Disclaimer - The usual. Disney owns the characters.

NOTES: I apologize everyone; I know I said that thischapter was going to deal with the origins of Xerxes, but it actually ended up being mostly about Mozenrath's past. I had only intended to give him two or three paragraphs for a back story, but it somehow blossomed into this. It will all tie in, eventually. This also did not format the way I wanted, so I tried to describe when a POV changed. Hope I did a good job.

I also know I played with history a little bit, but I discovered that the Roman Empire would still have been in some control over the area of the world I have used for this, so I do not think I messed around too much. I did some research before writing.

And once again, thank you so much for the reviews. It really makes my day when I get them! I hope everyone enjoys, and Chapter 3, complete with Xerxes tale (I promise), will be up within a week.

CHAPTER 2 – Mozenrath's Quiet Reflections

The eel glided through the air currents silently, keeping an eye on his angry master. When the master was this angry, it was best not to attract attention to ones self. Especially when it was his fault he was angry. Mozenrath had never taken carelessness lightly. Mozenrath was not talking either, which was never a good sign for the eel. He was torn between running for cover, or staying near his master and trying to make amends.

The eel watched the wizard storm into his throne room, the heels of his boots clicking on the polished marble floors. His face expressionless, he collapsed in the sumptuous green and gold throne, draping a slender leg over the arm rest. Warily, the eel swam into the room, content to stay in an out of the way corner until his master was ready to address him.

As he began to look for the perfect spot to curl into until then, his master spoke, surprising him so that he jumped, almost losing his momentum and falling out of the air.

"Xerxes, get out of my sight, before I decide to dine on spleen of eel."

The eel, surprised by the coldness in his master's voice, wheeled around and darted down the length of the room and dashed around the corner, narrowly avoiding the ray of power Mozenrath sent toward him. Mozenrath had excellent aim, and he should know; he had been on the receiving end of it many times. The master was merely annoyed, a good sign.

Hoping he would not be noticed and change the feelings of aggravation to fury, he waited around the corner, hoping his master's annoyance would soon dissipate, and he could be near him again. He curled up upon a gilded box still containing the body of a young woman who dared to spit upon the master years ago. According to Mozenrath, she had screamed in agony for days until the sweet release of death came upon her, as he had slowly built up pressure in the box until it had crushed her body. Mozenrath could be very creative in his punishments that way.

Xerxes laid his head down upon his tail, and settled in to doze. Mozenrath had been in a strange mood lately. He may take awhile.

Back inside the throne room, Mozenrath observed his familiar almost lose his gliding ability when his voice broke the deathly calm. He shot a bolt of energy toward the creature, not intending to hit him, merely to get him out of his site for awhile. The creature had been clingy all day, and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. He watched him disappear around the corner and dart to the left of the hallway, presumably to hide until Mozenrath was in a more forgiving mood.

Looking down at his stained tunic, annoyance flashed through him and knew it would be awhile before he would call the eel to him. How his familiar was this clumsy was beyond his comprehension. When he had first seen the eel, he had been amazed at the fluid grace the serpent-like fish had exhibited. Mozenrath gave an undignified snort and wondered what had gone wrong.

Well, clumsy or not, Xerxes was his chosen familiar. They were linked to one another until Mozenrath's death, which with a little luck and work, would not be for quite a while. And there were certainly worse familiars to be stuck with. Grace and intelligence were not everything. Xerxes' loyalty said more than any amount of intelligence in Mozenrath's opinion, and his opinion was the only that counted around here.

As Mozenrath reclined in his throne, a Mamluk came into the throne room. Ah, his shambling, undead companions. Also not graceful nor intelligent, but loyal to him none the less. Not that they had any choice in the matter. Much like anything worth having, Mozenrath had to work to gain Xerxes' loyalty and trust. And as much as he sometimes hated to admit it, the work had been worth it.

The Mamluk shuffled toward him, carrying a platter with a carafe of wine and a crystal goblet. Mozenrath smiled with pleasure when he saw who the Mamluk was. The Mamluk placed the tray on the table next to the throne, and waited to be waved off, shuffling toward the door, dropping a small patch of skin as he went.

He sighed. He supposed he would have to do repairs on that one soon. He certainly did not want to lose that one body. A nasty ifrit inhabited that body, and Mozenrath had had to work particularly hard to keep the ifrit, a fire demon with the ability to inhabit human bodies, under sufficient control long enough after being summoned to stay in the body and under his command. Another example of how something worked for was always worth the sweet taste of success. But that ifrit was hard on the body, and Mozenrath, always a sucker for nostalgia, could not bear to destroy the body and move the ifrit to a fresher corpse.

