Chapter 1

Death led Asrial from the arwat through the crowded streets of the dead city of Serinda. Glancing back, the angel could see Pukah sitting disconsolately near the window, his face against the glass, staring into nothing. For the first time since Asrial had come to know him, the djinn looked defeated, and she felt an aching in her chest in what Pukah would have termed her heart. Repeating to herself that immortal beings did not possess such sensitive and wayward organs did little to ease the angel’s pain.

“I’ve been around humans too long,” Asrial rebuked herself. “When I go back, I will spend seven years in chapel and do penance until these uncomfortable, very wrong, and improper feelings are expunged from my being!”

But the strong, shielding walls of the cathedral of Promenthas were very far away. A mist began to rise up around the angel, obliterating the sight of the arwat from her view, The sounds of the city of Serinda faded in the distance. Asrial could see nothing except the gray fog that swirled around her and the figure of Death near.

“Where are we?” asked Asrial, confused and disoriented in the thick mist.

“One might say this is my dwelling place,” responded Death.

“Dwelling!” Asrial peered through the mist, attempting to see past the wispy rags of fog that wrapped and whorled and meandered around them. “I see no dwelling!”

“You see no walls, no floor, no ceiling, you mean,” Death corrected. “Such structure makes—for you—a dwelling. Yet how should I—who know the impermanence of all things—put my faith in the frail and fragile elements? Were I to live in a mountain, I would eventualy see it crumble around me. Speaking of that which is frail and fragile, I will show you the human in whom you take such an interest.”

The mists swirled and then parted, swept from before the angel’s eyes by a blast of cold wind. She stood in the Vestry. Mathew—dagger in hand—faced Khardan. Behind Mathew stood Auda ibn Jad, his sword slowly and noiselessly sliding from its scabbard. And standing near them all, its red eyes gleaming in glee—

“A servant of Astafas!” cried Asrial. “And I am not there to protect Mathew! Oh, I should never have left him, never!”

“Why did you come?”

“I was told I had to, or else my protege would lose his soul,” Asrial faltered, her eyes on the imp.

“And who told you this?”

“A. . . fish,” Asrial said, flushing in embarrassment. “How could I be so foolish!”

“The fish was the Goddess Evren, child.” Death seemed amused. “Trying to regain Her immortals, so that She can return to power, if She manages to return to life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The two fish you see in the globe on the altar are, in reality, the God Zhakrin and His opposite, the Goddess Evren. They are in the hands of Zhakrin’s followers. The Black Sorceress, the woman standing beside the altar, was just about to bring Zhakrin back into the world by placing His essence into the body of a human when your Mathew decided to interfere.

“The young man came into possession of a wand of evil magical power. He succumbed to the temptation to use it and so—without you to guard him—he is easy prey for Astafas. Your Mathew is attempting to take possession of the fish.”

“To save Evren!” Asrial breathed.

Death shrugged. “Mathew is a human, child. The war in Heaven is not his concern. Under the growing influence of evil, the only person he intends to free is himself. Once he has possession of the globe, the magic surrounding it will protect him from harm. If he takes it, he would dare not free the Gods. And it would not make much difference if he did. Without their immortals, Zhakrin and Evren will soon dwindle, and this time they will vanish completely. Quar’s power is ten times what it was when he first caught them. Their followers will be obliterated from the earth.”

The vision changed. Asrial saw the future. A mighty armada sailed the Kurdin Sea. Hordes of men, bearing the standard of the golden ram’s head, landed upon the beach of the Isle of Galos. The followers of Zhakrin fought desperately to save their Castle, but it was all in vain. They were overwhelmed: The bodies of the Black Paladins lay hacked and mangled upon the beach. Their line had not broken; each died where he stood—side by side with his brother. In the Castle, the Black Sorceress and the women fought with their magic, but that, too, could not prevail against the might of Quar. The Imam called down their ruin. The ‘efreet, Kaug, surged up from the volcano, bringing with him deadly ash and poisonous fume. He shook the ground; the Castle walls cracked and crumbled. The armies of Quar fled to their boats and sailed hastily back to the mainland. The volcano blew asunder; molten rock flowed into the boiling sea. Steam and cloud wound their winding sheets about the Isle of Galos, and it vanished forever beneath the dark waters.

“They are a cruel and evil people,” said Asrial, reliving in her mind the murder of the priests and magi upon the shores of Bas. “They deserve such a fate. They are not fit to live.”

“So Quar teaches—about the followers of Promenthas,” said Death coolly.

“He is wrong!” Asrial cried. “My people are not like those!”

“No, and they are not like Quar’s followers. And therefore they must either become like Quar’s followers or they must die, for ‘they are not fit to live.’ “

“You must stop him!”

“Why should I care? What does it matter to me if there is one God or twenty? And it is not your concern, either, is it, child? Your concern is for that one mortal whose life and soul stand poised upon the blade of a dagger. I fear there is little you can do to save his life”—Death caused the vision of Mathew to return and gazed upon it, an expression of insatiable hunger on her pallid face—”but you might yet be able to save his soul.”

“I must go to him—”

“By all means,” said Death nonchalantly. “But I should remind you that in order to reach the city gate, you will have to traverse the streets of Serinda.”

The angel stared at Death with stricken face.

“But I can’t! If I should die—”

“—you would live again, but without any memory of your protégé.”

“What do you want of me?” Asrial demanded through trembling lips. “You brought me here, you showed me this for a purpose.”

“Can’t you guess? I want Pukah.”

“But you have him!” the angel answered despairingly.

“You said yourself that there is no way for him to escape!”

“Nothing in Sul is certain,” replied Death sagely, “as I—above all others—have reason to know. You love him, don’t you?”

“Immortal beings cannot love.” Asrial lowered her eyes.

“Should not. It reduces their efficiency, as you yourself can plainly attest. You have committed a double sin, child. You have fallen in love with a mortal and an immortal. Now you must choose between them. Give me Pukah, and will set you free to go to the rescue of your mortal’s soul, if not his body.”

“But it will be too late!” Asrial gazed, terrified, at the vision before her.

“Time has no meaning here. One day passes in this realm for every millisecond in the mortal realm. Bring me the tourmaline amulet this night, leave the djinn defenseless, and I will see to it that you arrive in time to fight for Mathew’s soul.”

“But you said Pukah had until morning!”

The woman showed her teeth in a grin. “Death is without pity, without mercy, without prejudice. . . without honor. The only oaths I am bound to keep are those I swear in Sul’s name.”

Asrial looked again at Mathew. She could see the darkness already folding its black wings around him. The sword of Auda ibn Jad was sliding forth slowly, ever so slowly, from its scabbard and she saw Mathew—his back turned to the Black Paladin—raise his dagger against a man who had trusted him, a man he loved.

Asrial bowed her head, her white wings drooped, and she found herself standing in the street, in front of the arwat in the city of Serinda.