Excerpt from the Ascension Diaries of Callisto Fairbourne, Mage

My world, my Earth, is in a constant state of warfare. It has been going on for so long that only those who were there at the very beginning can say with any certainty how it began. Even knowing the story as told for centuries is not enough.

It began, so they say, with the rising of the Impaler. He had conquered and ruled vast territories in life, and yet, when he died, he was not content to rest and let the world move on without him. He is the First, the vampire from whom all others have spawned, the only one who bites and yet has never been bitten. If there ever was a God, Dracul has definitely burned his bridges when it comes to redemption.

Under his command, the legion of the undead rose to subjugate humanity. We never stood a chance; a culture that barely had the means to survive by the land, pitted against creatures of the night, demons of the soul, beings so relentless and ruthless that any thought of rebellion earned the thinker an eternity of pain without the blessed relief of death.

Humans, however, are capable of great feats of skill and magic when placed in such a position. A summit was ordered, of every high priest and priestess, of every witch and warlock, anyone who held a claim to even the faintest spark of power. These were our only defense against the vampires; for while they, in their unholy positions of power, have strength and untiring determination, they possess not a single scrap of magical ability whatsoever.

It was at this summit that the lycans were made. No one knows exactly how, or if they do, they are not saying. But somehow these gathered magic wielders brought into being from the twisted and malformed, the lost and forgotten, the homeless and bereft, the first generation of werewolves. The beasts were to be our allies, our protection against the vampires. They proved to be our greatest mistake, a waste of the lives destroyed in their creation.

At first, they were our true friends, a shield against the darkness the vampires brought with them. They, too, had no ability to use magic, nor even to defend against it, and we foolishly thought that this was our moment of triumph. But even as humanity built upon the foundations of our rebellion, established our places of power, Dracul and his vampires were working insidiously against us.

They offered the 'wolves lands of their own, freedom from the injustices that humanity had forced upon them, in return for an alliance against the human masters that had created them to begin with. The 'wolves accepted, and humanity was once more under siege, this time by night and day.

We were not helpless, even then. A child born with the ability to wield magic of any kind was protected at all costs, taught to use that power with deadly effect. For every five members of the human race, there are two, perhaps three, who are born witches and wizards. But every human has the ability to learn, even if it is only just enough to form a shield, to prevent the poison of a bite from spreading. Thanks to these gifts, we are holding our own against the vampires and the werewolves.

They are no longer allied to one another; the 'wolves chafed under the rule of their undead allies and turned upon them as well. They ignore us now, unless we trespass into their territories unwisely. Humanity, during that time of shifting alliances, earned a reprieve from war, and we did what we could to ensure our own survival.

Great families, such as my own, established strongholds in which the common people could shelter from the attacks of our supernatural enemies. There are millions of these strongholds, all across the world, each large enough to hold land for farming, and a defensible castle where everyone may live in safety, if not comfort, at times of need.

I am the forty-second magic user to be born into my bloodline; the Fairbournes have become one of the foremost mage families in England. I was sent to Rhy'Din to study, but I know that my destiny is to return to my home and drive back the darkness that assails us. I will do what I have to, in order to survive.

- end excerpt

Mistress Tul'Nor's Rooms

"The spell must be in your own words, Mage Fairbourne," the Nephilim mistress was saying in her gentle voice as she supervised Callisto's preparations for the journey she hoped would lead to her Ascension to Sorceress. "The intricacies of a soul bond depend entirely upon the intentions of the caster."

Callisto levelled an unimpressed look upon her teacher. Between her new mentoring responsibilities and her family's dogged insistence on not letting her explore Egypt without an escort, she did not have as much time as she would like to research the spells she knew she would need when she finally got there. This, however, was essential to her plan; it was just pure luck that soul binding relied on the energies used predominantly in Necromancy to begin with - every little bit she employed would count toward her Ascension.

"So why, Mistress Tul'Nor, do I need to be tutored through this, if it is my intentions that shape the spell and its consequences?" she asked in a dull voice, absent-minded stroking Mort's shoulder as he perched on the arm of her chair.

The angelic woman before her smiled her mysterious and irritatingly-all-knowing smile. "Because, little one, mortal intentions change from moment to moment," she explained. "The slightest outside influence may alter your original intention, and as such, alter the spell. You must learn not to react emotionally to everything around you. For example, should you begin to cast this spell and then allow yourself to fear for the life of the one on whom you are casting, then the energies released will be far more powerful than you could possibly imagine. And utterly useless to you once it is done."

