Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, Zodar explored countless untamed worlds, soared the dark skies of dream, and dredged through the terrible chasms of imagination. Much time has passed since he first began this journey, but soon the stars would be set, and the time would be right to complete his work.

The time could not come soon enough, thought Zodar. Soon he would have all the power he would need, and his imagination would be reality.

Zodar sat cross legged on the floor of his wooden wagon, as it slowly dredged up an ice covered mountainside. He was tall and well built, lean and hardy of body, still wearing the black and red robes of a distinguished wizard fitting of his station of the Vizjeri clan, but these days class or privilege no longer met anything to him. The robes were merely clothes, and a reminder of his life before his discovery.

The Vizjeri... The thought of those old dottering fools made his blood boil, chattering among themselves like a smattering of drunken jungle birds, holding him back with their unfounded fears and superstitions! They wouldn't let him continue with his work back in Caldeum, they wanted his power for themselves! But he won't let them have it. It will be mine! Zodar screamed inside his mind. The imaginary universe trembled. It will all be mine! Then those imbeciles will learn what true power is!

Still in a light trance, the wizard extended outwards with his mind's eye, in order to take stock of his surroundings. Such remote viewing was a simple yet highly useful skill which most acolytes learned by mid level. All around nothing in this lifeless country but rocks and snow and ice, for miles. The Dreadlands have certainly earned their reputation as one of the most desolate lands in Sanctuary. Who would voluntarily live in such a dreary place?

The wind whipped outside the thin canvas which covered his wagon, as his lowly assistant Rodolpho steered up the icy mountain path. Normally such coverings would be an inadequate protection from the elements in such climes, but a simple spell had seen to that. Both he and Roldolpho had naught to fear from the cold.

In his mind's eye the wizard looked over his malformed ward. Rodolpho was very strong, but also ugly and slow of mind. He had taken pity on the poor creature when his parents had left him as a small child in the desert sands outside of Caldeum to be devoured by the Sand Maggots. Despite his unfortunate breeding Rodolpho was a good servant, and did what he was told without question. He was a fool, but a loyal fool. Perhaps when his work was done Zodar would even let him live.

Yes, his work. That is all that mattered to him now. It had been nearly a year before, after studying that which was forbidden in the Arcane Repositories deep under the Mage's Citadel in Caldeum, that Zodar discovered what truly lay under the ice of the desolate Dreadlands. That the reason why the Dreadlands were so desolate was because they were the site of an ancient battle between the High Heavens and the Burning Hells which had taken place so long ago as to have faded from legend.

And that the result of the battle was the key to ultimate power. It will be mine!

Up the narrow mountain road the covered wagon struggled, a sheer drop to oblivion on one side, pulled by a trio of skinny, wretched rented colts. Zodar examined the malnourished animals with his mind's eye. To one used to the fine royal stallions at the palace of Caldeum these pitiful things could hardly be called horses. Pathetic animals they were, hardly worth the ten gold pieces their owner demanded of them back in the deplorable little village at the foot of the mountain. The stable master was also small and lumpy, with a big bulbous nose and rotten teeth. Zodar had considered sending an ice shard through the man's heart if not for all the onlookers gawking at him. Apparently the arrival of someone who bathes more than once a decade is such a rare occasion that the entire town felt the need to stand nearby and gawk at him as he made his negotiations with the stable master. Or perhaps it's just that those poor degenerates unfortunate enough to live in such a backwards, flea-bitten rat hole have so few visitors that anyone who passes through warrants such attention. Thus were the peoples of the Dreadlands, dirty, uncultured, uneducated curs, unable to comprehend even the simplest of civilized concepts, such as hygiene.

There was the one boy at the well, however. He had the potential for magical skill, however small. Zoldar could feel the magic within the boy, and knew the boy could feel it emanate from himself as well. The Vizjeri called it "the mark," that which separated the sorcerer from the common folk. Not all who could wield magic had it, but those who had possessed the potential for great things. The boy's skill was obviously small and undeveloped, but had he been born in a civilized place the Vizjeri would have sought him out.

Perhaps I shall return to the village after this is all done, Zodar said to himself. Perhaps I shall turn them all into chickens. It would not be a fitting test of my new power, but still, I may desire lunch. Zodar amused himself with various ingenious agonies he would inflict upon the village and it's populace that his mind's eye almost didn't see the trap before his cart fell into it.

