something out of a medieval torture gallery than a chair. If the other Evils had similar devices, he had not seen them; he tried to keep his dealings with any but Diablo to a minimum.

He stepped forward and kneeled on the pentagram inscribed in the floor. "What is thy bidding, my master?"

"Rise." Nighteye stood and looked upon his master. Four meters tall and covered in scaly red skin, with horns and spikes jutting from his muscular body, Diablo was truly an awesome sight to behold.

"How are your activities in the mortal realm proceeding?"

"They are advancing nicely, my lord. None have dared threaten the Shadowlands yet, and our pact with the alternate CWALers stands firm. For now."

Diablo nodded, his massive horns glinting in the red light. "I see. And do you believe, when the time comes, that they will pose any obstacle to us?"

"No, my lord. One of them, claiming to be my son, approached me only a few hours ago. I was not impressed."

"Excellent. And what of the Hero of Light?"

"So far she makes no move against us, and appears to lack any army but CWAL. I do not believe she will be a problem."

"I would be more cautious if I were you. The High Heavens work by indirect means far more than we. Do not become overconfident."

Nighteye ducked his head. "Yes, master."

"And do not let your feelings for her alter your actions. If I see any hint that you are weakening because of this...love you claim, do not think that I will let it by. Ch'kar is a minor demon, only an advisor. Do not force me to replace him with a taskmaster."

Nighteye bowed further. "Yes, master."

"Good." Diablo furrowed his brow, then jumped off the throne and started pacing back and forth, a remarkably human gesture. "Time is not on our side," he said, almost to himself. "The more time passes, the longer the angels have to work their plans."

"The more we have to work ours, as well."

"Yes, but have you ever tried enforcing them on this twisted rat's warren? I believe the humans have an expression for it, 'herding cats.' Only cats are much more agreeable than most hellspawn."

He stopped and turned to Nighteye. "We must accelerate our plans. The angels' greatest weakness is unpredictability; we cannot afford to wait longer."

"We could spread the Shadowlands further. More territory would be useful."

"More? From what Ch'kar tells me you can hardly handle what you have."

Nighteye blinked. You've been spying on me? he asked.

You are not my master.

Diablo began pacing again. "No, you cannot, but I..." He smiled a smile that would freeze air. "I could."

"Do you mean...?"

"Yes." He turned to look at Nighteye, his red eyes glowing brightly. "We have waited long enough. I have waited long enough in this infernal pit. The mortal realm is ripe for the plucking. It is time someone stepped forward to do it."

"Excellent, master. But how? I don't doubt your powers, but it is my understanding that the summoning is beyond your control."

He must have struck a nerve, because Diablo snarled. That look had been known to kill mortals. "Indeed it is. We must find one, then, a virgin willing to give up his body for the possession of Lord Diablo. Do you know of any?"

Nighteye shook his head. "No, master. I don't. Though your campaign to make chastity scarce is working wonderfully, I think it backfired in this case. But that doesn't mean we can't trick someone into summoning you."

Diablo seemed to consider this for a moment. "Explain. How would you trick a mortal into summoning the Lord of Terror to command his body?"

"I...let me think about it for a bit." Nighteye wracked it over in his mind. Where on Earth could they find someone, a virgin, gullible enough to summon Diablo? The virginity basically eliminated most people over twenty in the modern world, and those in less-developed areas still had strong feelings about Evil things.

That left someone gullible, young, and able to be influenced by Evil. Where could they find someone like that?

Then it hit him. Of course! After all, if they approached one person, they could easily fail. But if they approached ten thousand, one of them would surely be stupid enough to try it. He looked up at Diablo.

"Master, I believe I have an idea..."