"But you do believe that, if I am successful in casting, this plan of mine will work?"

Amaya Tul'Nor looked thoughtful for a long moment, sadness touching her ageless face as she considered the question. "Cruel though it is, I do believe that you have a high chance of success with this scheme," she conceded. "Do not be foolish enough to think that there will not be consequences to yourself, however. Every binding leaves its mark upon the soul."

Callisto shook her head, dismissing the warning without a second thought. It wasn't as though she hadn't already considered the consequences; she wasn't an idiot, after all. "And you will authorise my absence from the school when the time comes, together with Master Smout'n?" she asked pointedly. "I would rather have the blessing of two masters than have to request leave via a self-induced illness or injury."

Again, there was a long, uncomfortable silence as Amaya Tul'Nor studied the ambitious young mage sat before her. But again, at the end of that period of intense discomfort, she nodded. "I shall," she agreed. "On condition that you take with you a Seeing Stone."

"A what?"

The Nephilim mistress laughed softly. "You see, I do not share all my secrets with students," she teased lightly, ignoring the growing stormclouds in Callisto's expression. "It is a form of Divination, little one. I will work with Mistress Vadten to create one that will be able to share your experiences on your own world with another kept here. This way, we will be able to keep an eye on you, and there will be a record of all your activities on Earth. Indeed, several of the students who are looking for Ascension will be in possession of them soon. We must have some way of knowing if your stories are truthful, after all."

"A Seeing Stone," Callisto murmured to herself, slowing nodding. "Very well, Mistress. I will give you fair warning of my departure."

"But before we think to that future ..." The Mistress of Bindings' smile seemed to grow a little stern. "Try the spell again."

Excerpt from the Ascension Diaries of Callisto Fairbourne, Mage

That ... was much better than I was expecting. Lance Mortlock is, unfortunately, just as I expected him to be; big, brash, bold, and thinks he is far more clever than is actually the case. Aside from the instant attraction problem - which is mine, not his - he is also ridiculously easy to manipulate. In the space of a couple of hours, I had his agreement that we will part ways in France, and that I will pick him up on the way back, thus keeping both sets of parents happy and avoiding extended periods of time in one another's company.

So now I must set to planning this expedition. Mistress Tul'Nor's tutoring in the soul binding spells will be invaluable, as will the spell I charmed out of Mistress Vadten for mapping an unknown area. The Seknaht vampires, no doubt, have a small legion of minions guarding their compound, but such creatures as serve vampires are easily susceptible to illusionary magics. And once I have my hands on the Book, the Seknaht themselves will not be a problem.

The Book of Thoth, the object of my desires. Reknowned in Ancient Egyptian legend as the tome of magic favored by the god Thoth himself, it is reputed to hold two spells only - one to allow free converse with all animals, the other to allow the caster to perceive the gods themselves. What the legends don't mention is that there is one more spell held within that tome which has far more relevance to me and mine. A spell to dominate the mind and will of the sires of the undead - the perfect weapon against the high vampire clans. And, happily enough, a fine example of a necromantic spell that has been lost to time.

So, to Egypt I will go, Seeing Stone tucked safely away, and my familiars in tow. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, and all that.

Rebel Stronghold, Giza Shore

Blood spurted from the stump of the boatman's severed hand as he stumbled in through the heavily guarded door of the rebel's hidden stronghold, his screams of pain alerting everyone within to his arrival. Behind him came the stumbling, blinded forms of the two burly guards who had been on the door, both crying and whimpering in pain as blood ran from their burst eyeballs.

As uproar prevailed, Callisto stepped delicately in through the doorway behind them. Her disguise was gone now; she stood before them as her own self, a pale-skinned, dark-haired avenging angel, bearing on her shoulders her familiars. Around her neck hung the Seeing Stone, a direct link for her tutors at the Institute to keep an eye on her progress, a medium for recording all she did, ruthless or otherwise. On her shoulders, Mort and Vitae were lashing their tails as they eyed the chaos around them, blood dripping from their long middle digits. It was clear exactly how the guards had lost their eyes.

