So that's the little cretin's plan, Morhion thought. Any imps summoned by Qip outside the sigil would not be bound by the symbol's magic. Imps were capricious and maleficent creatures. Freed of the mage's binding magic, they would be all too happy to turn on Morhion and tear him to bits.

A musing smile touched Morhion's lips. "I like your plan, Qip," he began. The imp's ruby eyes flared with victory. "But," Morhion added quickly, "you will open the rift within the sigil, not without."

Hatred burned in the imp's gaze. "And what if I don't?"

Morhion's smile broadened nastily. "With a single spell, Qip, I can ignite your tail with a fire so hot you'll think the candle's flame a cold winter wind by comparison." He lifted a hand menacingly.

Qip's crimson eyes bulged out of his skull. "Now, there's no need to for that," the imp said hastily. "Did I say to ignore the sigil?" He thumped his forehead with a fist. "What was I thinking? Of course I'll use the sigil. Why, I would never think of not using the—"

"Just open the rift, Qip," Morhion said testily.

The imp gulped, then clambered back inside the glowing magical symbol on the table. The creature rang the bell three times, and the dark rift in the air opened once more. At once, dozens of imps began to pour out, swearing colorfully when they found themselves bound by the mage's spell. Morhion allowed himself a satisfied smile. This was going to be fun.

Morhion was reluctant to tear the pages out of the ancient book, but there was no other solution. Besides, the old binding was cracking, and he could have the pages resewn. Soon the mage's study was littered with imps. The little creatures perched on every available surface—shelves, ledges, chairs—some even hanging from the rafters like bats. Each clutched several pages of the book, scanning furiously. Whenever one of them came upon the rune-words that Morhion had specified, the imp would flutter crazily through the air to deliver the parchment excerpts to the mage. Within a quarter hour the imps were finished, and Morhion had a dozen such pages, each bearing a reference to the ancient being of shadow magic. Some were pages he recognized from past readings, but a few contained passages he had never seen before.

"You and your kin have done well, Qip," Morhion told the imp.

"Oh, thank you, Great One," Qip replied with mock adulation. "You know your approval means everything to me. I crave nothing else."

The imp's tone was sarcastic, but Morhion was surprised to see a glint of sadness in the creature's crimson eyes. He realized what a difficult existence it must be, constantly being summoned and forced to do another's bidding. Then Morhion made an unusual decision. He moved to the magical sigil, erased some of the lines, and redrew them.

"What's the meaning of that?" Qip asked suspiciously.

"It means," Morhion explained, "that once I send you back to your plane of existence, no one—not even the most powerful wizard—will be able to summon you or your kindred for three hundred years."

Qip's eyes went wide. "You'd really do that for us?" the creature asked in astonishment.

Morhion shrugged indifferently. "I just want to make certain you don't come back to pester me in my lifetime."

Qip grinned, displaying countless needlelike teeth. "Thanks, wizard. You're not so bad after all." The imp gestured elaborately to the others. "Come on, everyone! No summonings for three centuries. It's vacation time!"

Morhion rang the bronze bell once, and the imps vanished in a puff of acrid smoke. He found himself laughing softly at the curious creatures. Then he picked up the pages that the imps had brought him, and his laughter halted. Instinct told him that what he was about to read would not give him cause for mirth.

He was right. He read the crackling pages once quickly, then again slowly, making certain that he did not misinterpret the ancient runes. What he read chilled him to the core. At last he set down the sheaves of parchment. There could be no doubt about it. Caledan was indeed undergoing the same terrible transformation that the sorcerer Verraketh had experienced a thousand years ago. He was becoming an inhuman creature of utter evil—a shadowking.

Morhion collected all the loose pages of the Mal'eb'dala. Dawn was still a few hours away. He was exhausted, but he knew there would be no sleep for him that night. The upheaval foretold by the runestones approached. Morhion was filled with dread, yet also with renewed exhilaration. This was what it felt like to be alive. Gathering the book pages into a neat stack, he set them on the table and turned to leave his study.

Before he could open the door, a cold wind blew through the chamber. Morhion turned to see the gale rip through the stack of papers, filling the air with hundreds of swirling pages. A piece of yellowed paper slapped itself against Morhion's face, blinding him. He clawed it away, then gasped. The whirling pages were coalescing into a small cyclone in the center of room. They spun faster, until they were little more than a blur. The noise of the gale rose to a keening howl. Abruptly, the wind ceased. The loose parchments fluttered to the floor. The dark figure of a knight, surrounded by an eerie corona of light, hovered where the pages had spun.

"Serafi," Morhion hissed in trepidation and loathing. "Why have you come to me? It is not the full moon. You have had your blood for this month."

The spectral knight drifted slowly toward Morhion, his eyes glowing with unearthly blood-red fire. "I have come to help you, Morhion," the spirit intoned.

"I do not think I can afford any more of your help," Morhion said bitterly. He gestured to the myriad scars that covered his arms.

"Oh, but you can, Morhion," Serafi countered in his chilling voice. "You can, and you will."

Morhion's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What makes you so certain I'd be interested?" His tone was bold, but he could not quite disguise the trembling in his voice.

"I know you, Morhion," Serafi said, drifting closer. "I know you as no other possibly could."

Morhion choked down the panic rising in his throat. "What do you want, usurper?"

The ghostly knight's eyes flashed. "Do not taunt me with that name, Morhion. You will only regret it. For I have something that you would pay dearly to possess."

"What?"

"Knowledge. The power to save or damn Caledan Caldorien once and for all."

Morhion found himself sinking weakly into a velvet chair, gripping the smooth wood of the arms. Serafi hovered behind him. Morhion could feel the spirit's chill, dusty breath on the back of his neck.

"What do you seek in return for this knowledge, Serafi?" the mage asked in disgust. "Do you wish to drink my blood twice each moon?"

The spirit's laughter curdled Morhion's blood. "Nay. Knowledge this great is worth far more than a mere sip of blood."

"Then what?"

The spectral knight's voice became a chantlike whisper. "I do not think you realize, mage, how cold it is to be dead. How cold, how dry, how hollow. I long to experience again all the sensations of life. You cannot imagine how deep and vast my hunger is, Morhion. To feel again—that is what I crave beyond all. To see with living eyes, to taste with fleshly tongue, to touch with warm fingers. I want these things, and all the other delicious sensations that living flesh has to offer."

Morhion was sweating. "But life brings pain as well as pleasure, Serafi."

"Yes, and I want to experience that as well," Serafi spoke exultantly. "After the numbing cold of death, even the fiercest agony would be sweet awakening."

"But how can I give you what you want?" Morhion demanded, fearing the answer. Suddenly he stiffened. A chill caress ran down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, traveling over his body, touching him in places where he had not been touched by another in long years. He wanted to cry out, to leap from the chair, but he sat as if frozen to the spot. A low moan escaped his throat, a mixture of fear and strangled pleasure.