"Wise words if I've ever heard them."

"Shut up, voice. Get out of my head. My memories are for my mind only."

"If you say so. Though I must say, I'm having a ball here digging through your pre-Sanctuary past. Did the Hell Lords really make their demon armies commit such atrocities?"

"Yes. They did. Are you happy now? Tell me what you want me to do."

Mortis stood in a large, dark room around two floors below the surface. In the centre sat a coffin; old, but not ancient. Perhaps around the time of the Horadrim. The stone figure carved into the top of the lid lay with its arms crossed over its chest, its features warn away by time and centuries of guano from the resident flying mammals. Mortis wasn't sure, but he could almost feel something still lurked inside.

"Open it," commanded the voice

Mortis took a step forward and hesitated. The pentagram he held firmly in his hand was pulsing heavily, beginning to scorch into his thick skin. The feeling of a 'presence' within the coffin was growing, as if responding to its throbs.

"Are you walking me into a trap, voice? Because if you are, and I survive… you better hope this safe-haven of yours is as impenetrable as you believe."

"It's not a trap, my trusty pawn. You've fought to long and hard to be ended by something as pathetic has hidden blades or poison gas. Open the coffin. You're task is nearly at an end."

Mortis hesitated a few more seconds, his mind twirling like the ancient dust in the tomb around him. Then he stepped up to the lid and gripped its edge.

"Only one way to see if your word is true," he growled, and heaved against the worn stone. At first, it refused to budge. Mortis strained until the veins in his forehead bulged, but all he succeeded in doing was digging trenches into the sandy floor with his clawed feet. He paused for a second to regain his strength, and heard the voice whispering. It sounded far away.

"…when the walls between Worlds have crumbled, where will the Demons be? Will the Angels walk among men, or will they fade willingly from existence because of their arrogant pride. The strength of all is limited only by the strength of will…"

Mortis blinked. It didn't sound as if the voice was talking to him. In fact, it didn't even sound like the same voice. Yet its words seemed to give him renewed energy, and with a silent snarl he pulled back his arms and rammed his whole body against the lid.

It shifted with an almighty groan, shaking sand from the ceiling and sending vibrations up Mortis's arms to his shoulders. The lid scraped to a halt halfway across, but he was determined to move it for good now. He pushed again, and it slid the rest of the way off with relative ease. It hit the ground with a dull 'thud', and cracks spider webbed over the aged stone instantly.

Panting softly, he leaned against the sarcophagus with senses on full alert. But nothing leapt out at him. No vengeful wraith crawled out to drain his soul, no spidery fingers clawing for his flesh. The 'presence', or whatever it was he had sensed, had fled with the passing lid, and only silence remained. He finally relaxed, and peered cautiously over the coffins rim.

Dust.

He should have guessed as much. A coffin as old as this… but then he paused. The coffin wasn't that ancient. Corpses had survived for thousands of years, sealed within air tight catacombs, and this tomb was certainly not that old.

He reached tentatively into the sarcophagus, and scooped his fingers through the dust. It wasn't chunky, or riddled with the remains of burial dressings. It was fine, soft, silty. Whoever had been in here, he suspected had been burned. Scorched to ashes and then ground as small as he could possibly get.

This had not been revered a revered person, and if he had been respected, it was for all the wrong reasons.

"Now, place the pentagram in the sarcophagus, and step away."

Mortis looked at the glowing symbol in his palm, the way it thrummed and pulsed with what seemed like eagerness, and then placed it gratefully on top of the dust. He waited a few seconds to see if anything else would happen, and when nothing did he took some steps back.

"Is that it? I came all this way to place a demonic symbol on a pile of dust?"

"Don't be daft, you poor excuse for a flying monkey. The scroll!"

Mortis looked at the piece of paper still clenched in his other hand and rolled his eyes. Spells and potions, scrolls and symbols. All part of a wizard's daily diet, and mere drivel to everyone else. He was an assassin for Hell's sake, not a sorcerer's apprentice. He unrolled the scroll and scanned his eyes over the strange letters again.

"I can't read this crap," he snarled.

"Upside down, stupid," came the response.