All eyes turned to the seemingly fragile woman now in their midst. Men reached for weapons, forestalled by the quietly amused smile that touched her lips as she watched them. This many men should surely be able to take down a single woman, and yet ... with barely a sound, she had gained access to their stronghold and taken down three of their best fighters to do so. Common sense prevailed finally, resulting in Callisto being ringed around with armed fighters, yet no one moved to apprehend her.

"I know you can understand me," she said calmly, her voice carrying far over the howls of pain from her victims. "You have tried to double-cross me once. I would not recommend you attempting it again. As you can see, I am more than capable of defending myself."

The dark eyes of her aghast audience turned downward to the three men now kneeling in front of her, and to the bloodied claws of the aye-ayes on her shoulders. Mort hissed, raising himself onto his back legs to flex his claws toward the nearest man, who backed away despite himself. Callisto's smirk deepened.

"Your leader, where is he?" she demanded. Her tone implied that any delay would result in more bloodshed, and indeed, this was her intention. They may all be human here, but these humans had already tried to hand her over to the vampires. They were walking a thin line between reluctant allies and enemies with a death wish, in her opinion.

A tall man in ancient armor, handsome but grim, stepped through the throng that had gathered around her, staring down at Callisto in something approaching respectful hatred. "What do you want?"

"One night's board, details of the Seknaht fortress, and a guide to the Sphinx," she answered him calmly, weighing him up as he looked her over. "And no interference."

"What do you intend?"

Her smirk turned colder. "That is my own business," she informed him icily. "All you need know is that when I am done, the Seknaht will be considerably weakened. My intentions beyond that purpose have nothing to do with you."

"You bring bloodshed into our fortress," he accused her hotly. "Why should I help a woman who maims my men?"

"Because if you do not, I will hand the whole pack of you over to the vampires and watch as they tear you to pieces."

The silence that fell at these words was deafening, thick with hostility and incredulous disbelief. Even the wounded men at her feet had fallen still, shocked to the core by her cruel words, the force of intent clear in every last syllable. Callisto revelled in the shockwave of her threat, pleased to see that no one dared to openly disbelieve her, no one even considered that she might not be able to do exactly as she said. She was bluffing, of course; she had no intention of letting the Seknaht know she was here until it was far too late for them to do anything about it. But this ragged band of rebellious ingrates did not know that.

The leader was the only one who did not exhibit the same level of shock and horror as his men, watching her with the eyes of a man who knows a powerful being when he sees one. A man who knows when he is making a deal with a devil. He made no attempt to deny his former deal with the leeches, something Callisto took as a good sign.

Finally, he nodded. "Done. And a guarantee that you will never come back to us."

She snorted with laughter, looking around the darkened, dingy space with open disgust. "With such wonderful hospitality, how can I refuse?" was drawled with sardonic humor. "Done."

And done. The board was set, the first move had been made. What remained to be seen was whether she would survive this game to claim the glory at the final post.

The Dungeon

Callisto lolled against the grimy, gritty stone, wincing as the manacles about her wrists dug into her raw skin. Every breath was a torment; the air down here was not fit for humans, insinuating diseases forgotten by time into every last delicate tissue of her lungs until she could only cough and rasp, barely strong enough to raise her head.

Three days. Three days she had been down here, and in that time, she could feel her strength failing, her life-force seeping away. She no longer even had the energy to spit defiance at the vampires who came to feed her sips of water, to taunt and torment her as she greedily drank down whatever they gave her.

It was coming to time for her guards to return, to give her the liquid she craved to wet her throat and ease the burning in her stomach. Or was it time already? Were they late? Had they decided to let her die down here, rather than discover her purpose in coming? Or were they planning to turn her, to see if the magic could be brought over into their clan by means of sharing her blood?

A small sound near the open bars of the doorway made her look up, blinking blearily through the haze of sickness. There was a little shape moving toward her, capering across the sand with eager energy, clambering over her out-stretched legs with a familiarity that could only be from one creature. Cracked and parched lips parted in a smile for Mort as he scrambled up onto her shoulder, pulling himself along the suspended length of her arm to study the lock on the manacle at her wrist.

"Mort," she rasped, falling into a wracking cough as even that sound vibrating through her throat irritated the sensitive membranes held within. "Where's Vitae?"