Rachel had to admit, she was fresh out of ideas. The few hours sleep she had allowed herself had not had the desired effect of giving her inspiration as to how to get out of this mess. Whatever her bindings were made of, they absolutely refused to get any looser, no matter how hard she pulled, pushed, or flexed. They had even stuck the chair to the floor--with duct tape, no less!--to keep her from moving around. All she could do was sit here and try to keep the circulation going in her legs while brooding over possible escape plans, all of which involved minor miracles in the near future.

She had just given up on her fourth try to rip the chair from the floor when Gaval walked back in. She gave him a hard glare, which he seemed not to notice at all. He knelt over her and began untying her bonds. Well, sort of. He just kind of grabbed her wrists and pulled up, and the cords slipped right through the wood as if it did not exist. She tried to struggle, but he held her hands firm. Placing her wrists together, the cords merged into a solid unit, binding her tight enough to almost cut of the circulation.

"What are you doing?" she asked. He ignored her and got to work on her feet. This time he simply released them from their binding to the wood before letting go. She seized the opportunity and flung her leg forward, aiming to catch him in the solar plexus. Faster than lightning his hand darted out and caught it, stopping it inches short of his chest, his grip strong enough to make her wince. "Nice try," he said, careful to stand up and to the side before he let go. She let her foot fall.

Last, he grabbed her around the shoulders and roughly pulled her up. The bands around her arms simply dissolved into thin air, leaving only her hands tied.

"Come on," he said, dragging her forward. She nearly tripped as the sudden movement was forced upon muscles too long in one position.

"Where are you taking me?"

"We're going on a little trip," he said, half-dragging her out of the room. She squinted at the brighter lights out here, but when her eyes adjusted she finally saw where she was.

"McDonald's?" What was it with psychos and restaurants, anyway?

"Like the way we redecorated?" The man called Crogoth smiled at her. Even the sight of him made her skin crawl. She tried to shy away, but Gaval pushed her forward. His grip on her arm was like a vice; there would be no getting away from it. Crogoth smiled wider, sending fiery rage through her veins.

"Ready to go visit dear old Dad, sweet thing?" he asked. His words made all the anger drain out, replaced by icy fear.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" He swung out a hand to encompass the people gathered there. Rachel recognized all of them except Crogoth as CWALers. "We're finally able to make the return trip, thanks to Pez here and parts supplied by several brave McFriers and McOvens. Are you ready?"

Pez nodded and started tinkering with something on one of the tables. It looked like it had been cobbled together from a hundred different parts never meant to get near each other, then glued together with duct tape, bubble gun, and no small amount of hope.

"Okay, Crogoth," said the inventor, "put your hand on the scanner." With a leer at her, the man touched his palm to one part of the machine. A few seconds later Pez flipped something, and it started humming and vibrating. Rachel cringed involuntarily. Having seen a handful of Pez's inventions at work, she wanted to get behind something thick and heavy right now.

But the machine failed to explode. Too bad; it probably would have taken Crogoth with it. Its tips gave off an occasional spark, but nothing more.

"Okay, everyone, here goes nothing." Pez pressed something, and a small beam of white light speared out from one side of the machine. It stopped six feet in front of him, then dilated outward. She saw it almost edge-on, but she could tell that it formed an oval, about eight feet tall and three wide.

"Now, whatever you do Crogoth, don't remove your hand."

"Yes sir!" he said in a mocking voice. Pez glared at him, but continued fiddling with his machine. "Okay, scanning the layers...we've got a little bit of interference here. Everyone, step as far back as you can." He waved, and the other CWALers moved back to the walls. "Okay, that's a little better. Focus...focus...almost...there!" With an audible snap, something appeared in the oval of light. From her position, Rachel could not see make it out, but she suddenly felt a wave of cold wash over her. Someone walking over your grave..., her mother had said.

The beam of light cut off, but the oval remained. Its edges pulsed slowly, rotating around it. "That's it," said Pez, flicking off the machine.

Gaval pulled her roughly forward. "Come on, then."

Crogoth stepped in front of them. "One moment, Slayer. I'll take her across. You stay here and make sure nothing goes awry."