"Good help can be so hard to find", the sorcerer chuckled and raised his goblet in a mock salute as he cut his eyes to a painting on the wall to the left of his throne. "Eh, Destane?"

In the painting was a picture of a man being ravaged repeatedly by demons. His eyes were widened in pain and fear, mouth opened in a silent scream, long bloody ragged scars were on his chest, legs, stomach, buttocks. Other demons, grinning and leering, looked on, anxiously awaiting their turn. A delightful painting, one of his favorites.

And best of all, every now and then, the scene changed periodically as the man healed and different demons took their turn, so the painting was in constant flux. And they were very creative. Much more creative then Destane himself had ever been. Mozenrath had yet to actually witness the changing of the demons, but he would catch it sometime. After all, he and Destane had all the time in the world.

Stealing Destane's soul and condemning it for eternity to a violent painting, where it was very much a reality for him, had been one of Mozenrath's dearest wishes. The paintings only failing was no sound. If Mozenrath's dreams had a soundtrack, it would be to hear Destane's screams as he was being pounded and abused for all eternity by a particularly nasty breed of demons, known as Akvan. Prussian for Evil Mind. How fitting.

Mozenrath leaned back and stretched, trying to work the kinks out of his shoulders. He had been working too hard, bent down over a table in his laboratory, trying to perfect one of his slow acting poisons, a hobby of his, when his stupid familiar had spilled the contents on him. Xerxes had been merely curious, and of course, who could blame him? His work was breathtaking, he admitted to himself. But still, the fool knew to be careful in there.

Luckily, Mozenrath had been able to dilute the poison before it began working on him. Since he was still in the perfecting stages, he had not created an antidote. Not that he would ever use it.

But still, Xerxes would be punished. Carelessness was unacceptable.

Pushing his mind out slightly, the sorcerer sensed his contrite familiar outside the throne room, dozing on the gilded box in the hallway, a favorite spot for him. Even knowing his master was in sour mood, Xerxes, loyal to a fault, was waiting, hoping for the moment he redeemed himself in his master's eyes and would be welcomed back in his presence. Not particularly smart to stay within striking distance of Mozenrath, but the loyalty was unquestioned.

Well, he had never credited Xerxes with much intelligence. Vicious, steadfast in his duty, incredibly quick, moderately powerful, an excellent fighter, always respectful, devilishly clever, and usually able to follow orders when he knew exactly what was expected of him, yes. Every now and then, surprisingly cunning. But not much intelligence.

Smiling grimly to his self, he looked again at the painting. Damnit, they had changed again, and he missed it, off contemplating his familiar. Well, Xerxes would pay for that later, too.

"Ah, Destane. They grow up so fast, don't they? I remember bringing home Xerxes when he was hardly more than an elver. Do you remember that delightful month? I'm sure you do." Noticing something, Mozenrath paused and looked closer at the painting, then grinned. "Ouch. I do hope you can hear me still, seeing how that Akvan has ripped off your ears that he was using as handles. Well, they will grow back, won't they? Everything else has."

He stretched, catlike, toward the ceiling with his arms. His gauntlet caught his eyes, and with another pleased smile, reclined back into his throne, crossing his arms behind his head, propped the other leg up beside the first, and stared at the painting. He hoped the demons would change while he watched.

This was turning out to be a particularly lazy day, perhaps a nice round of Destane-torture would be just the thing to turn around this lethargic attitude he had acquired. And he had been working hard; he deserved a small break. As he thought about this, his eyes drifted to stare at the ruby liquid in his crystal goblet, and he was soon lost in quiet reflection.

Ten Years Prior

The child, filthy with the street and slums, escaped his mothers notice long enough to run toward a vendors stall, and, when the man was not looking, slyly lift a roll with his long slender fingers and store it in his pocket for later. His mother grabbed the boy by his black curls and pulled him down the street, ignoring the vendor, who had grown suspicious and glared back, unaware that the merchandise was already lifted. The child, before being pulled around the corner of a dingy alley, gave him a glare back, and the vendor shivered.

Disgusting street urchins. Poor or not, their mothers should still be able to keep them halfway clean, even if they simply washed them in the sea water that bordered their city. Even being encrusted with the salt of the ocean would be better than smelling like a goat, mud and grime caking on their faces and hands. He dismissed his thoughts of the child as a real customer came upon his stall, wanting to purchase bread.