She couldn't see what he was doing. It felt as though he were holding onto her with his back paws, careful not to let his claws scratch at her delicate skin, but whatever he was doing with his front paws was beyond her. At least, it was ... until the manacle about her left wrist clanked open. Her arm fell, fizzing as the blood surged to revitalise her abused muscles, as her body slumped to one side, held up now only by the chain at her right arm. Mort chittered triumphantly from his place on the wall and scrambled to the other manacle, inserting the long strength of his dextrous middle digit into the lock to manipulate the mechanism and free his mistress.

Callisto fell forward, sprawling in the sand, coughing once more as the breath rushed from her lungs, as the sense of freedom made itself known. A soft paw patted at her face, Mort's little voice chittering at her with some urgency. She rolled onto her side, peering at the little aye-aye, wondering what it was he and his mate had planned. She did not have long to wait to find out.

There was a hiss from beyond the still closed door, and a second little shape came flying in through the bars, growling ferociously at her pursuer. Vitae scrambled about in the sand, pacing back and forth in front of Callisto's fallen body like a tiny protector, her big eyes fixed upon the cell's doorway. The familiar sound of keys in the lock rattled through the small space, and suddenly Callisto knew what it was her familiars had done. Pride in them surged through her, offering a burst of adrenalin that pumped through her muscles, igniting her need to survive, as the barred door opened, and her guards stepped in.

Two of them, dressed in the showy silks and velvets that all vampires favored, approaching her seemingly lifeless body without caution or care. Their attention was firmly fixed upon the two aye-ayes as they hissed and growled, pacing around their mistress as though prepared to defend her body to the death. The first guard, a sallow-faced female with deadened amber eyes, made a lunge for Vitae, who leapt backward over her mistress' form, and Callisto struck.

With a speed summoned by need, her hand snapped out, closing around the bared skin of the female's wrist. Contact. The vampire let out a hiss of rage at the unexpected attack, seeking to shake the young mage off her, but Callisto was not letting go now. With the words grating in her throat, she began to cast in a dull, leaden tone, each syllable a death knell for the leech caught in her grip.

The second guard, this one a male who might have been handsome in his human days, let out a sharp cry, suddenly guessing the truth of what was about to happen. He reached to pull his companion away, only to find himself set upon by Mort and Vitae, enraged animals who were not about to let him seek to rescue or escape while their mistress had a use for him.

In the sand near his flailing form, Callisto drew in the last of her strength and released her spell. The female leech stilled, eyes widening in shock, unable to believe what was happening. For as the spell took root and spread through her undead form, it tore every last piece of living essence, of ambulatory energy from her, shrivelling her cadaverous body until it was nothing but a husk of bone and dust, crumpling into nothingness against the sandy floor.

The energy flowed into Callisto, purging the sickness from her body, restoring her life-force, her energy, the well-spring of her power. Releasing the dessicated female, she rose onto her feet in a burst of fury, and launched herself at the male. Mort and Vitae scattered as vampire and human impacted against the granite stone wall. The spell was cast once again, and the aye-ayes watched as their mistress regained her color, her strength, took from her guard everything he had to restore herself fully and refill her hidden reserves.

Moments later, it was done. Where there had been a cell with a sickly weak human, now the sand was decorated with the dusty remains of her guards, and Callisto stood tall and upright, strong once more. She clicked her fingers, and Vitae gathered the keys from the ground, bringing them to the young mage with a small chitter.

"Good girl," Callisto praised the aye-aye, dropping to one knee to shower both her familiars in loving affection. "Very good, both of you. Now then ... shall we see where we are?"

The creatures leapt up onto her shoulders, hanging onto the lustrous fall of her hair as she rose to her feet once more, hooking that important keyring onto her belt. She fingered the Seeing Stone that still hung about her neck for a moment, checking that it had not been damaged in her struggle with the male vampire, smiling to herself when she found it still intact and touched, briefly, the watchful mind of Nuno Shadowblade, one of the mistresses back at the I.A.P.

So the Seknaht thought she could be imprisoned that easily, did they? A low laugh echoed from her in the cell, filtering along the winding passages that led from it, a warning to those who heard it that they did not heed. Their last warning.

Excerpt from the Ascension Diaries of Callisto Fairbourne, Mage

So tired. So thirsty. It's been days since I saw the sky - I can't even guess how many. Night and day have been turned around since I was first captured. The closest I can guess to the truth is that I have been down here four days, maybe five. Three of those were spent in that cell, I think. But I was so delirious, it could have been weeks and I wouldn't have noticed.