Gaval glared back at him. "Why you...I am in charge here, and I-"

"Can take it up with Father. Do you want me to mention it to him? I'm sure he'd be thrilled that the ex-Slayer is showing sympathy for a mortal."

Ex-Slayer? Mortal? She felt as if the world was dropping out from under her. What had she gotten herself into?

Gaval frowned, then roughly thrust her forward. Crogoth caught her from behind by the shoulders. His hands slid down her arms as he tried to pull her close to him. "Ready, my dear? We've got places to go, people to meet." She struggled as much as she could. It must have been enough to keep him away, at least for now, because he sighed and said, "Oh, very well then. I'll simply have to ask Father for permission sometime later."

Whoever this "father" was, she was beginning to loathe him already. Then Crogoth pulled her in front of the oval, and all other thoughts fled.

It was a window. Looking through, she saw a blasted land with gray-green clouds over a black-gray landscape. Lightning lanced in the sky, occasionally striking the ground below. She could feel a presence oozing from it, a dark, cold feeling that made her teeth chatter.

Crogoth whispered in her ear. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said. Then he tightened his grip on her arms, and pulled her through.

The door opened, and Peter entered. "Hi guys," he said to John and Jerome. "So what's all the fuss?"

"Don't ask me," said John, sitting on Jerome's bed. He pointed a thumb at the other teenager. "He's the one that called me over."

"So what is it?"

Jerome, at the computer, shook his head. "Not until Francis gets here. He should only be a minute or two." John shrugged, and Peter sat down besides him on the bed. Looking around, he spotted a new poster of Jerome's. It showed Britney Spears, but more importantly, it showed a lot more of her than either his or John's parents would ever allow inside their houses.

Jerome typed something, then called over his shoulder. "Hey, I need an idea for a flame war. You guys got one?"

"How about how Canada sucks?"

"NO!"

Both Peter and Jerome turned to look at John, who fidgeted awkwardly. "I mean, that's been done to death. Can't you do something about Koreans or religion or something?"

Jerome shrugged, then typed in a post. He had heard something about "wiccans," and though he was not quite sure what they were, he figured they were probably a good target. He pulled a few stock insults out of his memory and plugged them in, then hit the "post message" button.

"There we go. Care to bet how many flames I get?"

"Nah. Hey, I think I hear Francis."

Footsteps sounded on the stairway, then the door opened, and Francis walked in. "Hi guys."

"You got it all?" asked Jerome. In answer, Francis held up a grocery bag. "Good, okay, guys, come check this out. Any of you checked Bnet today?"

"Nope."

"Nah, I only get 'net access after five."

"Uh-uh."

"Well, look at this post." He scrolled down the page a bit, then pointed to one of the messages: "5UMM0N TH3 L0RD 0f T3RR0R," posted by "|).][.@.|3.|_.0."

"Whoah..." said Peter, once he had deciphered the message. "And look, he doesn't have a single real letter in his entire name!"

"Now that is cool!"

"Wait till you see the message." Jerome clicked on the subject line, and a few seconds later the message body popped up. It was in plain English, which made it a lot easier to read but diminished his standing in the eyes of the four teenagers. At least he had typed it in all capitals.

"See?" said Jerome. "This guy mixed together all the soundtracks from Diablo I, ran them backwards through a filter made from WarCraft cheats, and got these instructions out of it!"

"You sure that's legit?"

"It can't hurt to try, can it? Besides, it'll be fun."

"I don't know. That's the funniest-sounding spell I've ever seen."

"Oh come on!"

"All right, all right."

"Good. Let's do it at the foot of the bed."

The four got up and walked over there, where Jerome had already set out several sheets of newsprint for this very purpose. Francis dug around in the grocery sack, then brought out a small plastic squeeze-bottle. He handed it to Jerome. "Here's the ketchup."

"I thought it said goat's blood."