With a loud crash the wizard found himself tumbling about the cabin, along with his various chests and personal items. He quickly cast a slow-time bubble which brought all his personal items to a floating crawl, along with himself. Inside the bubble time passed at a fraction of the pace as it did outside. Wizards often utilized this spell to slow the advance of arrows or other missiles. Thus the nature of the spell allowed him to pluck his various belongings out of the air where they slowly floated in front of him. Some of these charms and wands were quite valuable, and it would not do to allow them to be broken.

The carriage fell into a deep ditch dug across the narrow road which had been filled in with snow. Zodar examined the scene remotely with his mind's eye. Two of the whimpering excuses for horses lay trapped at the bottom beneath the carriage writhing in pain. One of them was already dead while the third had scampered away into the wilderness. Four figures stood at the top of the hole in which the covered wagon currently lay, armed and filthy.

Barbarians, thought Zodar. Since the destruction of their homeland five years before the once proud warrior tribe had taken to lawlessness and ruin, preying upon those travelers unfortunate enough to pass through their lands, so much so that the King of Westmarch had fought a protracted campaign to pacify them. Zodar could see Rodolpho had already crawled from the pit, and was waving the small hatchet which he often used to cut firewood at the raiders, who were merely laughing at him. Any fool could see Rodolpho was no match for the barbarians, and they would soon dispatch him with ease. He took a moment to consider the implications of this. It would be good to finally be rid of the fool, but at the moment there was no time to find another servant who would be so loyal. No, Rodolpho was needed still.

"Ha look friends, the ugly one wants to fight" laughed the lead barbarian, a younger lad with long hair and square cut bangs. Despite his large size he looked to Zodar to be no more than a boy, less than twenty years old. "Don't you know you're on our land now? No one passes through Wulfslang territory without paying a toll!"

Zodar gripped the handle of his long golden staff. Elaborately carved Vizjeri symbols twisted their way up the shaft, terminating in a Khazra shaman skull which had been mystically bound by his own hand. His mind's eye showed the young barbarian advancing upon Rodolpho with a curled lip and a swagger. A simple teleportation spell is now in order…

Oslar stood there, frozen with shock, the sharp end of Zodar's staff erupting through his back. One instant he was about to slay the ugly little whelp with the hatchet, the next there was a blinding light, and he found himself impaled. As the light left his eyes he saw the burning gaze of the mad wizard plunge into his very soul.

"Master! " cried Rodolpho. He was bleeding where one of the Barbarians had already struck him in the head, but the sight of the wizard filled him with joy. "Big men goin' get it now!"

The swiftness of the attack startled the remaining three barbarians, who stepped back a few paces. They quickly came to their senses, and spread out to surround the wizard. Zodar could see these men were not as brainless as they seemed. Usually the smallest display of magic is enough to send such rubes scattering in fear. They be not cowards, the wizard thought, but their bravery will do them no good.

"Rodolpho, stay behind me." Zodar said coldly. The three huge men circled him, holding their weapons high. Two of them were armed with crude yet durable looking swords, while the largest of them bore an ornate double bladed axe in one hand. The weapon was large enough that most men would require two hands to wield it, yet this barbarian swung it as if it were a child's toy.

"You'll pay for my brother's death," screamed the big one, "Sorcerer!" He spat the word. So it would seem that old prejudices against the gifted had spread even to this isolated land. No matter, these men would all be dead shortly anyway.

The two smaller barbarians foolishly rushed headlong at him, waving their swords in the air, fully committing themselves to a killing blow. These two were obviously inexperienced in any real battle, Zodar thought to himself. They've probably just preyed on helpless travelers, never facing any real resistance. He could dispatch them quickly with little effort. The large one on the other hand...

Zodar ducked and parried the first attacker, a filthy lout with a long face full of pimples, and sent him sprawling to the ground with a whip of his staff. The second was more stout and had a nose like a pig, and came swinging his sword wildly, attempting to lop his head off. In one swift movement Zodar caught his attacker's arm with his staff and sent his sword flying. The wizard thrust out his other arm and hit the pig faced barbarian square in the chest with an open hand.

"SALQUAT!" He screamed.

Instantly a blue light erupted from the palm of his hand, which solidified into a shower of ice crystals. However instead of freezing the vagabond solid the crystals tore through his body at a high speed, rending flesh and bone as if it were paper, leaving nothing but a bloody carcass behind. Zodar turned to the first barbarian whom he'd knocked down, who was desperately trying to crawl away. He raised his hand at the man's back, and prepared to send a bolt of lighting through him.

Without warning the third barbarian screamed a war cry so terrible that it's effect momentarily stunned Zoldar. The shockwave reverberated through his very bones, and shook him to his core! A lesser man could have actually been injured from the shout alone!