The child hit at his mother as she continued to drag him down the dirty alley, wanting her to unhand his hair, and she backhanded him, already weary of him. This child was a handful, and she had very little patience with a seven-year-old.

She disliked children, and could not think of any reason why the gods should have cursed her with one, especially after what she had been through. She wished she had left him exposed to the elements when he was born.

Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of his origins, and was disgusted. Pale white skin that would burn when exposed to long the sun, dark black hair, so dark that there seemed to be a touch of blue, incredibly scrawny, with dark brown, almost black eyes.

He reminded her of the strange creatures that the fisherman would dredge up from the depths of the sea every now and then in their nets. Nothing more than a bottom feeder, like herself now. Her heart hardened toward the child that had been forced upon her when she was little more than a child herself.

She always had expected to have a beautiful child, like herself. In her youth, she had been considered a beauty, and had been into her early teens, before hard life, drink, and abuse had turned her slender body bloated, began to rot her teeth, turned her eyes from laughing and happy to deep pools of despair, and her shining mass of black hair turned grimy with neglect.

It was that damn gladiator's fault that her life had come to this. Seven years prior, she had been walking down the street from her father's house in one of the nicest sections of the city. The street clean, the people well mannered, the buildings up kept and pleasing to the eye, no disgusting street people and their brood of children begging on the corner, and upwind of the docks, so that the fish smell that permeated the rest of the city was almost nonexistent there. She had felt so fresh and pretty in her new wrap, which fit her like a glove. She had practically skipped down the street toward her friend's house, to discuss the party that her family would be holding at the weeks end.

Then, she caught his eye.

The Romans had brought their prized Gladiators with them, combatant slaves they owned to fight one another in their gruesome games. Their most prized, the ones who won the most, were the most brutal of the fighters, were kept happy, especially before a big fight, in hopes that a happy fighter was a winning fighter. And when he saw her, even covered as she was, he wanted her in order to be kept happy.

She would never forget his face as she was dragged before him. Big, muscular, and pale, with long golden bronzed hair, large blue eyes, and gleaming white teeth, he had leered at her and offered her some wine. She was ordered to sit on his lap, and she had refused, citing her virgin state and her status, trying to show how totally improper such behavior was. She had been slapped and made to comply. Her new wrap was torn from her head, and her thick blanket of hair had streamed down her back, pooling in the lap of the barbarian. When his companions saw her, they wanted one for themselves, and demanded more of the exotic beauties be brought in for their enjoyment, and troops rushed to comply.

Tears streaming down her face, mingling with the blood from her swollen nose, she was made to sit like that while the large barbarian continuously groped her, twining his thick fingers in her hair, touching her breasts that had not yet swelled to their mature size, and making lewd comments to his companions, while the Romans joined in with their laughing.

Between her sobs of anger and fright, she managed to learn that he was a barbarian from a far away Germanic county, and had been captured during battle. He was one of the few survivors, who kept fighting long after it would have been prudent to either surrender or retreat. The Romans, marveling at the size and strength of the fair behemoth, had taken him as a gladiator. He continuously impressed as he won fight after fight, whether against one man or many. He was the most honored among the fighters, and the one they strived to keep happy. The one thing they would not grant was his freedom, but anything else was within his grasp, including one maiden innocently walking down the street to a friends house.

After taking her roughly several times on the table in the middle of the party, smashing her down in piles of food and spilled wine, he declared himself finished, and promptly passed out on her. Sobbing, shaking with fright, she had managed to escape the rest of the loud, drunken group, pulling her outfit on as she fled their outstretched fingers, wanting nothing more than to go hid with her pain and humiliation, hoping to forget this nightmare and go back to her normal life.

A guard had tried to hand her a few coins "for her services" but she had thrown them away in her pride, saying she was going to her father, who was the leader of their city of Gaius. He would make them pay for violating his daughter in this way. The guard had shrugged and mumbled something about an uppity ungrateful woman and wandered away, pocketing the coins himself. The neighborhood people had heard her screaming and cursing the gladiators and the Romans, and wished she would be silent. There was no need to bring the wrath of the Romans upon them.

How she wished she kept those coins now. When her father had found out, he had screamed about his vile temptress of a daughter, who kept her wrap a little to tight, swung her hips a little to much, and smiled a little to winsomely at the men passing her. If she was not so provocative, she would not have attracted attention and the blond would not have demanded her. And to top it off, she had aired the dirty laundry publicly and insulted the Roman Empire.

