In the stone confines of Dark Lake Manor, Alysia stood staring at an ornate, gilt-framed mirror. Surrounded by darkness, illuminated by a single candle, she was engaged in a silent argument, at odds with her own reflection. Instead of a pale mien and silver hair, her mirror-image had an even tan and radiant golden hair, slender fingrtips bearing dark talons. Her reflection was garbed in scarlet shadowsilk, whereas Alysia was clad in black. However, the luminescent crimson eyes were identical, as were the black ouroboros wrist tattoos.

---
He is a partner, an ally, yet you?ve not used him thus.

Ours is a wary, tenuous alliance, a mutually beneficial agreement that I would prefer not to capitalize upon. Displays of weakness and trust are frequently lethal among our kind.

So? As damned forthright you are, no doubt he?s already seen glimpses of you being a pathetic weakling, yet he hasn?t gone for your throat. Perhaps he can be trusted.

Only as long as there?s still something he needs from me. If he thought another could provide it, I would be disposed of and all that I possess would be his. Ground into ash and dust beneath his heel.

Maybe. But you?re still alive. And he is powerful. You are a fool not to make use of that.

It?s wrong to use people.

Since when have you worried about what is right or wrong? Besides, that doesn?t stop anyone - everyone uses everyone else. He could be more than a mere ally. Much more.

I . . . I need to think about this. He has enemies, too. I do not need more enemies, not now. The list is long enough, and those are just the ones I can see.

They?re mostly the same enemies as yours.

Not all - some of them are my friends!

Ha! Friends. Are they, really? You?ve seen enough to know better. They would take that which is yours, smiling all the while.

I need to consider this.

You already have. Before, Hells, years ago, you considered it. There is no harm in investigating his potential, in tasting the possibilities. He is conveniently close ? you could haunt him, disrupt his reverie, leave him wondering. . . or you could just take him.

Get out . . . Leave me alone!
---

Alysia snarled and struck the mirror, relishing the look of angry surprise on her reflection?s features. The image vanished, replaced by a tarnished, smoky field. She draped a blood-stained battle standard over the mirror then lifted her hands to study them. Wraith-pale, delicate ivory claws. . . her own hands.

Or were they?

Slowly, reluctantly, she tugged the woven standard off the mirror again, and set her gaze, smoldering and intent, upon it.

You can not shut me out forever.

I can try.

Then, you would weaken yourself out of spite.

?That is correct,? Alysia agreed out loud. She giggled. ?I am very spiteful.? And very weak! Will you not let me have a moment's rest?

And apparently very foolish! The time will come that you will need all your strength, and that includes me. I know you have seen that time.

The reflection on both sides of mirror moved, arms crossing, crimson eyes glaring.

I?ve dreamed it, but that?s not necessarily truth. Not all dreams are prophecy. How do I know that you weren?t influencing my sleeping mind? Alysia?s voice rose, taking on a note of hysteria. ?How do I know that you even exist, that you?re not just a product of madness??

You don?t, admitted the gleaming gold reflection that was Alazais. But you should trust your own eyes, which saw me rise from the altar of the Dark Ancient in the Dragonspine, spawned from a slick of your own blood and Chaos-sorcery when Tacrya fell. . . That you can not deny. I am you, refined, purified, without the taint of those other minds.

Mmm. Alysia nodded. She lifted a katana from a stand and examined the blade, then knelt upon a woven rug before the mirror. The katana rested across her thighs. Are you who I would be without those other minds? Perhaps we are all mad indeed.

You would be a giddy child without those other minds. Still, allow me to prove my honesty. The Bloodsinger you sent to Sethil will be named Oracle soon. Allow her to advise you and prophecy for you. She will confirm the truth of your dreams.

We?ll see. But I will not be held captive by my emotions. Not by yours, either. Stop trying to manipulate me - and maybe, maybe then we can come to an agreement.