What trickery is this? thought the wizard. Could this primitive actually have some magical skill of his own? The wizard however was unable to finish the thought as at that instant the large barbarian leaped high into the air, and then came down next to him, generating such a shockwave that he had to concentrate to keep from being knocked over. The huge man swung his giant double-bladed axe and Zoldar barely had time to react. His golden staff was sufficiently strong enough to block the attack, but the force itself knocked the wizard off his feet, sending him stumbling backwards. The huge barbarian swung his other hand and caught Zoldar in the face with a closed fist, sending him sprawling a dozen feet.

Zoldar took a moment to regain his senses. Truly he'd underestimated this uncouth vagrant. Such a blow would have killed someone less skilled than he. But I am no ordinary man, he remembered.

"You have killed my brother, and my kinsman, and for this you must die, sorcerer. " spat the barbarian. "I will hang your head from our walls as a warning for your kind to stay off our land." The barbarian advanced with absolutely no fear, and with a cold determination in his eyes.

The wizard stood, and showed no fear of his own. "I am no ordinary sorcerer. I am Zoldar, and the power will be mine!" Zoldar screamed and raised both hands towards the heavens. "BOMBARDIA!"

At the command of the crazed wizard the ground underneath the barbarian seemed to explode in fire. Before he react a huge flaming rock fell out of the sky and crashed at his feet, narrowly missing him by mere inches. The impact however was enough to destroy the entire ledge he was standing on, sending both he and the wizard tumbling down the mountain side in a shower of rocks and ice.

Rodolpho squatted near the edge, staring down the side of the mountain, desperately searching for his master. He had been separated from the wizard before, but never for too long, and never without permission. What would he do if master were dead? Who would look after him?

Master isn't dead, the short man said to himself. Master can't die. No one can kill Master. But each excruciating minute that passed Rodolpho became more and more unsure of that statement. So it was with the utmost relief that after nearly ten minutes he saw the wizard slowly float up the sheer mountainside. He was overjoyed and leaped around Zoldar's feet like an excited puppy.

"Master is alive! Master is alive! I knew the big men couldn't kill you!" Rodolpho cried.

Zoldar was shaken, and humbled. That barbarian had given him a much harder fight than he'd care to admit. Sending down the meteor and his subsequent ascent from the mountain had taken a significant amount of arcane power, and he would need to meditate for a period in order to regain it. His nose was bloody, and ached where the barbarian had struck him. Zoldar waved a quick hand in front of his face and healed his nose, it wouldn't do to have Roldolpho see him with such injuries.

That barbarian... he had a power of his own, of some kind. Not exactly magic, but something similar. There were many theories accorded to the different philosophers and mage clans about the nature of magic. Could it be that these primitive savages had managed to tap into the same force which Zoldar himself wielded, yet used them for different effects? That barbarian's scream was no ordinary scream, nor was the shockwave generated by his leap a feat that an average man could accomplish. Such a subject would be a worthy field of study, had he still been a Vizjeri.

But I'm not a Vizjeri, the wizard told himself. Not anymore. When I'm done here I'll have ten times the power of any magician in the world. Then the Vizjeri, and the Zann Esu, and the barbarians, and everyone else in Sanctuary would bow at his feet.

They would bow, or he would destroy them.

For three days, he has climbed the cliff face.

No food, no water. Only the climb, relentlessly upward, out of the deep gorge the wizard had put him in. Each step of the way, Kothar silently punished himself. Word of the stranger in Iskarvena had travelled fast. Men such as this don't travel without riches. He had given his permission to his brother and his friends for this raid. It had been his idea to set the trap for the wagon. But they didn't know the stranger was a sorcerer...

Now Oslar is dead, and a mad wizard threatens his tribe. What business does a sorcerer have in such a desolate place? These lands held little of value to outsiders. A half dozen flea infested towns not worth raiding, and a few hidden ruins here and there long since looted. The rest was mere snow and ice, for miles. This desolate country was truly at the end of the world. NO ONE came to the Dreadlands without reason. Those who did usually were on the run - thieves, murderers, criminals of all occupations - many of such lowly character found their way to these lands to escape the hangman's noose. Some of them even tried to start their lives over, though not many.

Then there was his people, who came here not as criminals, but as refugees. Five years ago, after the dark wanderer reawakened the prime evils, and the demon lord Baal lead his dark army to capture the Worldstone. Kothar had heard rumors that one of his own kind, a barbarian like himself, had been present in the final battle with the demon lord. A battle which in which the archangel Tyrrel had destroyed the Worldstone, which resulted in the complete destruction of Mount Arrarat, and the scattering of his people to the wind.

