The two moons danced in and out of the clouds above the green fields and forest hollows of Arkhumshire. On this, an unusually cold night for so early in the fall, dense fog crawled throughout the hollows. Wrapped in cloaks against the unseasonable chill, two figures rode down the country road on two vorns. The antlered mounts snorted and bleated in protest at being out in the cold night air.

"I'd check down by The Old Miller's Bridge around midnight, Connel," one of the riders said in a quietly commanding voice. "That's when that grog place in the old shack closes, and--"

"I know, father," Connel said. "Seems I was doing just that myself not too long ago."

The two men laughed.

"Was a time, son," the older man said, "before you went off to fight with the Guards, when I would've said you were too wild, too restless to be happy up here being a country sheriff. You've mellowed, lost some of those rough edges we used to fight about--"

"I haven't lost all my fight yet, old man--" Connel said with a smile. The two men laughed again.

"You make this old sheriff proud boy, but I'm not so old I can't whip your--" The mustached sheriff's shrewd face took on a serious aspect. Connel saw the look.

"What's the matter, father? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"No," the older man said in a quiet voice. "Just remembering old Tirum Brandal said almost those very words to me the night before I--"

Connel was a handsome man with a world-weary aspect to his face, but he had caring, intelligent eyes and he focused them intently on his father. "You found him, didn't you?"

"Almost five turns ago," the sheriff said. "His face was torn up so bad that if it wasn't for his signet of office, I wouldn't have known him." He shuddered with remembrance but tried to pass it off as a chill from the night. His son noticed and said nothing about it.

"They never caught anybody, did they?"

"No. Some said it was a wild tvek; but I never believed that. After them other three, Lady Daemon being the last, the killer just went to ground."

"What's your guess--a Markoffan or somebody from that Ashun cult?"

"Drifter, more likely." The sheriff said, "Sure wish I'd have collared that bastard; but I'm retiring so it'll be your job in a year." Father and son sat in silence, letting the tension dissipate.

The two vorns pulled up in front of the sheriff's isolated waddle-and-daub house, where the sheriff climbed down with a show of groaning. "Gonna feel good to get these old bones under the comforter."

"'Night, father. Tell mom I'll stop by tomorrow," Connel said.

"'Night, son. Take a care getting home."

The sheriff waved to Connel and turned to walk his vorn to the little lean-to shed that served as stable beside the house. He whistled an old dance tune softly to himself. Connel watched him go for a moment, smiled to himself and turned his vorn to head back up the road toward town.

The sheriff unsaddled his vorn, and threw a saddle blanket over its dappled back. He set out some feed and scratched the beast between its antlers. "We could both use a little rest tonight, eh fellow?" The vorn bleated as if to answer.

When the sheriff turned to approach the door of his cottage the vorn made an unsettled noise and stamped nervous hooves. The sheriff stopped and stood looking around. "What is it that's upset you, Dagger?" A rustling at some bushes near the house attracted his attention.

He stepped toward the bush and halted, drawing his belt knife. The bushes rustled again followed by a low sound like a growl. The sheriff took a step back and brandished his knife as if to reassure himself.

In an instant, a woman dressed in a white flowing gown emerged from another bush some twenty feet away, drawing the sheriff's attention. Fog crept up from the hollows, giving the appearance that the woman floated forward toward the man. As the young woman moved closer, he admired her beauty and red hair. There was something vaguely familiar about her features and he tried to focus on her face, but when she got almost to arms length his eyes were drawn to a jagged open wound in her throat.

"Lady Daemon?" He ventured looking again into her green, haunted eyes.

She smiled and hissed just as the blade of a rapier shot out of the bush beside the sheriff. He screamed.

Barely half a league down the road, Connel heard his father's cry of agony. He spun his mount about and raced back. When he galloped into sight of the cottage clearing, his mother was already out of the house and by his father's side. He leapt from his mount and was at the old man's side almost before the scream died. But his father was already gone to the world beyond.

He cradled the lifeless man. His mother cried hysterically beside him.

He looked up to speak to his mother, tears blurring his vision, and started for a second, for he thought he saw a figure at a distance in the fog. A spectral red haired woman laughing hideously...