The sorcerer turned fully to face the chieftain, and again he seemed to grow. He pulled the wine red hood over his head, and his eyes, now cast in shadow, gleamed and flickered with an odd yellow light. When he spoke, the floor trembled and a wind rose, making the torches flicker. "You do not know me by sign and deed? Then I will tell you, short-lived man. I am Azi Tohak- he who some men name Dahak. I am the lord of this place, this tower of stone, and lord of all the lands that lie under the sky."

The chieftain blanched and staggered a little. The other men gasped and began to crawl away. They could not escape, for at Khadame's signal, the Uze had crept up behind them and now formed a ring of steel around them. The curved blades in the hands of the nomads gleamed red in the light of the fires that now roared up behind the throne. The sorcerer turned and mounted the stairs to his seat of iron. There he sat again, turning his countenance upon the hillchieftains who now knelt, some whimpering in fear, at the base of the dais.

"Yes, now you remember me, not least from the tales your mothers told you when you were young. Yes, I am a lord of demons, a wizard, and a sorcerer who crosses the night sky on the wings of the great byakhee. I have returned to my place of power, and you will bow before me and swear the same oaths that your ten-times grandfather's swore when first I walked on this earth."

Of all the hill-men, only one remained standing- the first, the one named Khawaj Ali. His face was stern and filled with stubborn anger. Of all the chieftains, only he showed no fear. "This is not your place," he barked. "This is the fortress that Faridoon built! The priests of fire will cast you down again, as they did before. You and your dark master have no place here-"

Laughter cut him short, a bitter mocking laugh from the hooded man. Dahak raised a hand, and figures appeared out of the flame-shot darkness. They were dressed in full lamellar armor of steel bands from head to toe, and their helms were contrived to seem as the faces of horned and terrible demons. The red light washed over them, making them seem insubstantial. They carried long poles over their shoulders and from the poles, suspended by blood-matted beards tied around the shaft, were the heads of many elderly men.

"Here are your priests of fire, those who mouth the platitudes of a dead god," crowed the sorcerer, his hand outstretched. "See how they bow to me?"

The armored men knelt, moving in complete silence, and the heads made a wet sound as they struck the floor. Khadames, seeing the sightless, gouged eyes and the cruel wounds that had been cut into the faces, swallowed but did not move from his place.

Dahak stood again and he descended a step from the seat of iron. One hand flexed, and a long, tapering finger traced a sign in the air. " Who am I?" boomed out his voice.

The heads, lying in slowly spreading pools of blood on the floor, began to twitch.

"Speak, O priests of the fire, do you know me?"

There was a bubbling sound, and gore dribbled from the lips of one head. It's jaw muscles twitched and bunched, then the mouth opened.

"You are our master, O Lord of Darkness." The voice was foul- a gruesome parody of the speech of men- but the words were clear. Two of the hill-chieftains fainted, collapsing into the arms of the Uze who lurked behind them. These men were immediately taken away. Dahak turned to the Khawaj chieftain and smiled broadly, showing his fine white teeth. "So will all things bow to me; you not least, brave chieftain."

Somewhere in the Mare Aegeum

Askiff rode up the side of a long rolling swell. Deep blue water slid past, hissing, under the prow of the boat, curling away from brightly painted eyes that stared out over the broad ocean. High above, gulls and cormorants circled, their plaintive cries faint in the afternoon sun. At the back of the boat a tall, young woman with braided red hair leaned into the oars. They bit the water, and the skiff cut into the side of the next wave and then slid over the top. The woman was deeply tanned by weeks at sea and wore a clingy red cotton shirt half soaked with sea spray. Thin braids wrapped with little blue ribbons fluttered on a stiff following wind at either side of her face, framing high cheekbones and firm lips. She squinted forward, storm gray eyes scanning the waters before her. She backed one oar, and the boat turned a little. "There," she said in a strong voice, "the walls of Thira."

Her companion, seated in the front of the skiff, half turned and stared up at the looming cliffs of dark stone that rose from the sea. A thick cloud of raven hair tied back with silver wire fell over olive shoulders and slim brown arms. The passenger was clad in a fine white linen toga not long from the shops of Alexandria. Silver bracelets encircled her wrists, and necklaces of gold and sapphire glittered at her neck. The passenger turned, enormous dark eyes smiling at the oarswoman. "No beach? No harbor? Must we scale the cliffs themselves?" The olive-skinned woman was laughing, her smile brilliant in a perfect oval face.

"Dear Princess," the red-haired woman said, "I promised you sanctuary and you will find it here. But have a little patience and some of the secrets of the island will reveal themselves to you."

"So you say, O mysterious one, but I wonder at your daring: the ship that brought us here is long gone, and my brother and children with it. Mayhap there is no one on this island at all! Do you want me all to yourself?"

The oarswoman lost her paddle stroke for a moment, her expression stilled, and studied the smiling face of her companion through slitted eyelids. She pulled the oars into their locks and braced them with one bare brown foot. Even with the tan that had slowly built up during the long weeks they had sailed in the hot waters of the Persian and Arabian seas, a wash of freckles was clear on her nose and cheeks. She stared away from her companion, out over the bright blue sea and the dark cliffs.

Shirin arched a fine jet eyebrow at the troubled expression on her companion's face. "Thyatis? I meant nothing by it- a jest. I know it must pain you to separate me from my children."

The Roman woman turned back, a little, at the light touch on her arm. Shirin had carefully moved the length of the slowly pitching skiff, picking up her skirts in one hand, showing shapely legs and small bare feet. She sat on the middle seat of the longboat they had purchased from the captain of the Pride of Ialysus the day before. The upper part of the dress had fallen away, revealing a smooth shoulder and necklaces that plunged into the cool shadow between her breasts. Thyatis frowned a moment, seeing the pensive look on Shirin's face. " No, Lady Shirin, I separated you from your children for everyone's safety. Once they are in Rome, the Duchess will take them into her care- and no one will know them or be able to match them to you. All know that your family perished in the wreck of Ctesiphon- who can threaten the dead? Who would guess that those house monkeys are of the noblest blood?"

Shirin laughed again, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She took Thyatis' hand in her own. Her own thumbs, smooth and manicured, rubbed unconsciously against the hard ridges of callus and muscle that defined her companion's. "So serious! I know I must be apart from them for some little while: The soft life of an empress does not prepare me well for what will come. You do me honor, bringing me to this secret place. I can bear to be apart from those squally brats for a little while- it will be restful, if nothing else!"

Thyatis nodded, quelling the conflict in her own heart for the moment, and released the younger woman's hand. She picked up the oars again and bent to them. There was still a ways to go to reach the island. Shirin turned back and settled herself in the prow again, curling her legs under her and leaning her arm on the gunwale of the skiff. The boat plunged down a steep wave. The sea roughened as they approached the rocky shore.