Kothar silently cursed the demons, and the angels. It was the fault of the high heavens that his people were near extinction. For untold generations the children of Bul-Kathos had defended Mount Arrarat, many sacrificing their lives in the battle with the demon hordes. Where were the angels now when his people needed them most? If it were up to him mankind would be better off without each of them.

Now his people were lost, leaderless, and filled with despair. The king of Westmarch had even sent his army to prevent their migration into lands further south, driving many of them into the Dreadlands, forcing them to prey upon travelers for survival like common brigands. Many of his tribe often went days without food, women, and children...

And now this wizard was loose, planning who knows what. For the briefest of moments Kothar nearly gave into despair. The hunger and thirst were overwhelming. How easy it would be to simply let go of the rock face, and plunge silently down the mountainside. His tribe would believe him killed in battle, and would afford him all the usual honors. No one would know...

No. He could not face his brother in the Halls of Bul-Kathos, knowing he had died a coward's death. Kothar steeled his reserve and dug his fingers in deeper, and resumed his climb. He will reach the top. He will retrieve his axe, he will find this sorcerer and he will bury his axe into the vile fiend's skull.

For in his heart, Kothar was a warrior. And if the gods were willing, he would die like one.

For three days, Zoldar climbed the mountain.

The encounter with the barbarians had bruised his pride, but not much else. Far worse was the loss of one of the horses. The remainder was alive, but was far too weak to pull the wagon alone. Zoldar had his servant maneuver the wagon into a small cleft in the cliff-side, and laid several magical wards and charms over the entrance, so that to any passerby it would appear as part of the unbroken rock face. The remaining horse labored up the stony path behind him, overloaded with what little provisions and artifacts the poor animal could carry.

It will probably also die soon in a few days, thought the wizard. But it matters not. What matters is that he was close now, so very close, to obtaining that which had eluded him for so long. Nothing else mattered.

The wizard and his misshapen servant continued to trudge up the stony path, and eventually signs of prior habitation began to appear - a worked cobble stone, a shaped carin to the side, pieces of broken pottery, an offset piece of a fence or railing. Finally they turned a bend, and came upon a dark cleft in the rock face, with a series of carved stairs retreating down into the inky darkness. The light seemed to retreat from the furthest depths of the passageway.

Zoldar spoke to his servant without looking at him, his eyes staring deep into the empty void before him. "Light a fire and stay with the horse," he intoned calmly, taking his staff and a small pack with him. "I shall return before sunrise." The wizard set off down the passage without a backward glance. Rodolpho bowed his head and set off to gather firewood as he was told. Although he didn't want to be left alone in this dreary place, the thought of crawling through that deathly passage filled him with dread.

Zoldar walked into the darkness, then once the light had left completely, struck his staff upon the rocky ground and uttered a simple incantation. A small spark ignited on the tip of the staff and crawled downwards, until the whole of it glowed with an unearthly radiance, deftly illuminating everything within a twenty foot radius. Simple magic that any first year acolyte learns, but it still it served his purposes well.

What the light revealed almost denied description. A a vast, decorated wall, covered with a multitude of leering, evil faces, carved from the living rock, wrought and twisted upon each other so they almost looked as if alive. Even to the untrained eye they appeared more than simple sculptures. Limbs seemed to twitch, eyes to blink, mouths to scream in unending pain. Zoldar detected a faint trace of magic in the carvings which made them appear to move as such, a bizarre enchantment that worked upon and compounded the hidden fears of the observer, probably meant to scare off tomb defilers and grave robbers. Normal men would find anxiety and fear gnaw at them with every step closer they took, until such time as they would succumb and flee screaming like babes. Such a ward was child's play to penetrate for a practitioner of Zoldar's caliber.

The wizard made a few gestures and intoned some words of power. His staff glowed brighter for a few moments, then faded as the ward cleared. The cliff face now appeared as just a simple wall, the ornate decorations mere stone. Zoldar inspected the relief closer. Hidden among the twisting shapes of pain and suffering lay three shallow depressions. It's a lock, he thought. A lock which uses mana as the key, and only one who has sufficient ability to channel his inner strength could hope to open it. He pressed his staff against them in a certain order. A deep purple light filled the depressions, which then shot out in lines which connected them. Zoldar heard a loud click from deep inside the rock. He stepped back as the wall moved inwards, then slowly moved to the side, revealing a long, dark corridor within, descending deep into the mountain's core. Up from the depths wafted a malodorous odor, the putrid stink of corpses and centuries. Zoldar stepped inside, the light from his staff fighting to penetrate the abyss. The rock on both sides of the narrow corridor was rough hewn, with crude scribblings etched into the walls here and there. He paused to examine some of the markings, which consisted of strange, roughly chiseled shapes and primitive carvings.

