Aeron swore silently and wrenched his gaze away from the thing. He'd forgotten the sheer allure of the power, the half-imagined whispering and beckoning, urging him to become a part of it. It was stronger now than it ever had been, but he found the will to resist. He'd tasted its power once, just for an instant, and it had poisoned him. Now it could not possess him, not unless he allowed it to.

He was distracted by a motion at his side. Eriale drifted forward, her face blank. "Don't look right at it, Eriale," he snapped, pulling her arm sharply to break her stupor. The archer blinked and shook her head.

Ahead of him, Dalrioc moved forward and stood over the tripod, reaching out to caress the smooth surface like the face of a lover. The stone acknowledged him, a trail of phosphorescence following the path of his hand. "I brought him, as you asked," he said over his shoulder.

"Excellent." The flickering shadows of the gallery roiled like silk, and a tall man stepped through. He wore archaic black robes and a drape or chasuble of rune-marked cloth of gold, and he carried a long rod of jet and silver only a foot shorter than his own considerable height. The garments seemed familiar to Aeron, and after a moment he placed them-the ceremonial dress of the ancient Imaskari sorcerers. He shifted his attention to the man's face, but it was hidden by the ornate cowl he wore. "You may leave us, Dalrioc," the man said evenly, his voice flat and reasonable.

The Soorenaran prince spread his hands in a shallow bow and withdrew, stepping into the impenetrable shadows that waited in the arched gallery. Again Aeron sensed some rippling motion in the darkness, a disturbance. "You have changed, Aeron," said the robed man. "When last I saw you, the fire for knowledge burned fiercely in your heart, and nothing could deter you from the pursuit of power."

"I've learned patience, Oriseus," Aeron said. "That's a lesson you taught me, whether you meant to or not."

The sorcerer raised his hands and pushed back his hood. If Aeron had not already known whom he was dealing with, he never would have mistaken him for Oriseus. The trimmed beard and oiled locks were shaved down to gleaming scalp and a bare, angular jaw. Even more startling than Oriseus's change in grooming was the severity of his bearing, the way he carried himself. The capering, self-deprecating exaggeration was gone, replaced by a regal aura. The old Oriseus had disarmed his foes with insincerity and biting humor; this man radiated confidence and capability.

"Timidity is not wisdom, Aeron. And indolence is not patience. While you have slept in your forest retreat, the world has passed you by."

"I see you haven't wasted the past five years," Aeron remarked. "What is the point, Oriseus? Do you know what you are doing to the world outside the college walls?"

The sorcerer's mouth twisted in a slight smile. "I should think the point of this is obvious. Through the Shadow Stone, I shall soon control magic."

"Your own command of the arts is insufficient?"

"You misunderstand me, Aeron. I shall control all magic. I am forging a conduit, a reservoir, into which the Weave of all Chessenta-indeed, of this entire world someday-shall flow. My power will be limitless, Aeron. And those who stand by my side shall share in it. We will be gods."

"How long have you worked on this?" Aeron asked quietly. "You must have studied the Shadow Stone for years to master the use of shadow-magic, to wield its power with impunity. When did this begin, and why?"

Oriseus smiled falsely. "I have sought the stone for years beyond your imagination, Aeron. This day is merely the culmination of a hundred lifetimes of work. I've dreamed of this since my people battled the gods of the Untheri on the Plains of Purple Dust, four thousand years ago."

Eriale could not contain her shock. "You are that old?"

"This body? No, not at all. But my mind, my spirit, has remained undiminished since five centuries before the death of Imaskar." Oriseus raised his hands, almost in benediction. "You have the good fortune to witness the culmination of this work, to see history unfold. I will finish what my brothers could not, all those years ago. And I will reclaim the place that was taken from us."

Aeron considered the master's words, fighting to remain calm. Reconstructing lessons and conversations from years before, his mind reeled in recognition. "You were one of the Imaskari archmages, the first sorcerers," he breathed. "Who are you, really?"

Oriseus laughed aloud. "In the land of my birth, I was once called Madryoch. They named me the Ebon Flame."

"And you've survived all this time."

"My essence did, trapped in the existence you know as the plane of shadow. I spent centuries wandering this barren place, a formless wraith, powerless and empty. Only through the force of my will did my intellect survive.

"Over the years, I occasionally encountered living travelers, drawn to them by their life, their vitality. Some I destroyed, ignorant of my new powers. Others I learned from, slowly mastering the art of claiming a life for my own by forcing my spirit, my will, into the body of another. The sorcerer known as Oriseus came to the Shadow seeking power almost ten years ago now. Instead, he found me." The ancient wizard smiled severely. "This is the key to immortality, Aeron. I shall teach you how to live forever, if you will join me."

"I don't want that," Aeron said. There'd been a time when he was willing to pay any price for knowledge, for the power to defeat those who threatened him, to teach them fear. That time was long past. "No, I'll take the life that's dealt to me."

"Consider carefully, Aeron," Oriseus said, a hint of warning in his voice. "Despite your failure five years ago, despite the fact that you came here to upset a design I have worked on for four millennia, I bear you no malice. You are intelligent and insightful, quick to grasp and wield power. It is your nature. I can use someone of your talents by my side. Wizards of your potential are hard to find."

Sarim had been intelligent, confident, and strong of will, Aeron thought. But the stone devoured him anyway. He paced around the perimeter of the room, keeping his gaze on Oriseus and the stone before him. The rune-marked iron that banded the relic's waist seemed important, as if it contained or focused the artifact's power. Telemachon had said that he could not direct any magic at the stone, since it would be absorbed, but maybe the frame was a vulnerability?

Oriseus watched him as he took the measure of the chamber and its enchantments, an amused smile on his face. "Admiring my handiwork?" he asked in a sharp tone.

"Every object, every creature in this world creates magic," Aeron remarked. "The Weave is a great river, fed by innumerable streams and tributaries. But this stone seems to consume magic instead of create it. It absorbs magic, twists it into something else. Has it always been like this?"

It didn't seem likely that he could get Oriseus to show him how the spell might be undone, but it couldn't hurt to keep him talking. The longer Aeron studied the Shadow Stone and the complex enchantments that buffered the chamber, the more likely it was that he'd see something he could use.

"That was the secret of the Imaskari strength," Oriseus said. "In the beginning of things, the world was made from nothingness, an act of will and purpose. Magic, as you call it, is the echo of this purpose. But this purpose is not unopposed, Aeron. It is, in a sense, an abrogation of something older than creation, an accident of sorts. We live in a single bright flicker of existence, framed by oblivion before and after. That oblivion presses in on us. To put it another way, in the absence of a conscious purpose to exist, the world begins to not exist. This can be harnessed by an adept of strength and skill."