CHAPTER 1:

Jermala scrubbed down the stained wooden table top, pitted and marked with dents from the bottoms of mugs whose owners had imbibed a little too much cheap mead, with an equally grubby cloth. It was merely a token effort; nothing was ever truly clean here in this dim, smoky excuse for a tavern. More like a den for destitute thieves, outcasts, and trappers down on their luck.

Not that there is much luck these days, she thought grimly, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn stain. Hell's power in Sanctuary was growing, although most people had little or no idea what exactly was going on or where these horrors were coming from. All they seemed to know was that the world had gotten a whole lot more dangerous.

How much of that is due to stupidity or pipe-smoke? Jermala wondered acidly as she saw Calman, the stunted human proprietor of the tavern nudge a half-conscious incumbent in the corner. She immediately squelched that ungenerous thought, picking up her tray and serving some of the other patrons. She did not know anything about that man's past; he might have a very good reason to smoke his life away. Perhaps that was all he had left. Poor fellow has been sitting there in that same corner for days, Jermala thought, glancing over at him. Whatever happened to him, it must have been pretty terrible. Considering her own shattered past, she had no room to judge. As for the rest of Sanctuary, most of the people were not mages. They could not sense the wrongness in their world, could not feel the twisted and corrupted lines of magic like she could. Even if other people could have felt the wrongness, they would most likely not be able to put a name to the source, unless they were being overrun by hordes of zombies or skeleton archers. Most were simple farmers, merchants, or craftsmen trying to make a living and still keep themselves and their families alive. Most probably could not see the larger consequences, how this could end up destroying the world.

Not like I can, Jermala thought grimly, evading the outstretched hands of drunken patrons with unconscious ease and grace. The nightmares and pain she still carried from her mother's death and her long, lonely years of wandering was testament to that. It had happened eight years ago, but the grief and agony was fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Eight years of wandering and learning, of hardship, pain, and fear . . . Jermala felt much older than her eighteen years, much older. And after all that, she knew that she still was not ready to face Diablo. There was still more that she had to learn, more training, more power. However, she would not be able to wait much longer. He was growing stronger.

A gust of cold wind made the young woman shiver and turn instinctively towards the door. Silhouetted on the threshold against the swirling backdrop of the mountain snowstorm was a cloaked and hooded figure carrying a greatsword. Jermala entertained a moment of curiosity and pity for anyone who dared to brave the northern snows in winter. She was about to turn back to serving the other tables, but something about the stranger caught her attention. Maybe it was the way he stood utterly still for a moment before entering, or maybe it was the way he walked, slightly with a limp as though he was injured or very weary. Or perhaps it was because he was using his sword like cane to support his weight, rather than having it sheathed at his side or across his back. Whatever it was, Jermala felt a bit uneasy. It was nothing specific, just a prickling of discomfort.

Jermala kept a wary eye on the stranger as he sat down in a shadowy corner with the air of someone who was about to collapse from exhaustion. A feeling of pity and sympathy filled the kind-hearted Sorceress. Despite her long years of wandering with more than her share of trouble, Jermala had managed to keep her generous and caring nature more or less intact. Seeing someone else so obviously ill, exhausted, and in need aroused her protective Healing instincts.

After disposing of the drinks on her tray, Jermala hurried to the fire and scooped some boiling water into a mug, adding some herbs to induce calm, relaxation, and to lessen pain. The soothing scent of the herbs infused the steam curling up from the tea, making her own tense muscles relax. This had been her mother's favorite tea for relieving aches and pains. Jermala turned away from the fire and made her way across the lofty common room towards the silent stranger huddled in the corner.

He was weakening even as his battered body healed. But it was not truly his body anymore. His control was fading . . . slowly but steadily he was loosing control. It had taken everything he had to keep the demon occupied this long. The demon was being held at bay now . . . but not for long. His gaze swept around the hall of the Rogues' Citadel. It had taken a long time to reach this place, but this was where the perfect tool had gone, so he followed. Marius was here, hiding in the corner nearby, a half-mad shell. Yes, Marius would do nicely . . . He ripped his mind from of the insidious plans of the demon, seeking a distraction, something to occupy his mind . . . His eyes fixed upon a young woman, little more than a girl-child, who was approaching him . . .