Demonic script, he thought to himself. He was so close now.

Zoldar navigated the stairs downward, deep into the bowels of the mountain, for what seemed like hours. With each step the inky void grew somehow darker, as if a thing alive, actively trying to snuff out what pale illumination the wizard's staff could provide. And with each step also the air grew fouler, stifling, more thick. Lesser men would be incapacitated by the stench alone, but not Zoldar. A very simple spell was cast and the smell was lessened, allowing him to be aware yet not aware of it. Glamour spells were usually reserved for disguising one's appearance, but the wizard had little trouble adapting it to block out the obnoxious odor. Small creatures scuttled into holes and crevices at his approach. He caught sight of one of the disgusting things as it scurried away. It was somewhat like a rat, but larger and hairless, and with too many limbs. A vile mutation, brought on by a life spent in proximity to demonic energies. Such mutations have been known to occur in all manner of animals, as well as men.

At long last the narrow corridor opened into a wide chamber. Zoldar could tell it was vast, as the sound of his own footsteps seemed to echo, however the unnatural darkness prevented him from seeing past arm's length. The pale light emanating from his staff was far too inadequate to penetrate the inky veil. Strange skittering sounds reverberated through the darkness.

Enough of this, Zoldar said to himself, as he raised his staff high and a spell formed on his lips. "Illuminata!" He shouted. The tip of his staff sparked momentarily, then exploded into a bright, piercing sunburst. Such a spell was usually deployed while in battle, to dazzle and blind one's enemies. Here it served a different purpose.

What lay before him was a wide, circular gallery, large enough for several hundred men to walk abreast. The walls were covered with more of the profane demonic scratchings, perforated here and there by large, dark holes. From these holes the smell of decay seemed to emanate, along with the varied scratchings of unseen vermin. The center of the chamber held a crude, rough cut altar on a series of raised circular daises, each covered with profane demonic scribbling.

It's a seal, the wizard realized. The writing on the dais acts as a seal, to keep a spirit trapped within. He could feel an old, malevolent force emanating from the altar itself, just as the occult writings said it would. To be so close after so long...

Between the wizard and the altar lay several dozen corpses, the remains of adventurers too brave (or too foolish) to turn back. Most of them were filled with dust, mummified by the years and dry air. Zoldar stopped to examine one of them. The leathery flesh was torn as if from the claws of a great beast, with enough force to shear through the bones beneath. A curious, four toed footprint pattern left tracks in the dried blood around it.

The sudden realization that whatever had killed these men may still be in the catacombs came to Zoldar just as the beast was nearly upon him.

For three days, Mehgan waited at her window. But her barbarian never came.

She had met him at the Red Stallion, one late night, long after her parents had retired for the evening. Father always told her a lady never went into town without escort. He was always doting on her for things like that. It tickled her to think how furious he would be if he found out half of the things she'd done.

She had spent nearly all seventeen years of her life in this backward nowhere of a town. Nothing ever seemed to change in this place. People were born, grew up, lived, and died within it's borders, many of them never traveling more than a dozen leagues in any direction. Mehgan was determined to not be one of them.

As the daughter of the local baron, she had the privilege of accompanying him with his yearly trek to Westmarch for the annual feast of governors. Westmarch is a beautiful city, filled with wonderful people and incredible things. The city was larger than anything she'd ever seen, with towering spires and grand vistas, around every corner a new marvel, the fascinating sound of music made with instruments of string and brass, the sweet aromas of beautiful flowers and wonderful perfumes, the taste of strange, imported spices and bizarre foreign dishes. Travelers from around the world packed it's narrow streets, boasting of tales of astonishing adventures in faraway lands, along with merchants displaying wares from exotic places. And people - so many people. More people than one could ever meet, of all shapes and sizes, each with a story to tell. When Oslar returns, Westmarch is where she would like to go first.

It was his plan, to relieve the wizard of his gold. Being the Baron's daughter she had told him she could have no part of his scheme, but she kissed him and wished him luck regardless. After they had the gold then they would be able to purchase a horse from the stable master and begin their adventure. Oslar had suggested they simply steal the horse, but Meghan would not hear it. Although she never planned to return to Iskarvena, she would not betray the trust of the people who looked toward her father for leadership.

