"So I was right, they are stolen," Blood said. "You'd do best to tell me all

about it. If you were to cooperate—"

"Look, will you stop being a cop for just a little while and listen?" she

said.

"All right, yes, anything," said Blood, wincing. "Jut don't raise your voice.

Please."

"They're keys to an ancient spell," she explained. "One of the oldest and

most

powerful incantations in the world, a spell that goes back to the dawn of

time.

"Three stones, three keys to lock the spell.

Three jewels to guard the Gates of Hell.

Three to bind them, three in one,

Three to hide them from the sun.

Three to hold them, three to keep,

Three to watch the sleepless sleep."

As she spoke the incantation the sapphire in the palm of her hand glowed

brighter, giving off sparkling rays of light as if it were a star. Blood

listened as she told him the story of the Old Ones, of the war between the

white

mages and the necromancers, and of how the Council of the White had given up

their lives to infuse their powers and life energies into the enchanted

runestones, all except for Gorlois, who had sealed up the tomb of the Dark

Ones

and gone out into the world to many a girl from the De Dannan tribe and

become

Merlin's father, and later, with another wife, to father the three halfling

girls—Elaine, Morgause, and Morgana—whose descendants they were, chosen by

the

milestones as their avatars to seek out and destroy the Dark Ones.

"You mean yourself and Wyrdrune," Blood said. "You're telling me that you're

descended from these three witch sisters or whatever?"

She nodded.

"Aha. I see. And who's the third descendant, the one who carries the third

runestone? Would that be the good doctor, here?" He looked at Makepeace.

"Oh, no, not me," said Makepeace, wolfing down his flapjacks and bacon. "She

means the one we came here to find. His real name is Modred, though you may

be

more familiar with his alias. It's Morpheus."

"Wait a moment," Blood said, frowning. "Surely you don't mean the mercenary,

the

international hit man, not that Morpheus?"

"One and the same," said Makepeace, his mouth full.

Blood put his head in his hands and groaned. "I truly wish you hadn't told me

that. My headache just got immeasurably worse." He sighed heavily. "It's one

thing to put up with a couple of brash, young American jewel thieves, a potty

sorcerer academician who thinks he's a damn fairy, a French femme fatale

who's