She had brought shame and dishonor upon his house, and he had resolved to marry her off quickly. Before, he had been willing to let her have more say in a mate, even grow to know him for a time before the ceremony, because he had not wanted his daughter unhappy in a marriage that would occupy the rest of her life. Now, it had to be quick, to a low level official, or even someone outside the city limits, just to get her away before more damage was done to his reputation, and the reputation of his sons, who would follow him in politics.

Many men had been interested, but more damage had been done to her reputation than was realized. Even with her beauty and the sizable dowry that her father had been saving for her, it was not enough. No one wanted the girl who had been ravaged by the blond gladiator, and had not even the decent sense to keep her mouth silent about it.

As she despaired, she discovered she was with child. Sobbing and pleading with him availed her not, and she was pushed out of her fathers house and into the street, her mother and two older brothers watching; her mother with horror in her eyes at the wrath she had incurred from her father, her brothers with the same look of deep-seated disgust that was radiating from her father. The neighbors had not wished to embarrass the family further, and looked the other way, so that the rest of the family could save face.

Publicly, her father announced that he had no daughter, only two sons.

Frightened and alone, she had wandered the streets, hoping any of her friends would help her at least with some food, but she was refused at all gates. The families did not want the wrath of the mayor upon their heads for helping her.

Finally she was chased out of her neighborhood, the only home she had known in her life, and sent to the slums, where the people in the buildings and out on the street looked at her through dead, hollow eyes, all hopes and dreams gone, only having enough strength to barely survive.

Hope had given way to sorrow, which finally gave way to depression, and she soon began to drink, growing addicted to the cheap wine that was so prevalent in the poorer sections of the city, it being used primarily by them because the more they drank, the more they could try to forget the hell that their lives were for a few hours, and she latched upon it greedily.

She had been hungry before, lying at night on the dirt floor in the corner of a long abandoned building that was inhabited by other homeless, along with rats and other creatures that crept in the night, entwining in her hair, crawling in her clothes and stealing what little food she had. But now, with a baby growing in her stomach, she was hungry constantly. She had to find a way to make money to feed herself, and began to sell herself on the streets to the rich men who wandered down there, looking for an interesting time for a few coins. She was degraded, but was able to eat. That was enough, and there really had been no reason not to; she did not have to save herself for marriage any longer. As her belly swelled, some men stayed away, but enough returned, and she did not even require coins; a flask of wine was enough to satisfy her now.

On a particularly hot day, with the wind blowing the sand into every cranny of the dilapidated building, still dazed with drink, she squatted on the dirt floor and gave birth to a pale, squalling baby boy. More than a month early, the child was small, sickly, and weak. She had been stuck with the half-breed little bastard ever since, constantly reminded of the man who ruined her life, and the family who had abandoned her in her time of need.

Time passed, and the child grew, still scrawny and sickly and pale, but like the shrubs and weeds that struggle to grow and blossom in the sandy and rocky soil of the cliffs, he continued to prevail.

How she wished she could simply be rid of him, but, a small, tiny part of her could not help but have some feeling for the boy, and she refrained from simply exposing him to the elements are dropping him in the sea, to be food for whatever fish and monsters that swam in the waters. Plus, he was valuable in one way; when she had him with her, she usually could expect a bigger handout while begging, since it was to feed her "poor starving child". People were slightly more generous when there was a starving child, and he turned on the charm, widening his eyes in faux innocence and whimpering softly. He was wonderful at deception. But when the coins were handed to his mother with whispers of encouragement and hope, she could make out the sneer he sent her way. Even at his age, he knew that almost all those coins would go to her drinking habit, and not to trying to fill her young sons belly with nourishing food.

When she saw the contempt in his dark eyes when he looked at her, eating a slice of bread, brittle with age that he scrounged out of a trash bin, she was furious. How dare he judge her? Look at what her life had been like, and what it had become now, thanks to his low life, raping barbarian of a father? But while she sobbed and screamed out all her anger and frustration at her son, he was able to learn much of his past. He heard about the family that resided in the opulent houses, that dined on fresh fish and vegetables, and wore new clothes made of the finest silk, and listened to concerts in their own private patio, while he was lucky to find a few wilted leaves in the trash chute to choke down for a dinner and was wearing trousers that barely held together, made of the roughest material that chafed his fair skin.

She knew he longed for her attention and love, but she had none left to give him. She could barely tolerate his presence, and was to far gone in drink and hate and the despair over the wretchedness of her life to worry overmuch about him.

