Morgana's army of thugs was feared by many. The men it was composed of were not sorcerers – indeed, they didn't have much mental skill at all. But this didn't mean that their powers were of no use to the High Priestess. No, their skill lay in force. Brute force.

The gang on patrol was led by the most brutish of them all – a hulking giant of a man, with a face much like that of a bulldog, and muscles bulging unpleasantly beneath his armour, giving the impression that he would burst out and the metal plates be strewn across the snow. He did not have outstanding leadership skills – no, he had been chosen on strength alone. Strength, and inhumanity.

Like a lumbering mountain he led his cronies across the icy path until he came to the place. Nobody was there. Or at least, it looked as if nobody was there. Well, he would soon find out.

The group stopped. The sound of stomping boots lingered long after they had fallen still, creating a threatening atmosphere. The men looked around them; the snow obscured everything, but at the same time made anything that wasn't white stand out.

And then he saw her. The figure. A small, thin girl huddled against the wall, swathed in a cloak, trembling violently, unable to move in the cold. The thought crossed the men's minds that she must be a bit dim, being out here with only a cloak to keep warm, but no pity accompanied this observation. They couldn't afford pity; and anyway, few of them were much good at emotion.

Very slowly the girl lifted her head, her eyes narrowed against the bitter wind. She had known the men were there before she saw them; she knew she was caught. It was as if she was in a trap, though no net surrounded her. There was no escape.

She let the men come to her; she appeared almost relieved as the leader picked her up roughly and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. They did not hurt her overmuch; the orders had been to let her live.

A very faint smile came to the leader's face as he imagined the pain that would most likely follow. Knowing Morgana, this girl would probably end the day wishing she had been killed there and then.

In a very slow and deliberate movement, Morgana pulled the wing from a roast chicken; she smiled with grim satisfaction as it came away easily, snapping like a twig underfoot. Now she separated meat from bone with her fingers; now she cracked the bone to get at the marrow inside, sucking on it with a kind of childish pleasure. Such rich meals had become rare lately. This was a luxury; she would savour every bite.

'Not hungry, Mordred?'

Across from her, a young man looked up, startled. He had not touched his own platter. 'I… I ate too much for lunch,' he told her, lying through his teeth. He didn't like lying to Morgana, but he couldn't tell her what he was thinking. In truth, Morgana's sadistic dissection of her dinner was making him feel somewhat ill.

'Better keep your strength up,' Morgana said, mocking him slightly.

He nodded, picking very delicately at the meat. She was always making fun of his inability to develop decent muscle; she didn't think that magic was enough of a skill for him to be at her side.

'Why did you raise the alarm earlier?' Mordred ventured.

'A sighting of someone outside the fortress,' Morgana replied. 'Don't worry. I'll deal with it.'

Mordred tried to hide the shudder that had risen up inside of him. He knew Morgana's ways of dealing with people. 'Someone from Camelot?'

'I don't think so.' For a moment Morgana was silent, scrutinising the inside of her chicken with distracted fascination. 'No, I believe our intruder could be more useful than that.'

Mordred looked interested, but Morgana did not expand on the matter. She finished her meal and stood, draining her glass in one gulp, and told Mordred to follow her.

The hall was confusing to the eye if one studied it too intently; the black and white marble seemed to flicker in the firelight, its veins showing up as scarlet streaks, as if blood ran down the walls. Enough blood had been spilt in this hall for that not to be an impossible story. But the marble throne that stood in the middle of the room did not flicker; its colour remained an obstinate, oblivious black.

And on the throne sat Morgana, her dress the hue of raven wings, her deathly pale face striking against her dark hair.

'So,' she said, 'you are our intruder.'

The girl said nothing. She watched as Morgana studied her, making sure no sign of fear betrayed the feelings she felt inside of her. The witch's face was almost friendly, but her eyes flashed as if an inferno resided within her. Scratch the surface and the fire would break loose, destroying all in its path.

'Who are you?'

The seemingly innocent question did not trick the girl. She did not respond, and pushed once again against the enchanted rope that bound her; it seemed to get tighter every time she tried.

'Who are you?'

She could not betray herself. If she were to give a name, and a name only, that would do nothing – her name meant nothing – but she was determined not to say anything. Let her kill her if she wanted to. She would never give in.

'Tell me where I will find Emrys.'

Ah, now she was getting somewhere. The girl looked up, knowing now why she had been brought here. Still she did not speak.

'You know the name. Where is he? Who is he?'

Nothing. Silence filled the hall: a tense, suffocating silence.

'I will let you free unscathed if you would only tell me what I want to know.'

The voice now was persuasive, soft, an attempt at kindness. Morgana was a queen amongst tempters. Yet still the girl said nothing; she must have a death wish. Perhaps she should be killed now, got rid of before she became too infuriating – but no, the information she held was too important to let her die.

Suddenly, the girl felt a prickle in her mind – an icy tendril, a piece of Morgana's consciousness – invading those memories and thoughts which should not be revealed. At once her mental defences sprang up, blocking the attack. Morgana's upper lip curled; she hissed quietly with unsuppressed anger. 'Very clever.'

The girl still she held her mouth in a grim half-smile, coldly glad at her victory thus far over Morgana.

'Mordred –'

Morgana's protégé came forwards from the back of the room, bowing slightly. The girl studied him with something akin to curiosity: this man whom Morgana chose to have at her side, the one whose status was above those who had captured her, was a man with a serious, good-looking face – studious perhaps – and a thin frame that looked as if it could snap at any moment. Unsurprisingly, considering he didn't look like a warrior, he was eager to please. 'Yes, my Lady?'