I'm no fool. I know the only reason I've survived this long is thanks to Mort and Vitae. Without their encouragement, their bravery, their ingenuity in getting me freed in the first place, I'd be dead at this moment. And they're still doing it. Everytime I fall, everytime I overcome one of these traps and sink down into a depression at the thought of more to come, they are there to pull at me, forcing me up onto my feet, to take just one more step, then another.

Vitae is dying. She saved my life just hours ago. We'd been travelling through this twisting labyrinth, dodging traps, fighting our way through the creatures left here to slow up anyone who got this far. Avoiding the searching mind of whatever it is that is waiting for us at the centre of this cursed place.

I was so caught up in keeping that roaming consciousness from recognising my heartbeat, I stumbled right over the trigger for a trap so simple it should have been easy to evade. Distraction in a place like this is deadly; I was an idiot to keep moving without my full attention on the world around me. If Vitae had not knocked me off-balance, pressed herself over my heart, I would have been pinned to the wall by the half-dozen darts that ripped from the apertures beside us.

Only one caught me, piercing my shoulder and opening my blood to the air. But Vitae ... such a small creature, so fragile, speared by three in her quest to keep me safe. I removed the bolts, did my best to heal the wounds, but white magic is not my forte. I can heal the superficial, an open flesh wound. I can't mend shatted bones; I can't seal a punctured lung. I can't save her, the way she saved me.

Mort knows his mate is close to death. He's travelling close on my shoulder all the time now, keeping a close eye on Vitae as her life drains away where she lies nestled against my breast. I won't leave her to be picked over and eaten by the things roaming this place. I can't stop to give her the peace she deserves for her bravery and loyalty. Nor can I help the panic rising in my mind. The closer she gets to death, the smaller my safety net gets. I had hoped for two chances - now I know I will only get one.

We've paused here for now, a niche with a clear view along the passage each way. I'm close, I know it. Within an hour, maybe two, I'll be at the centre of the labyrinth, and I will have to fight whatever has been left to guard the Book. Before tackling the curse that lies upon the Book itself. And all the while, I will feel the essence of one of my dearest friends draining away, her pain and fear filling my mind and heart. I dread the moment of her death. Will I even be able to go on with my task when that horrifying pain rips through me?

The sky was dark, rent with a thousand spiralling clouds, illuminated only by the flash of lightning in shades of blue and purple. The land below was ravaged, fit only for the keeping of cattle in those places where the sun was still allowed to shine for the growing of crops. Wolves patrolled the quiet towns and villages, collared with cruel spikes, whipped into obedience with silver and hatred.

Castle Fairbourne stood stark against the lightning-scarred sky, a dark edifice that dominated the land all around. Through the windows flickered the light of many candles, the warm brilliance dancing upon the water of the moat. From within came the sound of many voices raised in celebration, of music and gaiety undercut with the somber tones of death and destruction. For alongside the bright gowns and sumptuous fabrics there was the glint of firelight on steel, on the smooth curve of armor bearing the last smears of living blood.

The Great Hall was alive with movement and laughter, with the overflowing wellspring of triumph sweet on the lips of those who had drunk deeply from the last dregs of resistance. They danced and played in a macabre parody of the celebrations formerly held by the now dead Fairbourne duchy in the days of their glory. The luxury of the space had been increased, the inhabitants taking delight in all things that offered a showing of wealth and pleasure, savoring the announcement of their power in the beauty they surrounded themselves with.

Yet even here, even in the very heart of power, there lay reminders of the price of their victory. Cages lined the walls, bars wide enough to permit an arm or leg to be drawn through, and beneath, great vats kept warm the bounty that dripped from wounds inflicted upon those who inhabited those open prisons. Not one among them was untouched, their skin punctured by many teeth, their blood drained as a matter of course by the revellers who mingled in the greatness of the hall. Food that kept itself warm and ready for the eating was not to be sneered at, not when it was provided by one of the second generation of their kind.

He sat upon the dais at the very top of the hall, his coat dark and stitched with jet, a suave contrast to the outrageous exuberance of his people's chosen attire. The sharp line of his jaw was held up by a long-fingered hand, pointed fingernails more like claws folded into his palm as he watched the outpouring of victory celebrated all around him with piercing blue eyes that held a millenia of malevolence and greed. Eyes that had brought many to their knees with barely a glance not more than a few hours before, when the clans of the Vampyre had quashed the last remaining ranks of resistance here in this sceptred isle and earned themselves the honor and respect of He who had made them all.