Father had spied upon their late night rendezvous and berated her when she had come home later that night, fury in his eyes. He had absolutely forbidden her to see the barbarian, even going as far as to lock her in her room. She would cease her childish infatuation with this boorish mongrel, or he would send his men to apprehend this barbarian, and throw him in the stockade permanently. Mehgan screamed, and cried, and begged, but in the end she had obeyed, as she always does. It was her father's plan to one day marry her off to the son of a neighboring baron, or perhaps if he were lucky one of the kingdom's seven princes. Whatever plan she may have for her future was of no consequence to him. To him, she existed as nothing more than a bargaining chip for his own advancement.

On the third day, Torin had come to see her. He was always seeking out some excuse to try and find his way into the Baron's household. This time it was about farm equipment. Last time it was about rusty bolts on her father's carriage. It was obvious that the boy liked her, no matter how much he tried to disguise these contrived meetings as nothing more than pure chance.

Meghan had always been pleasant to him, and engaged him in friendly conversation. Although they had grown up together in the same town the two were never really close - father had objected to her associating too closely with the common people. He did have a handsome face and a quick wit. He'd make the innkeeper's daughter a fine husband someday. But he was too plain her own taste. He didn't have the bravery (or the physique) of her barbarian lover. During one of their conversations Torin let slip that he was thinking of letting his brother take over the family business, of leaving Iskarvena, and traveling to wherever his feet would take him.

If she were born a man like Torin, no one would attempt to stop her from going her own way, traveling the world and seeing what adventures would come. But she was not a man, and it was her lot to stay at home and make babies, to care for children, and piddle with needle crafts, sewing clothes, and weaving tapestries, and other such boring nonsense. As a noblewoman she'd never want for much, and would never have to live through the filth and drudgery that the lower classes had to face. Yet the knowledge of this did nothing to assuage her melancholy.

It's not fair, she repeated to herself.

Far away, in the high cliffs and harsh deserts of Aranoch, lived a primitive clan who made a meager living from the desolate sands. Lost in a wilderness, assaulted by desert brigands and hunted by wild monsters, the tribe was forced to adapt or face extinction. The young warriors trained their minds to develop a hidden sense, in which they were simultaneously aware of movement on all sides of themselves, helping them to detect danger from any direction. The most gifted adepts could empty their minds and project forth to "see" for many miles around. After many years the mages of the Vizjeri heard of these hidden warriors, and sent emissaries to live among them, to learn this skill and integrate it as one of their own.

It was this skill that saved Zoldar's life.

He moved his head mere seconds before the massive claws would have cleaved it from his shoulders. Instead the claws found purchase in the ancient victim he was examining, shattering it into a thousand dusty pieces. Zoldar rolled with the instinct of a battle hardened warrior and sprang to his feet a dozen paces from his enemy, a maneuver practiced many times in the sparring rooms of the Vizjeri temple, the glow from his staff filling the room with light. Still he had only moments before the beast was upon him again.

It was pale and yellow, with taut skin that looked to be stretched too tight over it's muscles. The creature hissed as it struck again, lumbering at him with a decrepit bow-legged gait. It's hideous, eyeless face stared into him, mouth glistening with teeth. The gaunt countenance of the horror before him invoked a memory in the wizard. In his studies of the arcane Vizjeri texts deep in the catacombs beneath Caldeum, Zoldar had found sparse mentions of such a beast. The Hidden.

Forcing his mind into calmness, Zoldar extended his staff and concentrated on the proper words of power. In the space of a heartbeat he drew up the mana from himself and focused it through his arms and into his staff. A small spark emanated from the Khazra skull on it's tip, which then erupted into a massive, sustained lighting bolt that tore through the beast. There was a bright flash, and a high pitched popping sound as the creature's head exploded.

Zoldar searched his memory for all he could remember about the Hidden. They were creatures which lived in between the physical and ethereal realms, where they fed upon the fear essence of their victims before disemboweling and consuming their corpses. They also tended to hunt in packs, a fact to which the skittering noises at the edge of the room would seek to confirm. However it was necessary for them to manifest completely on the physical plane before they could strike. Zoldar reached out with his mind's eye, and could feel the presence of many such unclean monstrosities, slowly surrounding him.

They would not find me so easy a target! Zoldar raised his staff high, and bellowed the words "ILIDIRUM!" before slamming the staff to the ground. A series of charged bolts shot through the staff and traveled along the floor, searing everything in their path. Most traveled harmlessly to dissipate into the walls, but more than a few found purchase with more of the unseen terrors. Multiple times the bolts were cast, again and again, until many of the creatures lay dead at his feet, and his mind's eye could find no more. Corpses of the vile creatures littered the room, flesh charred, their mouths twisted open in toothy, soundless screams. Satisfied at last that none of the Hidden remained to lay in wait, Zoldar turned his attention to the altar at the center of the chamber. Many years were spent preparing for this moment, he'd given up everything he'd ever had. The power would be his!

