or morals. He knew only too well that even a knight like Lancelot could be

destroyed by passion, and a woman pure as Guinevere could betray her own

ideals.

Modred had seen how easily principles could be perverted and morality

manipulated. He had known the self-righteous hypocrisy of Camelot, where

might

made right and adultery was tolerated so long as the appearance of virtue

could

be maintained. He wanted no part of chivalry or honor. He cared even less for

love and glory. The consuming emotions of his youth were banished utterly, to

be

replaced by the ruthless pragmatism of a black knight errant ruled only by

cold

logic.

He traveled the world and watched it change throughout the centuries. He

became

the consummate master of invisibility, living many different lives under

countless aliases, hiding his vast wealth and his true identity in an

impenetrable cloak of secrecy. He made his way by means of his physical and

intellectual powers rather than thaumaturgic skill. His mother's training and

the natural gifts he had inherited from her had made him an adept, but magic

was

Morgana's way, and Merlin's. Modred wanted no part of it.

Yet the choice was never really his to make. He had learned that he could not

escape his destiny. He rubbed his chest and felt the hardness of the small

ruby

embedded in the skin over his heart. He unbuttoned his lace-trimmed shirt and

glanced down at the enchanted runestone set into his chest. It was glowing

softly.

He did not know why it had started glowing, or why it throbbed the way it

did.

It seemed to pulse like a small heart.

He emptied the bottle of Scotch, picked up the phone, and ordered another

sent

up from room service. He rubbed his chest once more. It felt sore from the

strangely throbbing runestone. He felt an intense anxiety that he could not

define. He did not understand what was happening, and it worried him. He lit

another cigarette. Smoking and drinking were destructive human vices, yet

they

had no visible effect upon him. At one point or another he had done just

about

every self-destructive thing a man could do. It was as if he had been playing

a

game with Death for all those years, daring the Grim Reaper to come and try

to

claim him. Many times the Reaper had almost done just that, but Modred had

always managed to elude him. He had started to believe that he was

indestructible, but Merlin's death at the hands of the Dark Ones had firmly

convinced him otherwise. If Merlin could be killed, then he could die as

well.

That knowledge had given life a sharper edge. That, and the knowledge that he

now had a purpose that was greater than his own survival. A quest, of sorts,

not

unlike Galahad's relentless search for the Holy Grail.

Modred smiled as he thought of his old tutor. He finally understood him how,