A/N: I'm a huge fan of the likes of Robert E. Howard, Steve Erickson, David Gemmell, and James Barclay. So this is my attempt at combining the brawny heroes, dazzling sword-fights, wicked sorcerers, and evil monsters of those sort of worlds with the Jossverse….

Chosen Twelve (1?)

Magoi Phasis shuffled into his quarters, the rough hem of his ankle-length robe chafing against his legs. Once he had worn far more luxurious garments and, he glanced around his modestly furnished room, had lived in far superior surroundings. And he still could if he'd been willing to pay the price. After all, others had. But no, he shook his head, he'd never bend his knee to that godless traitor.

Magoi Phasis closed and locked the creaking door, lit the lamp hanging from the low ceiling, and pulled a lump of yellow chalk from his pocket. Ignoring his bones' warning groans, he dropped onto all four and painstakingly drew a pentagram around his desk. That accomplished, he rose and cast his eyes down.

For a long second he stared at the arcane symbol, heart stuck firmly in his throat. He'd etched this symbol many times before, in good times and bad. But this time he was going on a trip from which there was no return. Only two who lived could do what he was about to do, and only one had the power to do it and live, and the one wasn't him.

A final lick of the lips and he stepped over the chalk outline.

His ears roared with the sounds of a thousand dimensions and tens of hundreds of images flashed before his eyes. It took a long moment to find and focus the dimension he needed, one he'd watched and revelled in the exploits of its champions many times.

Champions he needed to save his world.

Taking a seat, he began to mutter the arcane words that would fuel the last spell he'd ever cast. Soon magic was tugging at his body, ripping at his life-essence.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Magoi placed a note he'd written earlier in the evening on top of a small notebook detailing the champions he was summonsing. His allies would not be happy with him. They'd advised him against this course of action, saying they didn't want to lose him, but to his thinking some things were more important than mere life.

Freedom, honour, and justice came to mind.

Picking up a pencil, he began to scratch a face. It was the face of a handsome man, a man that any woman's eye would be drawn to. Its owner was a noble man who fought against the demon within him, using its dread power to defend the innocents of his world. Once his illustration was complete, he wrote the man's name beneath, first in his own lyrical language, and then in the drawing's clumsier tongue.

After carefully, reverently, placing the finished drawing aside, he started on the next piece of paper. This time he drew a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Her face was strong, fearless, but at the same time warm and compassionate. In his land she would be the princess of a thousand minstrels' tales, but in hers she was a redeemed warrior with the heart of a lioness.

"AGGGH!" An agonising wave crashed over him, red hot pokers jabbing him all over, as he finished the coal-eyed beauty's picture. Heart pounding, he leaned forward, head resting on the desk, body shaking helplessly.

After a seeming eternity the worst of the pain passed. His breath coming in wheezes, he reached a clammy hand for the next piece of paper. The next picture he drew was of a scholar like himself, but with a hint of steel in his eyes. Magoi couldn't help but wonder what massacres might have been averted, tragedies avoided, if he'd shared this learned's resolve.

Sighing slightly at what might, should have, been, he placed the finished pictures neatly in a pile. Now the three principals were completed he could draw as many of their companions as possible befo-. He doubled up, almost toppling from his seat as pain roared through him.

His vision blurred. Desperation gripped him, twisting his heart as he tried to blink his eyes clear. He had to see, without his eyes he couldn't draw.

"Thanks be," he mumbled as his eyes cleared and focussed. Taking the next blank sheet he quickly drew a red-haired pretty. Her innocent looks masked her immense magical powers, capabilities far exceeding his own. In truth her abilities frightened him, perhaps only she had the power to directly challenge his land's tyrant. But she herself fought an inner darkness as bleak as the one that now ruled over them.

The next face he drew was seemingly of another beautiful woman. But that wasn't the complete truth, far from it in fact. Once this woman had been a loyal friend to the first man she'd drawn before dying tragically and being possessed by a beast that had once ruled her home planet and dozens like it as a god. Now, she was less than she had once been, but still formidable and influenced by the 'shell' fought on the side of good.

"GAAAA!" He dropped his pencil as his body shuddered involuntarily. He grimaced as he noticed his burnt left hand. From the red-hot pain, he guessed his body was covered with such injuries.

Gamely forcing the hurt aside, he started his next drawing, this time of the red-head's partner. The lucky person was surprising not a man, but a striking woman. In his land such people were either shunned as deviants or exiled from their homes. But he cared little for such things, preferring to judge a person by their character and deeds. Yes, the girl was an arrogant wench with an unseemly swagger, but for all of that she was a mighty warrior who steadfastly believed in honour and justice. The next two females his shaking hand outlined were another red-head and a black-skinned beauty, both renowned warriors and sisters of the sword if not the blood.

