The moon, swollen and bone white, striped the twin burial mounds with broad bands of gray.

"It is enough. Hurry before someone comes." The hoarse words came from the writhing shadow floating at Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick dropped the spade and moved the oil lantern closer. Yes, there looked to be enough room. He slipped into the opening.

Wedged between the wall of dirt and the simple hammered-metal casket, he pried at its lid with an iron bar. It gave way with the shriek of nails ripping free, and his breath caught in his throat as he scanned the darkness overhead. But no alarm came. Of course not, he thought with a harsh exhale, no one cared about the man who lay swathed inside. It was enough he was dead.

The cloying scents of lavender and sage flooded his nose as he pushed the casket's top aside and looked down. The form was intact. The shroud covering it was stain-free, whole, and a startling white.

"It is good. It has been a long wait."

Patrick glanced at the demon beside him. "All is prepared." Taking a deep breath, he reached in and lifted the body, then shoved it up toward the opening. Struggling, he got his feet on the edge of the casket and, using his legs for leverage, he used his shoulders and arms to propel the corpse onto the surface above. Panting, he placed his palms on the ground and lifted himself out of the hole. The demon hovered anxiously. Outside the grave, Patrick glanced up as clouds scudded across the face of the moon and blanketed the small square of land once again in darkness.

He hoisted the body over his shoulder and carried it to the waiting cart. The mare sidestepped and snorted as he laid it inside. "Easy."

The demon remained well back from the restive horse. "I will await you at the cottage."

The darkness rippled and Patrick was alone.

It took only a few hurried moments to replace the dirt of the grave and pat it down. He spared a minute to stand by the other unmarked mound and bid its inhabitant a sad, final farewell.

Only the shuffle of the horse and the creaking of the cart's wheels broke the silence of the still night.

Patrick spied the stunted tree and turned the cart from the path. Glancing back, he strengthened the shielding ward.

Dirkk would be surprised at how strong the magic was within him now and how easy it had been to summon the demon who'd led him to the hidden scrolls and tomes.

In stolen hours he'd pored over them, learning and obeying the words, gaining the knowledge to obtain the power he craved. And, with the finding of the blood scroll, he'd even gone beyond what his old master had dared.

Patrick halted the horse and cart before a small wood-cutter's cottage. Closing his eyes, he mentally traveled the circle of the red ward. Satisfied, he jumped from the cart. The door opened at his silent command. He carried the shrouded body inside, past the simple cottage's large square table and hearth taking up the entire space of one daub-and-wattle wall.

At a glance from Patrick, flames sprang to life in the fireplace and fed upon the mounded wood. He skirted a black cooking pot, tipped on its side, a shroud of spider webs its only content. His hip bumped a haphazard stack of crates by the hearth, and his breath caught as a pile of scrolls and books inside trembled, then released when they did not fall. The books were old and fragile, their covers cracked and pitted. Ancient runes, parts faded into pale shadows, titled them.

He carried the body to a cot against a far wall and with care placed it down. Too impatient to free the sheathed blade strapped to his side, he ripped the cloth away with his hands. Dirkk's pale face shone in the dimness. They'd removed the black leather mask before burial and, for the first time, he looked upon his master's scarred flesh. His heart raced and his hands trembled as he ran his fingertip across a gray ridge of puckered skin. They would pay for this. All of them.

A cold wind gusted inside the cottage, raising chill bumps upon his arms. He turned and watched the air ripple. A loud crack sounded and the dank odor of rotting kelp and wet earth filled his nose. A writhing shape formed before him.

The demon's grating words filled his mind. "It is time."

Patrick nodded and moved toward the door. As he passed the table, he picked up a lantern.

Around the side of the cottage, a hunched form lay staring upward, unseeing, into the darkness. The man wore tattered clothing, and a fetid stench of sweat and filth filled Patrick's nose, causing him to grimace.

The man turned sunken eyes upon him. Then, as they went beyond Patrick's shoulder, he screamed, and the stinging smell of urine filled the air. Patrick did not have to turn to know the demon floated behind him. The man's form shook uncontrollably. Patrick murmured a few soft words, and the man jerked and scrambled onto his knees.

An earthenware bowl sat next to the man. He fumbled for it and held it up to Patrick, who took it. With a raspy sob, the man dropped his hand, tilted his head back, and bared his throat. The demon flowed to hover above them.

"No. You waste too much blood."

"I hunger."

"Afterward."

Patrick slipped his knife free and sliced it across the man's throat. His eyes glittered as he watched the blood flow. When it reached the rim, he pulled the bowl away. The blood pooled and steamed upon the cold ground as the demon howled in protest. Its black liquid form spread across the widening pool, and a sound, like that of a thirsty dog lapping water, filled Patrick's ears.

Sheathing his blade, Patrick grabbed the dead man by the heels and dragged him toward the back of the cottage. He heard a flurry of scrabbling feet and a chorus of angry growls. From the darkness, yellow eyes stared at him. He dropped the man next to a pile of bones, some gnawed clean, some still with dried, withered meat clinging to them. He turned back toward the cottage, the sound of snarling filling his ears before he'd taken ten paces.

Patrick placed the bowl on the table before the opened blood scroll. The fire flared high in the hearth now and warmth filled the cottage. He unbuckled his knife belt, pulled the blade free, and rested it beside the bowl. In slow, precise order, he removed his clothing. His softly voiced chant changed in rhythm as each article fell to the floor.

Naked, he dipped his fingers into the still warm blood and marked his face, hands and chest with runes, symbols whose meanings were last whispered into the ears of those of the ancient sect of dark mages known as the Cocidius.