He turned the scroll right way up and the letters suddenly formed a language he understood. It wasn't a common one, that he knew, and if his old teacher hadn't had such a passion for archaic texts he might never have had the knowledge needed to read it.

"…This is the ancient language of the Summoners. What will I be summoning… and why?"

For once the voice didn't answer, not even a cheeky remark. Mortis waited.

"Well?"

At last, the voice spoke again, but it was different this time. Quiet. Pleading. Mortis was unsure if it was sincere.

"You are in no danger. This is for my cause, and won't affect your being in any way. Please, just read the scroll and you'll never hear me again."

Mortis sighed, giving in. He looked over the letters for the last time, and began to read. The words were strange, full of power. As he spoke, the pentagram in the coffin began to glow, brighter and brighter as he drew closer to the end of the scroll.

With the final words - Reanimatrious Corporulos - the coffin gave a shudder, and a bright flash came from the small metal trinket within. The pentagram became liquid in an instant, and began to melt into the dust. Tiny droplets of glistening metal rolled along the powdery contents, before dissolving from sight altogether.

Mortis waited. Whispers began to fill the tomb; ghostly, haunting whispers. A breeze began to stir the sand at his feet.

"Voice?" he asked. But his tormentor was silent.

The breeze began to localise around the coffin, stirring the dust and howling a gale. Sand whipped through the air, stinging his eyes and forcing him to take cover behind a raised arm. The whispers and wind, mixed with unearthly groans coming from within coffin, made the whole experience seem like an eerie and unpleasant dream.

At last the storm settled, the wind dieing from a roar to a sigh and then to the delicate pitter-patter of falling sand. Mortis lowered his arms and peered out through squinted eyelids.

Something was in the sarcophagus.

What ever he'd summoned was alive; he could hear raspy breaths and low, guttural moans. A single, decaying hand reached up and gripped the stone side - gripping and flexing - as if getting used to the feel of something solid once again.

Mortis edged forward, curiosity flaring. The breathing rasped louder, interrupted by a dry cough. Dust flew from the coffin and hung in the air above. Mortis drew close, paused, and then peered inside.

What lay within wasn't human, but it may have been once. Its thin, fleshless legs quivered and twitched, the one outstretched arm continued testing the edge of the coffin. The other arm was missing all together, from the shoulder down. A poorly bandaged chest revealed hollow ribs and shrunken, dried up organs. Only one thing moved inside; a large black beetle, making its home within the creature's liver.

And the face.

If that's what it could be called. It was malformed, oversized. A hideous, bulging skull, with teeth almost the length of his fingers. Its gaping black eye sockets stared up at him as the jaw hung open, panting groans and coughs. It raised its rotting hand slowly upwards and pointed a single bony finger.

"Aroona cask mentaro?" it asked in a voice drier then desert sun. It seemed to be gaining strength, the breathing regulating, and when it returned its hand to the side of the coffin, it was able to lift itself slowly to sitting position. Bones creaked in response, pieces of dry flesh slaking off in clumps.

Mortis stepped back, unsure of its intent, but when it finally sat upright it merely let out a groan that sounded like relief. It cradled its head with the rotted hand, gazing oddly at its chest and legs. Then it turned towards him.

"Aroona… aroona cask mentaro! Aroona cask MENTARO!" it cried, its voice strengthening all the time. Mortis took a step back further towards the exit.

"Voice, what is he saying? I can't understand him, the tongue is too strange."

The voice did not reply.

The creature, however, was becoming strong enough to climb its way out of the sarcophagus. It rested uneasily on its arm, swung one leg over the edge, then another, and dropped to the sand with a thump. Mortis could see more beetles scurrying around inside him, nesting in the peeled scalp and exposed windpipe. Sure that it was going lunge at him any second, he held out a palm in a defensive 'stop' motion.

"Wait. I don't know what you're saying, but I can guess: you want to know who revived you, correct? And maybe why?"

The creature leant against its death bed, swaying slightly. Its empty eyes stared blankly at him.

"Well, yes, I am the one who revived you," Mortis continued, hoping to bide for time, "I did so on behalf of another. I know not what he wants you for, I was forced into this." He took another step back. The creature didn't move.