I?m your dream, make you real
I?m your eyes when you must steal
I?m your pain when you can?t feel
Sad but true

I?m your truth, telling lies
I?m your reasoned alibis
I?m inside open your eyes
I?m you

--Metallica, Sad but True

The demoness Alazais remembered the pool of blood and Chaos that had birthed her into a burning temple, surrounded by fire and falling masonry. She recalled savoring the surge of shocked anger apparent upon the bone-white countenance of Rhilshen's High Priestess. The voice of the Dark Ancient had thundered victory in her ears, promising murder and power, then words of Order had bound Alazais, trapping her in a place where she was surrounded by multi-faceted walls, translucent ruby veined faintly with gold. Flame-shadows flickered weirdly beyond the crystal cell, which held barely enough room to stretch her arms.

She knew enough to guess that she was spell-bound to a mirror prison, one probably tied to a perfect blood-gem which had been cast on the K'Thayne battleground from Alysia Skye?s own essence. In the prison?s shining walls, she saw countless leather-winged reflections of herself, all staring back at her. Some of them wore jeering expressions; others looked frightened, sullen, or amused. In fact, the entire scope of human emotive experience seemed to be represented. She cursed them all, knowing they were there to turn her towards insanity. After a while, she learned to ignore them. Or perhaps she had learned to make them a strength, or a part of her.

The demoness had been trapped for what felt like a year, maybe longer, maybe only hours or days. Any passage of time was unfathomable, for in her prison, light was constant, hunger was non-existent, day was indistinguishable from night. Despite this, boredom had not set in. She slept little, knowing the somnolent lure of the spell that held her bound. Alazais filled her waking hours by studying the red walls of her gleaming cell, raking dark talons down the shiny joins, marshaling her strength. She grew experienced at looking through her captor's eyes, psychically taunting the High Priestess Skye, ferreting out emotional insecurities and trying to goad the woman into revealing a weakness that might be used to escape.

I am what you were born to be, Alysia. What you should have been. What you should become. By many names have I been known. I am the sign from the West, and I am your Doom. You may not deny this - from you, I was created. I am you.

She found assistance in this campaign of provocation from the other, diminishing souls trapped by Alysia?s psyche. One of them, Orodreth, the elf-slayer, had surely been a servant of the Dark Ancient, even as she was. The two found a common cause in vengeance and worked to insinuate themselves deeply in the Alysia's personality. Between them, they drove the High Priestess to the brink of madness.

Alazais coaxed an uneasy accord with the woman, interspersing accurate predictions with the mocking commentary, taunting her with truth and pride. See how helpful I can be? Alazais knew there were but a few short steps between offering telepathic advice and exerting subtle influence. . . and from there, to taking control of the woman?s body entirely. She worked hard to contain her glee at the prospect of caging Alysia?s immortal soul and offering it as a trophy to her God.

Then she found herself thwarted. Alysia had discovered the effect of ordered music upon chaos. And a complicated infusion of fae influence from Chryrie Nightstar had somehow strengthened Alysia, protecting the priestess from the demoness? psychic ?voice.? Alazais saw the possibility of failure, and her preternatural patience began to wane. She raged within her faceted prison, indulging herself in a storm of pride and fury and hate. That Chaos-born empathic anger boiled over and infected the High Priestess.

The pride will nae be denied . . ., Alazais had goaded, making a mockery of the old Vladslace creed. The demoness laughed, knowing Daemonshi had indoctrinated his Bloodline well. Savor ye the sweetness of chaos and vengeance. Set the innocent aside, little priestess, and dance the pavane of war, or ye shall watch ye loved ones die . . . It was just a matter of time before Alysia lashed out, and lash out she did, oh-so-predictably, and at the slightest hint of insult and provocation.

The chain of events she had set into motion were inevitable and could not be recalled. Alazais waited, biding her time. And finally, finally, consequence came calling, and the High Priestess was either captive or dead and vanquished, for the gleaming walls of Alazais? cell began to dissolve, etched away by some shadowy taint.

What is this? Alazais had demanded. When silence answered, the demoness contemptuously reached for Alysia?s mind and recoiled sharply from the sense of cold Order and Law that pervaded the woman?s weakened psyche. Law. . . it was repellent to the core of her being. It threatened her with dissolution. No! I cannot bear the touch of Law! Desperate now for escape, she withdrew and thrust her arms out, flailing against the translucent faceted walls. The mirror prison splintered, then, shattering with a brittle sound, and Alazais found herself in a catacomb darkness, surrounded by thousand tiny shards of ruby crystal.

And she was free again to take up her charge. Alone. Unencumbered.

Or was she?