rats were not easily intimidated, not even by magic. They withdrew and

waited.

In time they knew that he would weaken. Sooner or later he'd have to go to

sleep.

Modred no longer felt the cold, damp stone against his skin. He had passed

beyond caring about the burning pain in his arms and shoulders. He had been

hanging by his manacled wrists for days, without a wink of sleep, suspended

several feet above the floor by thick iron chains embedded in the wall. He

had

no idea where he was. The last thing he could remember was a whirlwind of

crystalline blue fire sucking him into its vortex. When he came to, he was

chained and hanging in the cell. He had seen no one. He had not been fed. He

had

not been given anything to drink. He didn't know what day it was, or even if

it

was day or night. He had lost all track of time. The only light in the dark,

windowless cell came from the faintly glowing ruby set into his chest. It was

the only thing keeping him alive. The chains that held him had been

spellwarded;

he could not break free. And something in the cell was slowly sapping all his

strength, draining his life force. The stone walls seemed to throb with

eldritch

emanations.

At first he thought he was hallucinating when a pale blue glow started to

fill

the cell, but then a figure wreathed in an aura of blue light appeared before

him, standing about ten feet away. As the blue glow ebbed, he made a languid

gesture with his right hand, little more than a flick of his fingers, and a

torch set in an iron wall sconce erupted into flame. Modred stared at the

strikingly handsome man with elegantly styled, fiery red hair. He was wearing

a

soft black cabretta leather suit cut in the noveau medieval style. He looked

like an androgynous cross between a dominatrix and Beau Brummel.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," he said softly, "but I'm afraid I had some

business to attend to." He glanced down at the pile of rat corpses beneath

Modred's feet. "I see you've managed to keep yourself amused."

"Water..." Modred said raspily.

"Water? Well...why not? Only a little, though. I wouldn't want you to regain

your strength."

He made a slight gesture, and it began to rain lightly on Modred. Only on him

and nowhere else in the cell. Modred raised his head, turning his face up to

the

raindrops, and licked the moisture from his lips. He opened his mouth and

tried

to catch as many of the droplets as he could, but the cool, light shower

lasted

for only a moment or two and then stopped, leaving him damp. He groaned and

shivered.

"Who... who are you?" he asked weakly.

"Your death," the necromancer said. His gaze centered on the faintly glowing

runestone over Modred's heart. "Which of you are contained therein, I wonder?

Azrael? Moab? Zachariahs? Or have you lost your own identities even as you