Author's Note: I thought I would leave this as a one-shot, but it begs for a sequel and I love writing Cyric. Unrequited Cyric/Midnight, of course.

Ch 2.

Cyric paced the cold room as far as his shackles would allow him. He had been speaking with Kezef of late. Once he had come out of his madness, the madness that the death of the goddess of magic had caused, he had sought council with one who had been imprisoned before. One who the gods had wanted so dearly to imprison that they did not think the sacrifice of Tyr's hand unworth it. He was still able to spin lies and illusions just as easily as before. The shackles didn't prevent his use of magic. That was odd. He could still use magic, even though the goddess of magic was dead. Kezef explained it to him. The shadow mastiff had been roaming the prison and attempting to view and learn what was going on in the outside world, outside of their prison. That was how the dog had learned that magic had been split. Its dominion now passed to those who had previously called dominion over it, but had no real dominion over it, all magic, even that of gods, belonging to his beloved Midnight. A spasm of pain, real or imagined, he did not know, shot through him at the thought of her death. A death he had brought about with his own hands, using her underling's own staff...her only weakness. A weapon forged of pure weave energy...the only thing capable of killing the Weave's mistress. He had ripped it from Azuth's hand and brought it down on her beautiful head...Cyric shook his head. Thoughts such as those would only lead him down the road to further madness, and he and Kezef could not escape their prison if he were locked in the throes of madness, as he had been for months after her death.

The Prince of Lies took a deep breath. If dominion over magic had indeed passed to those who were claiming to be its gods before, then he truly WAS god of illusion magic. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage. Cyric examined the god-forged shackles encircling his wrists and ankles for the first time. Tyr, the warrior god, along with his posse of good-will junkies had imprisoned him here. Gond, god of crafters, had forged the shackles. From Kezef's telling, Tyr had killed Helm, the guardian god of the Celestial stairway leading between all realms, in a battle over Tymora's, goddess of good luck, hand. Then Tyr, the half-wit, had killed himself in remorse. Cyric's lip curled in a smirk. If he had killed that poor excuse for a guardian, he would have cheered. Long had he ached to slay the guardian of the stairway. He was pissed that Tyr had stolen that from him. He couldn't even take his anger out on him once he was out of prison. What an ignorant dolt that Tyr was. And then Ao or whoever was in charge up there now had decided to make Torm chief of the gods and the new god of justice.

Slamming his fist against the wall in anger, Cyric couldn't believe it. HE they had imprisoned for slaying another god, even though he was god of murder and lies and trickery and was only doing what he was supposed to do. When Tyr slays a god, Ao does nothing. Simply allows him to get on with killing himself and allows a new god of justice to be named. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Ao had told Cyric, had told them all, that the slaying of another god was practically Cyric's DUTY. If anyone understood duty, it was Tyr and Torm, those good-willed gods who sought to save the realms from themselves.

Kezef looked his direction, a questioning gaze in his dark dog eyes. "Do not worry yourself over it, Kezef, as if you were anyway. I am merely thinking of the injustice these so-called gods have done us."

The chaos hound growled in agreement. "You were right you know. When we first met. They are pretender gods, to have imprisoned one so powerful as myself and you, my Lord of Lies. They think these shackles can hold us forever. They are fools. You are the master of illusion, god of trickery, liesmith of the gods. If any can free me, it is you, as you freed me the first time. I will once again be in your debt and service should you free us."

Cyric smirked at Kezef. "Your loyalty surprises me, dog. Of course, in a way, I am your master. I am the only one who appreciates chaos as much as you do." The Liesmith cross the room and patted Kezef's maggoty excuse for fur, much decimated since his last time of freedom. Cyric would remedy that, and soon enough. He knelt to the floor and examined the giant hound's shackles. At first he had been caged by Mask, merely an aspect of the hated shadow goddess, Shar. Then his prison had been made more powerful by the other good gods. The shackles were like his own, only more powerful. Kezef was, in a way, a more powerful being than most gods. The first time Cyric had seen him, he had been in fetters placed there long ago when he had shorn Tyr's hand from his arm. Cyric had sliced through those fetters quite easily. Though at the time his sword had been an aspect of Shar, technically another greater god. The gears in Cyric's warped mind were turning. It taken a god's weapon to break god-forged fetters. Perhaps a god-weapon could break these shackles.

He stood up and went back to the corner he had taken to possessing when not pacing and thinking of ways to get out. True master of illusion now...perhaps he could take illusion to its next step. Illusion magic, currently, merely was the concealing of a truth. A lie. A trick. What Cyric was best at. If anyone could take illusion to its next step, it was him, god of deception. True shapeshifting. Or changing the shape of another item in truth. A large rock, one among many, lay nearby. Cyric picked it up. He chanted the words to a powerful illusion spell. The rock appeared before him as a sword. The Liesmith reached toward it, focusing his gaze intently on it. His hand slapped the hard ground beneath the rock as it passed through what the illusion showed as the sword's pommel. Cyric snarled in fury. The illusion spell worked well enough, but he had intended to TRULY make the rock into a sword.

Kezef turned his gaze on his master once again. "My lord, perhaps you shouldn't be so angry on the first attempt. I know what you're trying to do, and I agree that it is the plan most probable to work and get us out of here, but you cannot think or act as well when you are so full of rage. Calm yourself. It was only a first attempt. Shapechanging magic is powerful. You ARE the true god of illusions now, so I do not put such a feat past you, but even gods make mistakes. Our being imprisoned here is one of them." The chaos hound smiled a maggoty smile. The dog truly wished to see Cyric, his now-master, succeed. He wanted out as much as the Prince of Lies did. He thought it far better to ally himself with this incredibly powerful god than to make an enemy of him. While Cyric was indeed mentally unstable, the chaos hound liked it. A god with a love of chaos as great as his own. Kezef smiled again. This would turn out well. An alliance between them. Kezef's loyalty to Cyric had honestly been sealed when he had been taken from a cold prison by the god of lies to an existence of feasting on the god's followers, as he had been. And Cyric cared naught if he feasted on his own followers. People flocked to worship Cyric like moths to a flame, especially after the Cataclysm that Mystra's death had brought about.

Kezef knew that people were only directing their worship to the Prince of Lies in an attempt to avoid more chaos, since Cyric was god of chaos and strife as well as lies and illusion. Regardless of WHY people worshipped him, Cyric was now arguably the most powerful god in the pantheon. Of course, it only made sense. Those others were as his master claimed. No true gods at all. Only Cyric was a god. His god. His master. He would serve his master by slaying those who called themselves his enemies. Feasting on the flesh of their worshippers and then their dying flesh when they had no worshippers. He would leave the shadow goddess to Cyric. The Liesmith so desperately yearned to slay her. She had lead to the death of his beloved Midnight. Kezef did not read minds or deduce this on his own, but he was smart enough to listen to Cyric's nightly ranting and raving and crying over her and how Shar had caused her death. The mentally unstable god sometimes even thought someone else had dealt the killing blow, though when he calmed down he was able to see that it was he himself who did it.

A cry of triumph brought Kezef back to the present. The dog looked across the room to see Cyric holding a black, shining sword in his hands. Kezef grinned. He had truly mastered his role as god of illusion. He had created a god-weapon out of a rock. Truly, Kezef had been lucky in finding so powerful a master as the Prince of Lies.

R/R. Will continue shortly, most likely. I'm on a Cyric kick again. I want to see him get out of his prison. This doesn't ENTIRELY align with the Forgotten Realms new version, but its the way I think it should be.