Only then did Danyal notice that the bloodstone of Fistandantilus glowed bright green and pulsed more strongly than ever.

Reapember, 374 AC

He was free!

Fueled by the bloodstone and the stored might of the many lives it had absorbed, the essence of Fistandantilus rushed toward the skull, drawn into the vacuum of power with an exultant, stormy force. He felt an exultation and an explosive swelling of hunger. He was desperate to take on a physical shell.

And then came unspeakable pain as the essence of the wizard swirled into the bony artifact. The spirit was abruptly torn, cruelly twisted, the cloud of mist ripped into two parts in an explosion of agony.

One of those halves settled into the hungry, welcoming skull; in moments the spirit and the bony artifact had merged, swelling into a creature of undeath. Fistandantilus had been torn apart by the convulsion of Skullcap, but now the shards of his existence came together in the form of a lich, a creature of remembered humanity and insatiable hunger. The skeletal body was ready to cast mighty spells, to work magic of death and violence.

The other tendril of mist was pulled away as it tore part of the life and the soul of the wizard from himself. The lich could only watch as a great piece of him roared, relentless and unstoppable, toward the human boy.

Third Bakukal, Reapember

Like a small green cyclone, the gas cloud swirled in the air, rising from the vortex of the bloodstone, coiling into a translucent shape as it leaned toward the skull.

But something held it back.

A whoosh of air rugged at Dan, whipped at his hair and clothes. The gust was so strong that it threatened to pull him off his feet, to drag him across the floor.

Danyal felt the tugging hardest at his belt. When he reached for the buckle, he was astounded to feel that the metal was warm, vibrating beneath his fingers. It tugged fiercely at his waist as the force tried to pull the belt away from him.

And then, in a flash, he understood: The ancient heirloom, the buckle worn by his Thwait ancestors, was somehow drawn to the magic!

With a sound like a thunderclap, the whirlwind separated, twin columns of spiraling air wrenching apart with supernatural violence. One of the cyclonic shapes swirled toward the skull, lifting the bone from the floor, raising it eerily through the hazy curtain of the amorphous shape.

It was the second whirlwind that swept toward Danyal. The lad scrambled backward, recoiling from the roaring approach, but the gale pulled him closer, the miasma strangling, suffocating him, tightening around his throat like the belt cinched at his waist. Sensing the irresistible desire in that stinking fog, he fumbled with the clasp, cursing the suddenly stubborn bracket of silver, burning his hands on the unnaturally hot metal.

Finally the belt buckle released. Frantically he flipped open the clasp, and friction burned his skin as the strap of leather was snatched from his grip by the consuming force of the storm. Dan tumbled to the floor and lay there shaking as he watched.

The belt itself hissed into nothingness, burned to ashes by the unnatural touch of the green cloud. The buckle floated in the air, suspended amid the cyclone, and the silver metal began to glow brightly.

And then the silver spattered downward, drops of glowing metal flowing across the floor. Before the lad's disbelieving eyes, the molten droplets merged and rose into the air. Bending and flowing, they formed into a shining, perfect shape: a silver hourglass.

Dan wasn't really sure when the change came about, but suddenly the twin whirlwinds faded and softened, the space within each of them growing solid and distinct.

And then the cyclones were gone, and two black-robed figures stood in their places. Their features were invisible within deep cowls of inky, velvet hoods, but Dan had little doubt as to their nature: These were wizards of black magic, drawn here by the abiding enchantments of the bloodstone, the skull of Fistandantilus, and the silver belt buckle of Paulus Thwait.

It was the dragon who reacted first. Flayze roared loudly and reared with a great flapping of his wings. A blast of air struck Dan and the companions in the face, and the lad threw up an arm to screen himself. At the same time, he saw the dragon's jaws gape and sensed the inferno building in that massive, scarlet belly.

Mirabeth took his arm, and he dropped to the floor, pulling her down, trying to shelter her beneath his arms from the killing cloud that must inevitably follow. He remembered the charred bodies in his village and the slain bandits on the bridge at Loreloch; somehow it seemed almost a certain destiny that now he, too, would meet his death by fiery dragonbreath.

He heard another sound, an utterance of short, barking words, but that noise was quickly swallowed by the roaring blaze of an infernal furnace. Danyal was reminded of the sound of a blacksmith's forge, when the fire had been stoked and the bellows were pumping. This was that same hungry, crackling howl, except magnified to an impossible extent, as if he himself were watching the fire from within the chimney.

But he wasn't getting burned!

The truth penetrated his numb sense of shock with an almost diffident appeal to his senses. Danyal blinked, feeling Mirabeth trembling underneath him. He looked up and saw a wall of fire before them. Above, oily flames crackled and raged and on both sides as well. He felt the heat against his skin, as if he was staring into a hot fireplace, but neither he nor Mirabeth was being touched by the lethal blaze.

Nor, he saw, were Foryth, Emilo, Kelryn, or the two black-robed wizards. One of the latter held up a hand that looked like a skeleton's, clothed in sickly skin; it was the force of that gesture, Dan suddenly knew, that was parting the flames, carrying the dragon's lethal breath to either side.

Abruptly the fire ceased, and in its absence, the cavern felt utterly cold and dark. Though the air was still baked and illuminated by the streams of fiery lava flowing throughout the vast enclosure, it might have been a winter's night by comparison to the dragonfire.

The other wizard extended a hand toward the monster, the gesture swift and menacing. Dan had time to notice that the limb was more manlike than the first mage's skeletal digits. The fingers that now extended were long, slender, and clearly dexterous, but they were undeniably cloaked in flesh and pink, living skin.

Another word split the air within the cavern, a barking cry that sent a shiver down the lad's spine, and he knew that he was witness to still more powerful magic. The arcane sounds were harsh against his ears, and the feeling they left in his belly was not unlike the sensation of getting kicked very hard.

A wash of pale light expanded outward from the wizard's hand, a growing cone that encompassed much of the dragon and cast its chilly glow onto an expanse of bubbling lava and the smoking wall of the cavern beyond. The liquid rock instantly darkened, frozen hard, cracks wrenching violently outward across the floor.

And in the eerie glow of that spell, Danyal felt a bitter, piercing chill, a coldness that seeped through his clothes and his skin, striking so deep that it seemed to ice the blood in his veins. Even as he felt that cold, the youth understood another thing: He absorbed this penetrating effect from watching the spell-the real cold was a force of powerful magic attacking everything that was caught in the wash of that pale, icy light.