But every now and then, her eyes would not be glazed over with drink or hate for her child, and she would tell him more about this family, grandparents and uncles who refused to have anything to do with her, or him. She even pointed out his family members a few times, when they were in a better section of town, trying to scrape up food or clothes the wealthy had cast out; the family walking past the two of them, eyes either seeing past them, or averted so that they would not have to make contact or acknowledge the woman and child. The boy studied their faces, so that he would always remember, and try to dream about having a real family, even if they were dirt poor, who would cherish him.

But soon, reality would come crashing back to the boy, and his mother would be screaming and lashing out at him again, with her words and her hands, and the young child soon learned that you counted on no one, you can only count on yourself, because everyone is filled with treachery. For if you own mother can hardly stand you, who else is there left to count on?

Several months later, the Romans were back in the city, demanding their yearly tribute paid to the Empire. Rumors began flying to all parts of the city of Gaius, of the city not having the money and goods to pay their tribute to the Roman Empire. It was more likely that the rich did not wish to part with their gold, and wanted to find another way to pay. The people were afraid; they had no wish to bring the fury of Rome upon their land.

The Romans, after talks with the leaders of Gaius, then said the city could send slaves as tribute in place of the usual gold. The prisons were cleared as those accused of major and minor offense were sent to the holding pens on the docks. The slums of the city were cleared as the guards went through the streets, grabbing those who were homeless. Penniless families with too many mouths to feed began to line up to sell their offspring for a small pouch of coins.

It was looked at as a win-win situation. The Romans received their tribute and slaves that their entire economic system was based upon. The city was able to clear out many undesirables. Families were able to part with some of their less valuable offspring to take better care of the ones that may become something. The rich were allowed to keep their riches.

The woman, upon hearing these tales, knew what she must do.

She cleaned her son up as well as she could and, taking his hand, lined up in the queue. When the deal was completed and the child sold, she took her coins and left with a lighter heart. She never looked back at Mozes as he stood in a separate line with the rest of the unwanted, to be herded like so much cattle into the pens, to be shipped off to a new life of servitude.

Mozes was shoved into the pens with the rest of the children to await their fate. Screams, cries for lost families, whimpers, he watched them all thru dark eyes. Life had been hard to the boy, and while he too was lost and afraid, he meant to put on a good show. He had already guessed that his mother was not coming back, so quick did she make off with her small pouch of gold. So, much like his life with his mother, he was on his own.

Smaller than most in the pens, he was jostled and kicked around, shoved to the middle of the teaming mass of humanity when food was passed through the bars, and shoved to the corners other times, standing in the muck that covered the floors, squeezing up between his toes and splashing up onto his threadbare trousers.

For three days he endured this, when, starving, he reached for one of the city's lesser leaders, hoping for some food. The young man, probably twelve years his senior, turned to the child and Mozes recognized him; his mother's oldest brother, the one who stared past them unseeing.

Mozes tried to point out who he was and was slapped, while the man went on about filthy slaves who do not know their place, and dared to touch his person. Mozes recoiled, knocked back into the muck of the floor, nose bleeding profusely, and holding his sleeve to his nose, ignored the laughing around him.

This was not the first hardship in his life, nor would it be the last. But he made this vow; before he went to his final rest, he would get his revenge. Upon this city, who sells their young as easily as the baker sells his baklava in the marketplace. The cruel lords of this wretched city who would sell their citizens before parting with one of their coins. And mostly, upon his unknown family who cast his mother out, deranged as she was, and made him suffer for the first seven years of his life with her. He would watch them grovel at his feet for forgiveness, and he would not grant it.

He watched the genteel man begin speaking to one of the Roman ship captains, and studied the mans face. Young as Mozes was, he would remember. Later that after noon, the nervous captives were yanked out of the cells and separated again. Some were herded towards waiting ships, which they would help row to the shores of Rome. Others were taken by centurions to be used in a variety of different ways. Mozes was shuttled off into the latter.

He was hand picked by a centurion who introduced himself as Crescentius. Told to address him as My Lord, Mozes was taken to be his attendant, to care for his horse, and keep his tent in order, among other duties. Crescentius was a military man, but not wholly unkind. He forced the other warriors to not treat the young slave to badly; made sure he was fed, and tended to mostly leave the young Mozes alone, so long as he did his work.