Calmly he made his way to the top step of the dais. The black altar lay before him, a clean, blank slate, made of a dark volcanic glass, it's only feature a miniscule hole drilled into the top. From beneath is robe, he produced a small ceremonial knife. This ancient blade was crafted from a dense metal which came from a fallen star, forged by the long lost Nephalem, those bastard offspring of demon and angel. He had obtained it only after piecing together clues of its location through years of detailed research. Zoldar had come across a description of the summoning ritual in one of the forbidden tomes.

Blood magic is an ancient (and forbidden) art, practiced mostly by primitive tribes in the southern jungles, and by necromancers. Using the power inherent in one's own life force the blood of yourself (or an enemy) can be used for a number of different effects, such as divining the future, or creating autonomous "blood golems." Generally such practices were seen as "filthy" to most other spellcasters, the Vizjeri included. To the old men of his former clan, casting spells involving the dead, the use of human organs, or other body parts were usually taboo. But Zoldar no longer made any distinction of this type when it came to the magical arts. It was a belief he had held privately to himself for decades now. To the enlightened mind, magic is simply magic, and the intent of the user is irrelevant - only the result warrants any such consideration.

He intoned the proper magical words with the correct inflection, and drew blood from the palm of his hand with the blade. A subtle glow enveloped the altar as Zoldar drew runes of power on it's surface. As the ritual progressed the altar shook and heaved as if a thing alive. Cracks grew in the sides of the black surface as it began to pulsate, oozing forth a sticky red fluid. The wizard stood back as the pulsating grew quicker, and had to put up a mystical shield to protect himself when a bright flash burst forth from the hole in the altar, spewing a foul ichor all onto the floor. A small, strange being, horned and bent, curled into a little ball like a sleeping child lay on the black stone surface, it's eyes closed.

"You will rise, your master commands it." Zoldar spoke with conviction.

As the creature unfurled itself and stood upright it seemed to be made of a transparent, swirling material, like a purple smoke, but more viscous. At it's full height it's head came below the wizard's waist. Although the thing before him seemed small and weak, if the legends were correct it commanded far more power than could be imagined.

"My master… I have no master." It responded.

" I AM YOUR MASTER! I HAVE SUMMONED YOU, AND YOU WILL OBEY!" The wizard bellowed.

" You have performed the ritual… so I am yours to command… but you are not my master…." the creature appeared to suddenly grow, seemingly quadrupling it's height, looming over Zoldar. Twisted shapes swam through the creature, casting leering faces down at the wizard. "Azototh has no master."

Zoldar stood his ground, and stared back at the swirling mass of demonic energy. "I am Zoldar! And I give the commands! You will obey, or you will be destroyed!" Now was a crucial moment. Demons such as these were cunning, and manipulative. The creature would do all it could to escape it's prison, but as long as the blood bond held, it would be at his beck and call. The wizard held up his right hand. The wound pulsated with an impure, purplish light. "My flesh holds the scar which binds you to this world, and your will to my will! You will obey!"

The swirling form of Azototh backed down from the attempt to intimidate the wizard and shrank to it's former size. "And so I shall…'" It spoke with a dark, guttural voice, like an animal's growl. "To me are known the desires of the hearts of men… your desire… is power above all others."

The wizard smiled. "Yes! And you will grant me this power!"

The demon reciprocated the smile, expanding it until it nearly wrapped around it's whole head, an exaggerated mimic of the wizard's own gesture. "I can… but not now, not here. I can show you the way, in which power beyond your wildest dreams can be yours. Power to shape worlds as you see fit, to feast upon the ebb and flow of the cosmos. I can enable you to be the master of this universe, and all in-between. All of mankind will beg at your feet, and both angel and demon will be as playthings before your might. This I will give you… but there is a price."

The smile left the wizard. A deal. With demons there is always a deal. "Name it."

The smile did not leave the demon. "You must grant me passage from this prison. Your body must become a vessel to me, so that together we might prepare the working."

"No tricks demon! If I suspect you of treachery I will sever the blood bond and you will rot inside of this stone for another ten thousand years!"

"No tricks. You will see your desires granted, and be granted the power of a god." The purple energy flowed like water upwards, as if poured from a vase. "Extend forth your hand, and it will be done."