"Do I look like I can just ask Mom for a bottle of goat's blood? It's red, it's liquid, it'll do."

Jerome shrugged, then knelt on the edge of the newspaper. "Okay, it says put it in a pentagram. That's a shape with five sides, right?"

"A pentagon, yeah. Though I think a pentagram's something different," said Peter.

"Close enough." Jerome drew the five-sided shape onto the newsprint with the ketchup. It turned out a little lop-sided, and at one point he accidentally smeared it, but it was still a pretty good shape, if he did say so himself.

"All right, what's next?"

John stepped over to the computer. "Says the virgin needs to step over the sign, then just repeat the chant and that's it. Lord of Terror appears and grants you three wishes."

Jerome nodded. "Okay, so which one of you three is a virgin?"

"Are you kidding? I've done more girls than..."

"...last year and we..."

"...every weekend!"

Jerome just stared at them. They stared back for a second, then their eyes shifted around some, and they began fidgeting.

"Well, maybe I..."

"...almost but she..."

"...this close!"

Jerome sighed and shook his head, hoping that none of them noticed that he had not spoken at all. The best way to lie is to simply avoid telling the truth. "Okay, John, you do it."

"Why me?"

"What, you don't want three wishes from the Lord of Terror?"

"But it probably won't work!"

"Yeah, but if it does, think of what you could have. After all, you could make it so you're never eligible for the spell again because of, say...Amanda?"

It took a second for his meaning to sink in, and John blushed slightly when it did. "Oh, all right." He took a breath, then stepped across the ketchupy pentagon. "There. Happy now?"

"Yup. Okay, I know this is going to look really silly, but let's just link arms, say the chant three times, and see what happens, okay?"

"All right."

They gathered around the circle, leaning forward and grabbing the forearm of their neighbor in either hand.

"On three. One...two...three!" The three took a breath, then started the chant, which they all considered to be complete and utter nonsense.

"Dum de dum, dum dee dum, all hail Diablo, I like schnitzel," they all said at once.

A slight breeze ruffled one of Jerome's posters, even though both door and window were shut tight.

"Dum de dum, dum dee dum, all hail Diablo, I like schnitzel." A chill wind blew through the room, and everything seemed to get a little darker.

"Dum de dum, dum dee dum, all hail Diablo, I like schnitzel!"

The pentagon flared bright red as the rest of the room plunged into darkness. The boys tried to back off, but they seemed frozen to the spot. As they watched, the center of the lopsided polygon was replaced by a spinning red and black vortex spiraling off to infinity.

"I think it's working!" shouted Peter.

"I don't think that's a good thing!" retorted John.

A black, misty shape rose up within the spiral. It floated out of the ground, a transparent black fog with two glowing red eyes. Horn shapes grew from its head, its body tapering to a tip below.

"Who summons Diablo, the Lord of Terror?"

The four boys were too awed and scared to speak. Jerome did not even notice the damp spot growing in his pants.

The thing's head whipped around to look at John. "You are the designated one, the sacrifice!"

"S-sacrifice?"

"Thank you, mortal, for your assistance. I shall try to make the deaths of your loved ones swift."

"I-" The mist jumped forward and hit John in the chest. He fell backward, breaking the circle and landing flat on his back, staring blank-eyed at the ceiling. The other three lost their balance and stumbled backward, catching themselves on furniture or the wall.

Gradually the light returned to the room, and the vortex faded, though it did not disappear completely. Even though the room was colder than before, the three boys were sweating as they inched their way over to John, who was just pushing himself to his feet.

"John, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just fine."

"Look, John, I don't think that-" John's hand shot out and grabbed Jerome by the neck. He easily lifted the larger boy off the ground, not even straining. Jerome looked down at his friend, eyes wide with panic. John smiled back up. His eyes gleamed red.

John's smile widened, filling Jerome with a terror he had never before known.

"Fear my 'leet skills."

And the air erupted into searing flames.