Mozes was young, but far from stupid. He understood that, while his situation was hardly ideal, it could have been much worse. He could be working in the fields of some Roman farm, hardly getting decent food to eat, and abused by who knows how many people. Or alternatively, he could still be with that whore of a mother, with her screeching voice, wild and angry hands, and no food. Mother meant only poverty.

Here, he was able to eat, rarely beaten, and was learning, observing all around him. So, for now, he did as he was told, and bided his time. But he certainly had no plans to be this mans slave forever.

One Year Later

The caravan was crossing through the immense desert, on their way to Schechem, to collect tribute and if possible, try to seize more land and tribute for the ailing Empire. It had been an exhausting year since leaving the city of Gaius, on the Island of Karpathos. After leaving the beautiful city, they had sailed to Alexandria to drop off that tribute for Caesar, and then it was on to all the cities and towns and disgusting, uncivilized backwater holes to collect what tribute they could afford.

The centurion, seated upon his gallant steed, called to his slave attendant to bring him water, and greedily sipped from the flask the boy handed to him. He handed the empty flask back to the boy, even gracing the child with a small smile.

It was hard on the slaves, especially the children, to have to walk across these blazing deserts, behind the warriors and wagons carrying the supplies, the camels kicking up dust and sand that constantly sprayed up on them and stuck to their sweaty skin. The warriors mostly ignored the slaves, unless they needed something. There was no need to watch or worry about the slaves running off; where would they go? Out in the middle of the desert with no supplies, they would have had no chance of survival.

Almost all the slaves in this troop were from the city of Gaius, along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, given as tribute instead of the usual gold, spices, and jewels. The centurion guessed that it was mostly because the city rulers were to greedy to actually part with any of their precious coins, and it was easier to sell their unwanted citizens. Greedy, but not unusual.

This batch of slaves was particularly sorry for the most part; the beggars and thieves and sick that permeated the city that the guards rounded up to throw at the Empire. There were only a few worth a damn, and luckily, the young pale boy he had taken out of the pen to be his attendant seemed to have a few bits of sense. Other than a tendency to continuously burn with his pale skin, he looked better now than he did a year ago when he was pulled from the pen. He was still scrawny, but he was more solid than he looked.

He was uneducated, and no doubt came from some poor family that just could not afford the extra food to feed him, but he seemed like a good enough sort. Willing to learn, did his fair share of the work, mostly held his tongue, rarely needed to be beat, extremely sharp, and quick enough to see that his situation was not going to change anytime soon. A few sharp slaps to the face had taught him the wisdom of curbing his quick tongue. He would do. He was probably grateful, now that the centurion thought about it; his life now could be no worse than before.

The centurion raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, and was unable to get over his feelings of unease. Something was wrong with this land. It looked normal enough; hot, dry, golden sand and dunes as far as the eye could see, every now and then a crop of bones bleached by the sun, some human, some not. But he had never in all his long years of serving in the Empire's Army had such a feeling of malaise. Even the horses and camels were skittish, constantly prancing as if the very sand under their feet were in flames. The sooner he could get the troops on through this accursed place, the better.

One of the scouts rode up to him, saluting, and spoke of a small oasis he had spotted. The water appeared safe, having watched it awhile to see how the animals reacted, and would be a good place to set camp. The centurion agreed, and began to lead the caravan there.

With night was falling, and both troops and slaves were exhausted. It was best to set up camp in this spot, rise early, and move on to Schechem. He raised his hand to signal the caravan to halt for the evening, and dismounted, handing the reins to his slave. As he watched the boy walk off to care for the horse, he wondered why, in such oppressive heat, he suddenly felt chills.

Very late that evening, lying underneath one of the supply wagons, Mozes was unable to sleep. He had completed his nightly duties and bid his lord a good evening, wanting nothing more than to sleep a few hours before having to rise to keep watch over the animals, then begin to help with the breakfast duties. As soon as his head hit the pillow, all exhaustion had left him, and he had laid here ever since, staring out into the dark abyss of the desert.

He had thought this place unusual for awhile; the sand was black, the sky dark, and he could feel eyes watching the entire encampment. He felt a bit like a mouse in a snake's lair; he knew how things were going to go, and had absolutely no way of stopping it. He just wondered why no one else had commented on the things he saw. He had been slapped and beaten enough to know not to question any of the troops. The other slaves, when they talked to him, simply spit on him or scoffed. He resolved to just keep watch, and make handy his escape when and if it became possible. The rest of the group could damn well fend for themselves. He always had.

