Word about the traveling man who was known only as The Magician spread like wildfire. The man dressed in funeral garb, and answered to no one. Traveling fairs were both glad and terrified for him to set up camp on their grounds; their revenue would double at least, but there was the lingering danger that even one of the many rumors which preceded him was true.

They said he had been raised by Gypsies, and had murdered his entire camp when he was only twelve years old. They said his voice alone could lure women into submission, goading them to lay with him against their will. They said his face was like that of a year old corpse, hollow and shriveled like the face o death itself. Some even ventured to say this man possessed magic so unholy, he must be the Angel of death.

For almost a year, The Magician had made his camp in Azarbaijan, a territory just south of Russia and north of Asia. A grand fair was being held just inside the Russian border, and for this event The Magician had moved north, setting up camp towards the outskirts of the fair.

The man's curious appearance and mannerisms drew even performers to his tent to investigate this strange man. His horses had no saddles and no reins, led only by their loyalty and devotion to their master. The tent was pitch black and west European in style, a strange sight in this part of the world. The Magician himself was dressed in black from head to foot, even his hands covered in black by leather gloves. Even his face was covered by a black leather mask, covering everything but his chin and bottom lip. He held himself like a demigod, with a commanding presence no one could pinpoint the source of. He was easily a good head taller than most of the residents of the fair, and almost skeletally thin.

The Magician's act was something not to be believed. Donations were taken at entrance of the tent, and coins were eagerly placed into the porcelain urn set up on a table by the tent flap. People crowded inside, filling the tent beyond capacity. Children brave enough to enter sat on their father's shoulders, mothers stood on tip-toe to get a look at the strange man standing in an upright coffin at the back of the tent. Just as the crowd was beginning to wonder if the man in the coffin was actually dead, a sound began to fill the tent.

It was music, a voice so sweet some women began to weep. The voice sang a Latin requiem to the man in the coffin, who's lips did not move. In fact, the voice seemed to be coming from the lilies in a vase near the coffin. Suddenly the man in the coffin moved… but did not take a step. No, the man levitated from the coffin, forwards towards the crowd.

The Magician unfurled his arms producing a rose from mid air and handing it to a lovely woman nearby. The woman dropped the rose as if it were on fire, not daring to hold onto something touched by such a strange, cursed man. The act involved singing flowers, conjuring flowers and spirits of the dead, as well as the resurrection of a case of butterflies pinned for the beauty of their wings. A dove's neck was rung, and with an almost unseen movement the limp, snow-white bird was replaced by a raven, twice as large and full of life. The bird flew out of the tent, tangling its claws in the hair of a woman near the exit. Children shrieked, and women fainted, but the best was yet to come.

Moving back in front of the coffin, The Magician waved a hand in front of his face and without any warning, the mask had vanished into thin air. Any women who had remained on their feet collapsed, and children began to cry loudly at the sight of the face like death. The powerful looking man's face was sunken and hollow, with deep set yellow eyes, and skin so pale every blue vein could be seen just under the surface. The flesh was mottled and scarred, with deep set yellow eyes sitting just above a hideous, almost absent nose. Truly the flesh looked rotten and torn, the product of a twisted man's worst nightmare.

The Magician folded his arms, and floated back into the coffin. The lid swung closed behind him, and almost instantly opened again… but the Magician and his face of death were gone. There was a murmur among the audience, too disturbed to applaud but satisfied enough to leave their donations in the urn by the door. Only when he was sure he was alone in the tent did the Magician reappear, face hidden once more behind the black leather mask.

He moved to collect the urn, sitting upright on a pillow at the front of the room to count his profits. Emptying his pockets of the items he had pick pocketed off his audience, a satisfied smile had played on his lips. He had been afraid the move to Russia would cost him more money than he would make, but the one performance had made him enough to cover the cost of the move and then some. It was a lucrative choice after all.

A dark skin man in strange clothing entered the tent unbidden. The magician didn't bother so much as to look at him, storing his money and goods while he spoke. "The next show is in an hour, I will be happy to accommodate you then."

But the man stood in the doorway of the tent. "You are the man they call The Magician, are you not?"

The masked man stood languidly, but his annoyance at this intrusion was clear. "I am. Who is asking?"

"My name is Nadir Khan. I am here on behalf of the Sultan and his mother, the Khanum of Persia. Your presence is requested at the Palace of Mazenderan," the man informed him, standing with his hands clasped behind his back though he was clearly regarding the masked man with a cautious eye.

"Is it now? I regret that I must decline, I've only just arrived in Russia and have no intention of moving so soon," said the masked man with a flippant wave.

"The Sultan is prepared to make it worth your while," the Persian man stated, holding out a hefty looking leather purse. The Magician stepped forward to inspect the pay. "That will be your weekly salary for as long as the Sultan desires you. Accommodations will also be provided."

With some consideration, the Magician tucked the purse into his coat. "We will leave tomorrow morning," he stated, dismissing the man with a wave making it very clear he was still completely in control of the situation.

But the Persian did not leave. "If I'm going to travel with you, I am going to need to know your name," the dark man said plainly. He did not trust the man at all, not after seeing his performance. At least a name would make the man seem more human…

The Magician hesitated before speaking. "You may call me Erik."

"Only Erik? What about a surname?" The Persian demanded, somewhat nervously.

"No surname. Erik of Azarbaijan if my name is not enough for you. Good day, Sir." Erik waited by the entrance of the tent for the man to leave, closing and securing it behind him to pack his things for the following day's journey.