Only one task remained - just one, and the promise of the day would be fulfilled. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips as he saw, over the heads of the dancing revellers, the great portal doors to the hall itself thrown open, and heard the staccato march of armored men and woman across the immaculately tiled floor. Dancers scattered before them, opening a path to the dais itself, offering the master of all he surveyed the delightful view of his last and most wanted prisoner manhandled roughly onto his knees before the elevated throne. The captain of the guard who had brought him bowed to his master.

"My lord, the leader of their so-called resistance." A sharp blow from an armored fist caught the human fighter on the jaw, dropping him to the tiles in an explosion of breath and pain, blood dripping down to fill the miniscule cracks between each delicately placed piece of mosaic. The music abruptly stopped, every eye in the hall turning to watch the final destruction of the British resistance in the death of their much-vaunted leader.

"Asten, you bastard," the fallen human spat, lurching onto his knees once again to glare full into the eyes of the one who had destroyed all his hopes, one by one. "What's the point of all this?"

"Ah, it speaks," the Vampyre spoke in his cultured, lazy tone, a wave of his hand permitting his gathered minions to titter in amusement at his mockery of the man before him. "It asks the point of it all. How quickly humanity loses faith in the purpose of its own existence."

The man let out a low snarl of rage, muscles tensing to launch himself at the Vampyre so calmly mocking him without a thought. But in that moment, a new power seemed to wash over him, paralysing his muscles, holding him in place as all eyes turned to the ornate door that led from the dais into the heart of the castle. The silence that had now fallen was respectful, even fearful, the lower ranks of the undead lowering their eyes, falling into deep obesience as that portal opened silently to admit the gathering's honored hostess.

The gown was of the purest, deepest black velvet, an elegant nod to times of yore when ladies wore more and yet enticed with the mysteries of their hidden beauty. The body it conformed to was pale, slender and luscious in curves held in firm restraint by a corset of bone ivory. The hair, once so lustrous and carefree, had been twisted and lacquered, drawn into a high knot of dazzling intricacy to highlight the aristocratic bones of the face that watched them all from vicious dark eyes. This female exuded sheer, unadulterated power of a sort to rival that of her lord, who rose from his throne to greet her with a cruel smile.

"My dear, you honor us with your presence." He bowed low over her hand, making a play of this chivalric welcome that both amused and disgusted the legion of undead watching them, transfixed by the potency of the pair upon the dais.

Her voice, awaking a distant memory of times past as an echo of its former vibrancy, seemed to purr her response with malicious laughter. "My lord, you insult me with your greeting."

Asten, Lord of the Clan, laughed his harsh, mirthless laugh as he straightened, his long fingers tightening about those of his lady to pull her hard against him. Without care for the hatred in the eyes of his captive, he bent his head to the exposed throat of the female, opening her veins to taste her blood even as his hand pulled carelessly at the folds of her gown. She gasped and trembled at his touch, clinging to him as he took his fill of her, displaying to all and sundry the bounty he claimed as only his.

"Let her go," the last living leader of humanity in these sceptred isles growled, impotently promising revenge with every breath he took. Yet mixed within that hatred, that overwhelming desire to see these creatures dead, was a deep, unrivalled pain, a jealousy and longing, a knowledge of some failure forgotten by time.

Asten raised his head, licking the sweetest of blood from his lips as he released his lady to the cheers of his people, and turned to look down on his captive with a sneer. "She is as free as you shall soon be, my fearless adversary," he informed the man, returning to his seat with leisurely disinterest. "A shame you will not have the wits to enjoy it, as she does." He snapped his fingers sharply, and the guards drew back, those piercing blue eyes focused upon the stately approach of female to prisoner. "Do try not to make too much mess, my dear."

The smirk that curved the female's lips was all manner of suggestive and promising, obedient to her lord's request but eager for what had been promised to her. She moved with sinuous grace to stand before the fallen captive, tilting his head back to bring him stumbling to his feet. Their eyes met, and she revelled in the cry of shock and disgust that left the human's lips, the fulsome denial of a name she had left behind her.