Next he started on an etching of the partner of the first woman he'd drawn. This fortunate fellow was an one-eyed man with the face of a jester. From what Magoi had seen of the youth he knew that the young man's good-natured looks hid a hero's soul.

Magoi looked down at his crotch, realising he'd wet himself, his body's control slipping away from him. His being focussed on the task in front of him, he was unable to feel embarrassment and instead continued with his drawings. His next picture was of a young man, the son of the first man he'd drawn. The boy was slight but despite his lack of years and size, he too was a mighty fighter.

He moaned deep in his throat as salt-filled sweat began to roll into his burns. He felt the salty taste of blood in his mouth as a result of biting down on his bottom lip. He closed his eyes for a second, tears forming. It wouldn't be long now.

Gathering himself, he started on the next drawing. This illustration was of a lantern-jawed, powerfully-built man. He'd travelled between dimensions in the past, but perhaps this plane would remind him more of his home. Next he drew a black-skinned man, a former lover of the first woman he'd drawn and an experienced fighter.

Upon finishing the picture he found himself caught in a cleft of indecision. Who should he draw next? An officer used to leading many troops? Or a female whose exploits surpassed any of those he'd drawn but had a selfish heart and an arrogance to force herself into leadership roles beyond her capabilities and above those better suited for it?

A pain shot through his left arm. Bile rose in his throat, making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. Realising he had no time for any more pictures he pulled a heart shaped jar out of his robe and crashed it down on the completed illustrations. The container shattered, a milky-grey liquid spilling out over the jar's shards and the papers, filling the room with a sickly, pungent stench. Magoi looked down at his drawings through teary eyes. "Please," he whispered, voice hoarse and ragged with pain, "save my people." He toppled from his chair, eyes closed in acceptance of death.

Petro Pyrgos scowled as he stormed through the forest town, people giving him a wide berth, his ill-temper increasing by the second. "Magio Phasis, where are you?" he growled.

Once Magio Phasis hadn't been the sort to miss appointments or meetings. No, he'd been the very soul of punctuality. But then once the esteemed scholar had been the king's First Advisor, a man respected and revered throughout the realm.

And once, Perto, felt a bitter taste in his mouth, he'd been the leader of the king's bodyguard, the Honour Watch. Now they were both rebels, fighting a seemingly impossible war against the tyrant who'd butchered their friends and cast aside all they'd believed in. "The wheel turns and we have to turn with it," he muttered, the time-worn mantra sounding tired and unconvincing even as he said it. In seconds he'd arrived at the white-washed, thatch-roofed cottage that was his colleague's home. Raising a fist, he smashed it into the rough-timbered door. "Magio! Wake up, you lazy ass!"

After six knocks and accompanying bellows there was still no answer. His face now creased with worry, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The door creaked and shuddered in protest but gamely held. Teeth gritted, he shouldered the door again, forcing it open on his fourth attempt. "Yes!"

His exultation died on his lips at the sight of the corpse lying on the study. Hurrying over to the body, he crouched down and searched vainly for a pulse. "Damn fool," he grunted, watery eyes giving lie to his harsh words.

Azarel shot upright in his four-postered bed. His satin sheets fell off him as he stared around his vast bed chamber, sweat dripping off his forehead. The room was illuminated by the bronze brazier hanging from its mosaic covered ceiling. Normally the sight of the sumptuous luxury that was the imperial bedroom adorned as it was by the finest furniture and decorated by his empire's most esteemed artisans filled him with pride. Tonight though an entirely different emotion took centre-place.

After what he'd just seen, glee at his conquests was the last thing on his mind. Thoughts racing, he stood. "Veritas Callidus!" he bellowed telepathically. "Attend me!"

In less than a minute the room's oaken double doors swung open, his adjunct hurrying in. A tall, statuesque beauty with mid-back length golden hair, her radiance marred by the coldness of her grey eyes. Her full mouth also hinted at her true nature, a natural sneer corrupting its sensuality. "Sire," the blonde bowed her head and dropped to one knee. "You called?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Magoi Phasis is dead."

"Good," the woman commented uncertainly. "He has been a thorn in your side for too long, sire."

"Yes," he impatiently agreed. "Except he sacrificed himself to cast a spell dragging twelve champions through the planes to our dimension." He looked across the room to the finely-varnished desk at the far end, quickly casting a spell. "I've placed their images on the sheets on the desk. Have those copied and passed out to my troops. There's a thousand gold sovereigns on each of their heads." He ignored his right-hand woman's raised eyebrow at the vast reward he'd posted. These people were dangerous. "The men I want dead. The women," he paused, forehead furrowed in thought. "The red-head pixie-faced one and blue-haired wench I want dead too." He shuddered inwardly at the power he'd sensed in those two, many would die before they died, but at least their threat to him would be ended. "The other four wenches," he smirked, they had power too, but not so much as to challenge him, "I want those pretties for myself."