As he drifted off to sleep, resolving to get a few hours rest before being awoken, he was nudged roughly in the ribs. Looking up, he saw one of the older slave boys standing over him, kicking him, telling him to get up. The animals, already uneasy, had decided to revolt and had run off. They were sending Mozes, the youngest of them, to chase one particularly fast camel that had raced away. Mozes considered telling him no, it was not his time to watch the creatures, but when he had only opened his mouth, the boy had boxed him across the ears and told him to hurry before the soldiers found out. It would be hard to chase that camel while battered and bruised.

Mozes figured this was true, and quickly threw off his wrap and got up. He was resentful of having his few precious hours of rest interrupted for an animal that they were responsible for, but he also knew that he did not want or need a beating, and the older children would see he got it, either from the solders or they themselves would give it to him. He was still recovering from the last one he received for trying to take more food than they had deemed necessary for him.

While the other boys sat down around the fire to relax, Mozes began heading over a dune, beginning to jog to try to heat his body against the cool desert air. Still puzzled about the black sand surrounding him, he put it out of his mind to concentrate on looking for the miserable animal, hoping to find it quickly and get back to his rest.

The camel had not traveled far, and Mozes was able to catch him fairly easily once he was past the dune. The camel was panting hard, head hanging toward the ground, and Mozes wondered why the foolish animal was in such a panic.

Cursing the beast, he grabbed his reins and, avoiding the angry bites the animal took at him, began to lead him back to camp, happy that he had been able to grab him so quickly. He wished he could ride him back to the camp, but knew that would be unwise; a slave did not ride the animals. He came back to the top of the dune, and froze in wonder, staring down at the oasis.

Below him, it looked like the very pit of hell had opened up. Black sand, stretched out as far as the eye could see in the dim moonlight, was swirling around the camp. Around the outer ring of the camp, in a large circle, were figures. He was unable to make out features, but was terrified.

Mozes listened, his sharp ears picking up the screams of men and animals as the sand began swirling up around the camp, sucking all deep into the ground, slowly. Pleas, screams, and finally, the gurgling as sand entered orifices, chocking off the cries for mercy and air. He stayed at the top of the dune and watched in horrified fascination as the Roman camp below being swallowedbythe sand seeming come to life, passed before his unbelieving eyes.

Below, in the camp, the centurion, hearing the cries from around the camp, awoke with a start and dashed from his tent, thinking they were under attack from one of the many nomadic tribes that dotted these lands. Grabbing his sword and not bothering to tie his sandals, he trudged through the sand that had crept into his tent, and looked about, and was horrified.

As he stepped, his feet were dragged down. He struggled, and was able to take another step before being dragged down slowly again. He looked around as he saw his men, one by one, in various stages of undress, struggling to get out of the sand, which had turned a deep black. The slaves and animals were having the same problems, the animals lashing out in panic with their hooves.

All around the camp, in the firelight, he could make out figures that looked like something from - no; none of his nightmares had contained figures like these. Undead figures, which looked like they had crawled from some long forgotten crypt, surrounded the camp. They just stood there, with dead eyes, looking at the dying, mouths slackly hanging open.

Repulsed, he strained his muscles, and took another step, not as far this time, as the sand had crawled up to his knees, like a living organism grasping at him. In desperation, he slashed at the sand with his sword, and it split apart, before reforming below and beginning to crawl up him again, sucking at his feet and tearing at his skin. He was already feeling abrasions, and the pain as the sand rubbed at the raw spots.

Eyes wide with fear, he looked as he saw his second in command, Calpurnias, almost up to his neck in sand, crying out to him, one arm outstretched toward a salvation that would never come.

With a strangled cry, the centurion struggled to reach his friend who had been with him all these years, and watched in shocked disbelief as the sand, in one small wave, covered his head, so that only his hand was still visible, a ring of gold and precious stones still on, the jewels twinkling in the dying firelight as if winking at him.

To shaken to mourn his friend, he watched as slave, solider, tents, camels, goats; nothing was safe from this onslaught of sand. It was beginning to eat at the fire, which grew smaller and smaller as it was covered, until that too was gone.

The centurion, up to his chin in the sinking sand, watched as his war steed, eyes rolled to the back of his head and frothing in a panic, was making a valiant attempt to free himself and get to his master, was finally buried in a wave of sand, the creatures screams of panic echoing dully under the sand before being chocked off. As the centurion breathed, the sand continued to crush him, restricting his breathes until he was only able to take little gasps.

