after all these centuries had passed. Galahad had known that a man could not

define himself through his relationships with others. He had understood that

his

identity was not bound up with his father or his mother, nor with his fellow

knights, nor with his king. It was to be found somewhere within himself, and

it

was there that Galahad had searched with an anguished desperation, looking

for

that essence of himself, seeking to define his soul. In the end he found his

Holy Grail, but the quest had killed him. Now Modred wondered if he was the

darker side of Galahad, and if his own unholy quest would lead to the same

end.

As he stared out at the sun setting over the city, he drew deeply on his

cigarette and wondered how a cat burglar, a bumbling warlock, and a

professional

assassin could possibly hope to succeed where Merlin himself had failed. As

if

in response, the runestone embedded in his chest flashed and sent a searing

pulse of energy flowing through him like an electric current.

He doubled over, clutching at his chest and grimacing with pain. Suddenly the

hotel room became somehow transparent. He could see through the walls,

floors,

and ceiling to a galaxy of stars. The light around him drained away, and he

heard the sound of distant, mocking laughter. Then it was over and the pain

was

gone, as quickly as it had come. He stood once more in the hotel room, the

walls

around him solid, his face flushed, his skin warm and damp with perspiration.

He

leaned against the wall, shook his head, and blinked his eyes to clear his

vision. The gem set into his chest was strobing brightly.

"What the devil is happening to me?" he said, as if asking the living gem

that

had become a part of him.

There was a knock at the door.

"Room service," said a voice outside the door.

Unsteadily Modred walked over to the door and opened it. The waiter came into

the room, stooped over to push the serving cart that held several covered

dishes, a pot of tea, a small basket of bread, and a vase holding a single

yellow rose.

"I didn't order dinner," Modred said. "I asked for a bottle of Scotch. You

must

have the wrong room."

The room service waiter straightened up, and Modred found himself staring at

a

grinning, worm-infested skull with green fire glowing in its empty eye

sockets.

Instinctively he jerked back and drew his pistol in a lightning-swift motion.

He

fired three times, point-blank, at the fearsome apparition. The figure

literally