"Callisto ..." Forgetting his place, forgetting the dangers all around him, the prisoner grasped at her waist, fingers kneading the yielding flesh beneath his hands as though trying to sense truth or lies through the coolness of her form. "Callisto, please, tell me you haven't ..."

She laughed the rich, vibrant that he remembered so well, pausing to stroke talon-sharp nails down his cheek with a tenderness that promised pain in its passing. "Lancelot Mortlock," she identified him for those who had not yet caught up with the true nature of the scene being played out before them. "The womaniser who was given my betrothal promise. The coward who let me enter the snake's tomb alone ... The man who failed to protect me."

In the silence that followed, Lance was heard to weep as the last vestige of his hopes was ripped away from him, as his greatest regret came crashing full force around his ears, knowing only too well that had he only insisted upon accompanying his bride-to-be on her fateful journey, they might both still be living the lives they had been born to lead. Instead, he was a prisoner who could expect only death, and she ... she was the first vampire to wield magic. She was the reason for Britain's humiliating defeat.

Callisto laughed again, drawing her hand back to claw at his face, laying his cheek open with three long gashes that spilled blood down over his skin, filling her senses with the delicious invitation of living blood. Better yet, living blood that remembered her when she had a beating heart, remembered the pleasures of her flesh, the cunning and skill that had promised so much. And with shocking suddeness, she grasped his hair, wrenching his head to one side as her fangs sank into his throat, opening his artery to her hunger and greed.

Yet even as she drank his blood, pain blossomed deep in her soul, a tearing agony that brought her screaming to her knees as the room spun around her, the faces and forms of her subjects, of her victims, all fading into nothingness as emptiness clawed at her heart and mind, as a thin voice raised in a howl of despairing loss broke through the domination of her mind. Reality shifted, changed, and Callisto returned to herself, and the horror of her predicament.

The first thing that came to her was the sense of loss. Vitae, sweet, forgiving, ever-protective Vitae ... she was gone, finally succumbed to the wounds that had been inflicted upon her by the devious traps of the labyrinth itself. The howling she could hear was Mort's grief for the loss of his mate, echoing the hollow, biting empitness that ripped through her own soul as that precious binding of familiar and mage was destroyed without mercy in the moment of death. Cold hands swept over her body, sending shivers through her skin that urged a twitching response. How had she become naked, how long had it been since she had looked into those piercing blue eyes? She could feel the softness of silk at her back, the weight of a body over hers, the tender lick of lips and tongue at her throat as an easy dullness spread through her limbs.

Callisto's eyes snapped open, her arms rising without thought to fight back. Without even lifting his head from her neck, Asten, Lord of the Seknaht, snapped her forearm, sending her screaming into despair as bone and blood fought to the surface, too intent upon his meal to care that his touch on her mind had been weakened. She had mere moments in which to act, after all ... the venom was already beginning to form in his fangs, ready to Turn her when he had drunk his fill. Oh yes, this little one would be a fine addition to his harem.

The Book of Thoth

It was time. Barely an hour of sleep in the centre of this nest of vipers, and Callisto was ready to continue. Well, as ready as she would ever be. Her clothing destroyed, she had fashioned a very rough toga of the silken sheets to cover herself, her efforts made clumsy by the wand that splinted her useless left arm. Every part of her ached, longing to lie down and simply sleep the pain and the misery away, but she knew she couldn't do that. Not here, not now. Not when she was so close.

She knelt on the sand a few feet away from the raised sarcophagus that contained the vaunted Book of Thoth, idly flicking through the notes she had remembered to bring with her. Mort was cuddled on her shoulder, hugging his small body against the unmarred side of her neck. Despite his own grief, the aye-aye knew what he was expected to do now - they had trained together for weeks to be certain of what was now to come.

"... guarded by an eternal serpent, a creature that cannot die ... suggests a form of parasitical existence with the one who disturbs the Book ... the snake's poison prolongs life until the mortal form is utterly destroyed ... use of necromantic power by the snake itself ... if the host is not human, host will die - snake should die also ..."

It was a lot to be chancing her life on, but after the trauma of getting to this point, Callisto was done with being cautious. Caution had gotten her imprisoned, bitten, broken, almost turned, and it had killed one of her soul companions in the process. To hell with caution.