Jermala walked slowly towards the stranger. Some of the men who came out of the snow-swept nights were half-mad and dangerous, so she had to approach cautiously. She could see nothing of his face, hooded as it was, and his patched robes were of a non-descript gray-brown color, giving no hint of his origin or purpose. His hands, pale and thin, clenched convulsively on the hilt of his sword as he recoiled from her.

"It's alright, good sir," she said soothingly and politely. "I can see that you've had a long journey, and a hard one too, judging from the storm outside." Jermala knelt down so she was at eye level with the stranger and held out the mug. "This is just some tea to take the edge off the cold." She smiled wryly. "Don't worry. Calman doesn't take kindly to people poisoning his patrons."

The stranger did not relax, but he did not draw further away either. He seemed to be watching her, weighing the truth of her words. Jermala smiled warmly in encouragement. Slowly, he reached for the mug, the firelight flickering off his hooded features as he did so . . .

She seemed vaguely familiar, this girl, as she knelt there, smiling gently, offering the tea. "Good sir," she had called him . . .oh, how wrong she was! Yet there was no malicious taunting here, only a genuine warmth and concern such as he had not seen in years, let alone had directed at himself. She could not know what he was. But there was still something very familiar, something in the way she carried herself, in her waist-length brown hair and blue-gray eyes . . .

. . . and Jermala's breath caught in her throat. Those features, gaunt and pale with a soul-deep pain and struggle, were as familiar to her as her own. She had seen them often enough in her childhood, though his eyes had never been this dark, maddened shade of red. Her blood froze in her veins and all her defense training disappeared from her mind as she saw a flicker of recognition cross his tortured features. The tea! she realized in a flash of panic. That special blend . . . how could I have been so foolish! Jermala knew that she was not ready for this, not nearly strong enough for the inevitable battle. She could only sit, paralyzed with terror at the feet of the very one who had haunted her dreams for eight years, the creature she had sworn to kill. . .

Realization shot through him, and memories flooded back, evoked by the unique scent of the herbs in the tea. Now he knew why she looked so familiar. She looked like Mistri. Same unconscious grace and poise, same polite manner with a touch of her wicked humor, Mistri's flowing deep brown locks and finely sculpted features. The only difference was in her eyes, the same blue-grey as ice and the Great Ocean, as his had once been. . .

His daughter.

Her father.

They froze in a strange tableau staring at each other. Jermala's mind raced in gibbering circles. How had she failed to sense him? How much of him was demon and how much was still her father? Thank goodness Mistri had taught her how to shield the mage-gift, otherwise he would have killed her the second he stepped through the door. Was he going to slay her now? Jermala probed those strange, inhuman eyes and saw human pain, a flicker of his deadly internal struggle.

His eyes raced over her face, drinking in details he thought he would never see. It was dangerous, yes, but he could not help himself. It had been so long . . . What he saw both pleased and pained him. She had obviously suffered great hardships. The lines of wariness and strain stood out sharply on her too-young face. But she was resilient and her soul was pure. Relief rushed through him. One of his greatest fears had been that Diablo would find some way to corrupt his daughter through their bond of blood. She was afraid of him . . .oh yes, he could see that in her wide eyes, but that showed wisdom. Beneath that fear was defiance, which showed promise. And she had compassion, which gave him hope.

Jermala tensed, shaking off her paralysis of fear and readied herself for battle as the man's face twisted, fighting the demon for control. His frail body shook with intense convulsions, and he lost his grip on his sword, letting it clatter to the floor. The shaking intensified. The mug fell to the floor, shattering, and he gripped his right hand, clenching it into a fist. Seeing his pain tore at her heart. This might be a demon, but it was her father who was being tormented. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, reading her expression of pain on his behalf . . .and shook his head.

"Only death . . ." his voice rasped harshly, as he forced the words out past the demon's compulsions. He could speak no more as the convulsions increased, but Jermala understood his meaning. Only death could free him from this terrible bondage. There would be no other way.

She heard some of the men laughing at the shaking warrior's weakness . . . they could not see the demon-taint. A strange green light flickered for a split second within the man's body. The demon was breaking loose.

Her father fixed his tormented eyes on Jermala's face. "Run!" he hissed in desperation. She hesitated, nodded her understanding, then stood and walked away. She did not run, for that was a sure was of attracting trouble. In his last moments before Diablo's hellish power broke loose, her father admired her calm and control in the face of death.

(to be continued. . . )