"Do… doskara une tasket?" It questioned.

"I don't know. I don't understand you're tongue." He studied the confused shaking of the creatures head, the way it kept looking at its hand and legs. "Who… are you?"

The creature glanced up at him, then at the ceiling. It stared for a long time, as if thinking. And suddenly its whole appearance changed. It pushed away from the coffin and stood straight, its true height being taller then Mortis himself. What remained of the dried skin around its jaw twitched, and Mortis saw at once that the being was grinning. It looked at him sideways, the dumb, sleepy confusion all but gone. It knew who it was, and it was pleased to remember.

"Raaaa….ddaaaa….ment," it said, the voice slow and sinister. Mortis had reached the doorway now, and was debating whether to flee or stand fast.

"RADAMENT!" boomed the voice of the Summoner, the being who had requested the task of Mortis. It filled the whole tomb, and by the way the creature flinched Mortis knew it was no longer in his head alone.

"Radament, Mage of Old, you were condemned to death by your Horadrim brethren for the atrocity of cannibalism. I offer you a second chance at life. Serve my cause, and you will feast on more human flesh then you can ever imagine. Now go, back to the city of Lut Gholein where they put you to the flame while you still breathed. Go, and use their bodies to revive further your once glorious form."

Radament's jaw opened in a hideous smile, his blackened tongue snaking out over his teeth. He raised his arm over his head in triumph, and bellowed.

"FEAST AMORAY VON CAVI-SLAN!" he screamed. Then slowly brought his arm down and faced Mortis.

Mortis listened in shock to the Summoners words, not wanting to believe what he'd been forced to do. The creature standing before him wanted human flesh; hence his safety was assured as the Summoner had said. But if that was the case, Radament was never going to leave this room.

Mortis spread his wings and arms to block the doorway behind.

"You aren't going anywhere, you undead heathen," he growled.

Radament did not reply. Instead, he merely started walking towards Mortis. The demon prepared to attack… but suddenly noticed that the creature was shrinking - no, not shrinking, as much as melting - into the sand beneath them. In seconds, Radament had dissolved back into the dust from whence he'd come, and a rolling wall of sand was all that remained.

Mortis lunged forward as it drew near, swiping at it with his claws. His hands passed through as effectively as if he'd been swatting wind. The sand wall rolled past him – through him – and up into the darkness of the corridor behind. Dismayed, Mortis could do nothing but give chase.

At the entrance to the Halls of the Dead, Mortis saw Radament's physical form for the last time. Only the devastation he would reap would speak of the creatures passing.

Mortis burst out of the tomb into broad daylight, the morning sun now high in the sky. The ancient, cannibalistic Mage stood looking at its orange, glowing face, that odd grin on his own. How long had it been since he was burned alive? Long enough to forget the feel of the suns warmth, Mortis guessed.

He strode cautiously to within a few feet of the decayed beast, and called out softly.

"Radament. Don't do it. Why prolong your unlife? Why make so many suffer for your own needs? You paid for your sins with fire; you needn't condemn yourself to Hell. Return to sleep, and the eternal darkness of death. Be at peace again"

He waited, to see if his words would have any affect. Radament only looked at the sun for a longer time. When he did finally turn his head, Mortis could see he was struggling with something. He opened his jaws, and the black tongue wiggled oddly.

"When… the walls… between… Worlds… have crumbled… where... will the Demons… be?" Radament rasped, speaking with the slow effort of someone using a language not native to their own. Mortis thought for a second that perhaps that response meant he wouldn't go through with the Summoners plan. But then the face twisted into that evil, opened mouth smile.

"I… will… feeassstttttt."

He let out an inhuman howl, arm outstretched worshipfully towards the sun. He was already beginning to dissolve.

"NO!" Mortis cried, and charged towards the melting figure. He collided into Radament – too late - and passed straight through. His momentum carried him a few more feet, before he landed on his face hard. The last thing he saw before the sand-wall rushed over him, filling his eyes with grit, was the morning sun glinting off the Palace of Lut Gholein, far away in the distance.

"By the Lords of Hell and the Gods themselves," he wept, pawing at his eyes and coughing through sand choked lungs. "What have I done?"