Zoldar raised up his left hand with the palm up. The wound opened on it's own like a hungry orifice. Purple energy swirled like a tempest above the wizard, then poured down into the wound, which consumed it like a ravenous beast. Instantly Zoldar felt the presence of the demon assaulting his mind from all sides, a feeling of pure, raw emotion, unbound by human reason, and infused with a seething hatred of mankind. A multitude of images flashed before his eyes, faces screaming, bodies writhing in tortures undreamed of, and bloody battlefields without end. Visions of the Burning Hells, the wizard realized. He had read first hand accounts of the Hells, described by the heroes who had ventured forth to do battle with Diablo and the other prime evils, yet no amount of dry prose could have prepared him for the visions of pain and cruelty which invaded his mind. Lesser minds would have crumbled to insanity under such molestation, but Zoldar was not a lesser mind.

Using techniques of concentration and meditation the wizard managed to reassert his willpower. The demon was forced back into the dark regions of his psyche. After a short time the demon relented, the visions stopped. Zoldar could feel Azototh hovering, like a hawk circling prey.

"Try that again and you'll rot for eternity in this cave!" the wizard shouted.

Forgive me… master, replied the demon. It's been so long… I overindulged. The demon shifted in his mind, clawing at the edge of his sanity, but remained in his place. But, I can give you a taste of what is to come.

The wizard heard the demon chanting, and suddenly felt the power… a rush of power, more than he'd ever known, infusing every cell, every fiber of his being. Zoldar fell to his knees in shock, his mind overwhelmed with ecstatic, orgasmic euphoria. The power, it was beyond imagining. "I had no idea it would be like this!"

And now, the demon hissed behind his eyes, Show me how you use the gift.

Zoldar looked up at the roof of the cavern, flicked the tiniest muscle in his finger, and the mountain fell away. He shot upwards at amazing speed, swimming through the rock as if it were butter. In the space of a heartbeat he was outside, soaring through the air like a hawk. Grey clouds billowed below him as the wizard sped among them, twisting through the sky, and the elation, the feeling of freedom… unlike anything he's ever felt before. Everything seemed so open, so clear. He could feel air currents, twisting particles flowing through the sky like water in a stream. He could smell everything, the snowy peaks of mountains far away, animals running on the ground far below. He could hear those same animals, the pitter of small rodent feet, the snort of a mule three leagues to the south, moles digging through frozen ground in a farmer's field outside the wretched town where the now dead pack horses were obtained. He could see for miles, far to the south, the gloomy peaks surrounding the city of Westmarch. And to the East, the endless wastelands, and the fabulous city of Caldeum, the Jewel of the desert, where Zoldar received his training from the Vizjerei. His mind momentarily drifted to those old sorcerers, dawdling with elemental powers, their noses buried in dusty books. And farther to the east, beyond the sea, lie the steaming jungles of Kurast. It was there that five years ago, a group of self proclaimed "heroes" had defeated the great evil Mephisto. If only they knew what lay beneath that jungle...

After what seemed to be an eternity the wizard returned to the ground. As enjoyable as the sensation of flight was, there was a task to be done. Zoldar hovered down the mountain path, his feet not touching the ground, until he came to the spot where he'd left Rodolpho and the cartridge hours before. The lumpy fool lay huddled in his thin blanket next to the cart, the smouldering remains of a fire in front of him.

To the east, to the jungle, that is where the power lay. The demon had shown him the location in his mind. Far to the east, beneath a ruined temple, lay a portal to another world… and ultimate power.

There will be tests, Azototh hissed to him. Tests…and ultimate power.

"I will pass the tests!" The wizard loudly proclaimed. Rodolpho looked at him with a puzzled expression, clearly not understanding to whom his master was talking to. Yet he knew enough to not question Zoldar when such things occurred that he did not understand.

The journey is long, and the dangers are many, the demon continued to Hiss. Both the heavens and burning hells will try to prevent you from reaching our goal, from completing the sacrifice. But there are some who have sworn their souls to me, and who will come to your aid now.

"Summon them then," Zoldar replied, "and let us be on our way."

From his mouth came words in the obscure demon tongue which Zoldar did not recognize. The ground below him swirled and began to glow with a reddish energy, before finally opening up, like a hungry, pestilent maw. From the portal came the screams of a billion lost souls - a portal to the burning hells. The opening spewed forth a legion of hideous creatures, each vaguely man-shaped, but twisted and deformed. They seemed to have too many eyes, legs that bent the wrong way, heads that were too long, too many teeth. The pestiferous monstrosities formed loose ranks, and howled when Zoldar addressed them.

"I am Zoldar! I command Azototh! I released him from his prison, he serves me now! Which means you all serve me as well!" the wizard bellowed his commands. The demons writhed and howled, but none broke ranks. Each kept their heads down, not willing to challenge the sorcerer who had bound their master.

"We travel east. East to Kurast, east to ultimate power."