Caressing his legs and chest like a lover, the black sand continued to suck him down, and finally plopped over his chin and came up to his ears. The centurion, who now realized his last minutes on this earth were going to be frightening, painful, and so very dark, leaned his head back in a vain effort to try to take in as much air as possible, feeling the sand beginning to run over his cheekbones and creep into his ears, deafening him. At least he did not have to listen to the last screams and whimpers of the men who had climbed on top of wagons trying to save themselves.

The sand was beginning to seep into his nose, cutting off more air. His breathing was becoming ragged and sounded funny to his own ears. His mouth was filling with the sand, creeping in as with a mind of its own, gritty and dirty, and began to travel down his throat.

The very last thing the centurion saw before the sand crawled over his eyes and sucked him into the earth was a small lone figure, on top of a sand dune, holding the reins of a camel and watching with the air of one content.

Still attop his dune, Mozeshad watched as the memebers of the camp were swallowed one by one, listening to the wails and pleas, the chocking cries of the dying, and finally, the silence and blackness of night again. It was as if the camp had never been there, and he was strangely pleased and worried at the same time.

On one hand, everyone he had hated, from the centurion who owned him to the rude slave boy who boxed his ears, was now dead. Mozes rubbed his ears ruefully, and smiled grimly. It served them right.

On the other hand, he now had to be concerned with what just happened. The black sand, which had looked like a swirling mass just a few short seconds ago, was still again, the surface looking smooth as obsidian. But what had made it react that way, and more importantly, would it do the same to him? As far as he could see, the sand was black. Was all the sand like this?

He began to chew on a grimy fingernail and tried to decide what to do next. He had no supplies, just one lone camel with a tendency to spook and run off.

The figures that had encircled the camp and watched it sink beneath the black sand had not moved. He had not noticed any of them move in the entire time that the sea of sand swallowed the camp.

Mozes decided that it would be wise to vacate this place, as quickly as possible. He would ride the camel to a city, any city, as long as it was not in this land. He certainly did not need to worry about being seen riding the camel now.

He was about to turn, ready to put all this behind him and try to head to safety, when he noticed that the entire circle of figures had turned toward him. Like all the slaves, he was unable to read or count, but did understand the concept of 'many'. And right now, there were many figures watching him, illuminated in the moonlight. Something was not right about them, and Mozes turned, intending to climb across the camels back and make a quick retreat, when he stopped. There was a man standing in front of him, staring at him with heavy lidded eyes.

Mozes stopped in his tracks and looked back, worried but unwilling to show it, hoping he could bluff his way out of this, and knewit was unlikely. The man practically radiatedpower.

Mozes looked at the stranger. The man was not extraordinary in any way. Of medium height and build, with the dark skin and hair native to the region, with a slight pot belly that told Mozes that he was probably in better shape when he was younger, but now had let himself go slightly to seed. The man was wearing trousers and overcoat of a cool airy looking fabric, with an elaborate embroidered vest, turban, and highly polished boots. Mozes supposed he could be considered handsome, and definitely wealthy.

The damnable camel decided this was the time to bolt. The camel tossed his head, ripping the reins out of Mozes hands, and took off across the dune. Neither Mozes nor the man even spared it a glance.

He continued to stare into the man's eyes, as the man scrutinized him. Finally, the man shrugged, and raised a hand, and sand began to trickle up into his hand, and then surged toward Mozes.

Mozes tried to run, but the sand began to encircle and suck at his feet, and he was scared. This man was responsible for the destruction of the Roman camp, and wanted to kill him too. Well, he was not going without a fight, screaming and wailing like a girl with a scraped knee. Mozes had survived to much, and had to much revenge to plan, to be drowned in sand like rest of the camp.

Mozes continued to struggle, terror now evident in his eyes, hoping that the sand would simply spit him out like an unwanted bit of gristle. Gritting his teeth and groaning against the pressure the sand was putting on him, he managed to move a few steps away from the figure in front of him.

All the while the man watched with unreadable eyes. The sand would creep up on Mozes, retreat, and then crawl up his legs again. While it was a sickening feeling, it was not painful, and did not seem deadly. The sand simply would not attach for long nor suck him down any further than his ankles before rejecting him and sending him back to the surface. It was like it was reluctant to attack, and was simply playing along.

After several minutes, the man lowered his hands back to his sides, and the sand returned back to the earth and lay still. Watching Mozes through his hooded eyes, the man finally spoke in a sharp, impatient voice, demanding an answer.

"Who are you, boy, that can command my sands to respond to your will?"