Drawing in a slow breath, she gently stroked her cheek against Mort's quivering form, encouraging him to jump down from her with a roll of her shoulder. The little creature did so, creeping across the sand on tentative paws to wait in patient, resigned silence beside the sarcophagus. As he looked back at his mistress, she drew the silence of the labyrinth around herself, building an illusion of nothing more than sand and stone, erasing herself from plain sight behind a mask of magic.

Raising her broken arm with her good right hand, Callisto aimed the crystal of her wand toward the stone and began to chant an old, simple cantrip that would open the stone lid and release the guardian within. The ancient stone groaned as it scraped free, the heavy lid rising just a few inches before sliding to the side, landing upon the sand with a thump that shook the ground beneath her. There was a pause, and Mort began to crawl up over the stone, perching on the edge of the open sarcophagus to peer inside. Unseen by the little aye-aye, Callisto rose to her feet, moving with him to look down into the burial place.

To her surprise, there were no mummified remains, no evidence that any being had ever been entombed within the stone coffin. But there two ancient stone tablets, carved from granite, each bearing the mark of Thoth. Hieroglyphs covered both of them, spelling out the distinct spells that had only ever been used by a so-called god, and the condemned men who had tried to rob this treasure from its former resting places. Again, Callisto concentrated, and again she intoned the words of that simple evocation, inciting the tablets to rise from their resting place without intervention.

When the beautifully powerful pieces hovered above the level of the sarcophagus edge, the young mage took several steps back, uncertain if her illusion would be enough to fool the ancient guardian of Thoth's precious incantations into believing she was not there. Again, she paused, drawing together her thoughts and intentions, knowing that a single slip here would doom her beyond anything the vampires could possibly imagine. This was the reason for allowing her familiars to join her on this journey - without them, Callisto would have had no chance at all in her endeavour.

Closing her eyes, hiding the sight of what was about to come from her own sensibilities, she drew from her memory the spell she had been practising what seemed a lifetime ago with Mistress Tul'Nor. The spell she had written herself, that would either be her life or her death here and now. The words wound themselves around her own soul, seeking out the intricacies that bound Mort to her so irrevocably. Gently beginning to process of picking that bond apart.

"Quid olim nostra non amplius
Ego cvm tormentis a me separare."

Mort listened closely, his wide eyes pricked toward where her voice emanated from, waiting for that one syllable she had trained him to recognise above all others. Tormentis was his cue, and he took it obediently, reaching to touch both tablets with his outstretched paws. The moment his pads found the ancient stone, a crackle of energy coursed into his fragile little form, a monstrous cobra erupting from the bottom of the sarcophagus to sink its deadly fangs into Mort's immobile body.

Callisto felt the first pangs of the curse as it ripped through her familiar, quick to complete her spell and sever finally the last bond on her soul. It was cruel, a ruthless necessity, to bring Mort here only to have him die for her, but surely that was the ultimate purpose of a familiar. The pain of the severing was crippling to her once again, knocking her onto her knees as her illusion crumbled, leaving her open to attack should her gambit not pay off.

But it did. The cobra wound itself around the aye-aye as he howled out his pain at the sudden shearing of souls, convulsing violently in the smooth coils as curse and venom fought for dominance in a body too small, too insignificant to be able to cope with such power. Too weak to live in the grip of such conflicting adversaries. A dumb animal enchanted to fulfil a purpose, the cobra knew nothing of what was happening ... only that its prey had fallen dead, and the slow creep of millenia were beginning their march through its own body.

Callisto opened her eyes in time to see the snake's body crumble to dust, to see Mort's ravaged, twisted form fall into the sand and lie still. At the end, it had been her own actions, the intentional severing of the bond between them that had killed the aye-aye. But that destruction of something so near, so dear, had saved her life. Both curse and snake had run their course in the form of a creature too loyal to disobey.

The stone tablets fell gently onto the sand before her, shaking her mind from dangerous reflections on the fragility of life and the pointlessness of all endeavour. Mistress Tul'Nor had warned of consequences, but she had never mentioned the aching chasm of emptiness that now throbbed deep inside Callisto's soul. With a shaking hand, she reached forward to touch the carven stone before her, at this moment unable to see why they were so precious, why they had been worth all this pain.

A shriek erupted from somewhere above her, faint but furious, joined by another, and another, and Callisto found her purpose again. The Seknaht knew they had been defeated; they knew a mage had laid hands upon the Book of Thoth. It was time to go home.

But revenge first, of course.