'Mordred – make this wench see sense.'

He paled, understanding by this that he was supposed to torture the girl until she spoke. 'I… I can't, my Lady. I'm sorry. I can't.'

She stared at him, trying to work out if he was such a weak character as he seemed to want to appear. But no – she could not expect people to be able to torture others at the drop of a hat. The lad had never done such a thing as that before. He had killed, yes – but this required a different skill, a different sort of person.

Thus she turned to the man who stood by the window – the man who had brought the girl to her. He would do. A lack of emotion usually sufficed for such a task. 'You. Get the information from her. Now!' She could not hold back her desperation. She was so close to getting the answer for which she had long searched for – she wanted it immediately. Nothing more could get in her way.

'Where is Emrys?'

The man stepped forth and drew his sword. The girl did not flinch but her face gained a deathly pallor. Her eyes followed the heavy, lumbering footsteps of the brute, watching his every movement. His sword gleamed a bloody red in the firelight. His shoes, she found herself noticing, were protected by boots with vicious-looking steel toecaps; iron spikes protruded from the bases, meant for walking on ice but available should he need them. Well, let him use them. He still wouldn't get anything from her.

In one motion he swung his sword and drew a surprisingly careful line across her flesh. For a moment she did not feel it; then she felt the searing pain, the line of fire that raced across her bare arm. Blood welled up from the wound and flowed across the pale skin. It was excruciating; she opened her mouth in a silent cry, and her limbs pushed unconsciously against the ropes. Quickly Morgana cast some kind of spell; the injury closed up, leaving no trace – not even a scar – but the pain was still there. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

'Where is Emrys?'

The sword flashed through the air again. It cut easily through the skin, following a line parallel to the last one; she cried aloud this time, trying and failing to bring her arm to her face. Her muscles clenched, squeezing rivulets of blood over the edge of the wound. This time Morgana waited a long while before healing the wound; she watched the girl's face contorting in pain, wondering how much she could take. Then she sealed it up; only rivers of red were left to show that there had been any wound.

'Where is Emrys?'

Mordred, standing at the entrance to the room. His face was far too innocent for one who was watching such things. It was blank, expressionless. What was he thinking, she wondered, beneath the silence? Why did he watch her and do nothing? He had refused to carry out the torture, and yet he could stand and watch. She had thought him human – and now he was a shell, inhuman, alien.

'Where is Emrys?'

The sword again. Her vision flickered; fire appeared in front of her eyes, obscuring the room, obliterating the insane face of Morgana. As long as she knew that Morgana was dissatisfied – as long as she did not speak, then she would have succeeded.

'Where is Emrys?'

Her leg this time. The bare flesh above her ankle seared and split. Her vision darkened. She would faint with but a few more – she would fall into darkness, and that would be the end – the beautiful, painless end to her suffering. She did not fear death. Not now.

'Where is Emrys?'

A void. Complete oblivion, dancing before her eyes, ringed with the red of hellfire. How could she come so close and yet not reach unconsciousness? How much pain could she take?

'Where is Emrys?'

Now the toecap, digging into her thigh, piercing a hole half an inch deep, burying itself into her and retreating at last, leaving a gaping wound that poured out blood.

'Where is Emrys?'

The ice-spikes. One kick, and – no pain. No pain any longer. It was done. There was the void, coming to meet her –

A sour taste filled her mouth. She was aware of being awake, but still she could see nothing. No – there was a pinprick of light, right in front of her. Where was it coming from? She tried to see it more clearly, squinted –

And opened her eyes. She had been half-asleep still. Now she was conscious, awake, alive –

Alive, and without pain.

That was a strange thing.

There was a rushing noise coming from somewhere, like tumbling water. She blinked and listened intently. No – it was in her head, a noise in her ears. Apart from that everything was completely silent.

Where was she? She looked around, rubbing the dust from her eyes. It was an ancient cavern, carved from sandstone and lit by an unseen source. The walls were not dry: they seemed to glisten with water droplets, though the air was arid.

She sat up. The pain in her arms and legs had been reduced to a dull throbbing ache, and there was no trace of her wounds. Only the floor pained her: it was gritty with red sand.

Very cautiously she stood, her legs wobbling from her torment, and examined her surroundings more closely. She knew the bedrock below Morgana's fortress at Ismir to be of sandstone, and riddled with caves. The fortress stood on a precarious point. She must be right underneath – under the fortress, in the caves of which very little was said. There were secrets down here – secrets, it was rumoured, that Morgana did not even know herself.

An intriguing enough history. But she didn't really care for legends. She wanted to know who had brought her down here and why.

Before she could call out a greeting or a question to anyone who might be hiding, she felt a whispering of something in her mind: a consciousness she recognised. The consciousness that had brought her here. It was the mind of a grand being, the greatest of all living creatures: a dragon. But it had been weakened somehow, or constrained, so that all she could sense of it was a terrible emotion. In the tendril that penetrated her mind now she felt that same fear, that same dread, pain, helplessness –

She couldn't bear it. She had come here to stop the suffering of the poor creature, hardly daring to believe that there might be a dragon left. Now she was free to continue in her mission.

I shall help you, she said mentally; and emanating from the dragon's consciousness she felt a brief elation, a sensation of joy that, had the creature spoken, she knew would have been an expression of gratitude. She had made a promise. She had to keep to it.

All she needed to do was find the poor thing.