Stilling himself, he picked up the knife and sliced across the end of his thumb. He tipped his hand and let his blood drip to mingle with that in the bowl, counting each drop as it fell. When the count reached seventeen, one for each eye of the demon goddess, Ea'Donia, he pressed his finger and thumb together and healed the cut with a few chosen words.

With the blade of the knife, Patrick blended the bloods inside the bowl. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached and pulled the scroll toward him. A shadow fell across the table, and he glanced up as the demon moved close. A dark stain coated the fangs at each corner of the demon's mouth. Patrick hiked his shoulders in warning and the dark shape drew back.

The writings on the thin, brown-edged parchment were more sounds than words. As the first fell from his lips, he found himself cringing at the power ringing within them. His body hair rose and a fierce need to scratch crawled across his skin, but he did not take his gaze from the bowl as he spoke. As he uttered the last word, he leaned closer still. All remained unchanged. This was not right.

The demon moved close again. "What have you done wrong?"

Ignoring the question, Patrick dipped his finger again into the blood, but before he could etch the runes again onto his naked body, they began to burn as if he was being branded. Scarlet smoke rose from each mark and drifted upward.

Grunting, the demon rose and writhed among the red haze.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick picked up the bowl with shaking hands and moved to Dirkk's body. With a piece of sun-bleached wool, he painted his right palm with blood and then placed it against Dirkk's stilled heart. He refused to think of the heart as dead, pictured it instead just resting between beats. He drew his hand away, leaving behind a bloody print. He dipped a finger into the bowl, touched each of Dirkk's eyelids and then traced the contours of the pale lips.

Breathing deep, he sought to calm the quaking within him as he cut the remaining stitches holding the shroud together. Trembling, he drew the same runes on the pale naked form that he had first drawn upon his own body. Taking a deep breath, Patrick chanted the final words of the spell. The whispered sounds rose in volume as they floated toward the beams of the ceiling. The air above Dirkk began to shimmer, like rising heat from the King's Road in the middle of a scorching summer.

Patrick stared at the bloody print on Dirkk's chest, willing it to rise and fall. Chills formed on his naked body. Did he need to start over? It would take some time to begin again. He would need fresh blood. A grating groan filled his mind. At the same instant, the demon shrieked. Patrick jerked, and the bowl fell from his hands. He watched in angry silence as the blood spread across the stones and seeped into the daub cracks. He spun to find the demon, to shriek his own anger, but the room was empty.

"Well, pup, what have you done?" a voice demanded inside his head.

He jerked back toward the bed. "Master?" he stammered.

The answer was long in coming, as if Dirkk took in his surroundings, but that was not possible, for the eyes of the corpse remained closed.

"You have used the blood scroll."

"To return you to life."

"A noble undertaking," Dirkk said. "You found its twin?"

"What?"

"Did you not wonder, pup, why I had never used the blood scroll?"

The whispered words made Patrick cringe. "You feared the demon..." He looked behind him again. "Where is the demon?"

A mocking laugh echoed in his mind. "No, pup, I did not fear the demon. I did not have the scroll's twin."

"Twin?" Patrick repeated dully.

Dirkk sighed. "You have but brought me halfway back."

An overwhelming thirst struck Patrick. Without thought, he stumbled from the cottage to the well outside. In frenzied movements, he dropped the bucket and cranked it back up. He cupped his palm and gulped the frigid water.

"Get inside, pup. We don't want to fall ill."

Only then did Patrick realize his body shook with cold.

Dirkk's words rang in his ears as he stumbled toward the cottage door. "We don't want to fall ill."

Shivering, he tossed more wood on the fire, throwing quick glances at Dirkk's still, prone body.

"I do not look bad for seven years in the grave," Dirkk said. "Replace my mask, pup."

"How...?"

"You did keep it, did you not?"

"I have it." Patrick rubbed his forearms. "But how is it that you are in my head?"

"You have but the one blood scroll," Dirkk said, as if the answer was obvious. "You must have the other to bring my body back."

"You will remain inside my head...?"

"Until I have my body, pup."

Patrick swallowed. "Can you control me?"

Dirkk laughed. "Only if you wish me to."

"Why would...?"

"Just think what I can provide you."

"You retain your knowledge?"

"I retain all. Everything I remember. Tessa, the harlot queen. Regan who betrayed me and stole the emerald dagger. Tell me, where are my fenris'ena ... my fire wolves."

Patrick hesitated. "I'm not sure. The queen had them moved to a secret valley."

"We must find them."

"Why? Regan has the emerald dagger. She now controls them."

"I will have it back. I will have it all back. But first my body must be restored. You must obtain the twin blood scroll for me."

"Where do I...?"

"In the palace of the elven king, Timothias."

"How am I to get into the palace of the elves?" Patrick demanded.

"I will see to it, but first I must give to you your name of power."

"My name...?"

"All apprentices must be given a power name. I've known yours these many years. I had planned ... " The words trailed away. "But enough. I give it to you now. You are Gearoid, my brave spear. It must be known only to master and apprentice, and is how the dark gods will know you. They will not respond to Patrick Bannion but, if supplicated properly, all power will be offered to Gearoid."

"Gearoid," Patrick repeated.

"You shiver. Clothe our body. We must not catch a chill. And then feed us. I crave a thick slice of rare beef and roasted tubers."

Patrick had always preferred his beef well done, but now found his mouth watering at the thought of a slab of the meat still glistening with red. "Yes, master. It will be as you command."