Spellbound

Author's Note: Well, my friends, you've done it. Your continued reviews, both signed and unsigned, have finally convinced me to pick this story back up after a looooong hiatus. I hope I can live up to expectations after all this time. Before I continue, however, there's something I'd like to state for the record.

This story is going to contain a bit of a crossover element with another Disney animated series, "Gargoyles." Like "Aladdin," the show is a sentimental favorite of mine. Those of you familiar with the show may have notice references in the preceding chapters to the "Gargoyles" universe. Early on, I decided against labeling this as a crossover story, because the focus is (rightly) on Sadira and Mozenrath. Any references to "Gargoyles" will be about magic-related stuff, and the inherently magical characters from that show. For those of you not familiar with "Gargoyles," you may still recognize some of the references from their original sources in myth or literature. I just thought this is something people might like to know to avoid any confusion.

And now, after that rather long-winded explanation, I give you …

Chapter 3: Reflections

Latin had been tedious at first, Sadira thought to herself, but it was well worth every minute of boredom, because the Grimorum Arcanorum was mostly in Latin. Indeed, its very name was Latin. "Spell book of secrets," she whispered, almost to herself, at the end of their latest lesson, when she'd taken a moment to translate. She'd been so eager to look at the spells inside it that she hadn't even thought what the name meant. She glanced over at Mozenrath, to see him almost smiling in approval – or perhaps it was amusement that it had taken her so long to puzzle out the meaning of the title? It was often hard to tell with him.

"The name's a bit on the nose, don't you think?" She asked him, trying to adopt a careless attitude. The smile became a smirk – she wasn't fooling him for a minute – and he shrugged.

"It's an apt description," he said simply. The book still lay open between them, and Mozenrath leaned in slightly, running his good hand over the page, over the razed ink of the words. There was something strangely gentle about the gesture, almost like a caress, and for some reason it made her slightly uncomfortable.

"Why are some of the pages blank?" She asked, speaking more loudly than she meant to. He straightened then, and withdrew his hand, his attention focused back on her.

"Sorcerers had been adding spells to the book for centuries," he told her. "According to what I've heard, it's tradition for each sorcerer who possesses it to add their own spells on the spaces provided, and then add more blank pages themselves, so whoever it passes to next can continue the cycle."

"So the book isn't finished."

"It's never finished, Sadira. That's the beauty of it. That's why it's so powerful."

"Maybe we could add a spell to it someday." She spoke impulsively, without thinking, and he raised his eyebrows at her. She looked away quickly, embarrassed.

Of course, it had been a stupid thing to say. That kind of collaboration between two sorcerers would require a great deal of trust, a deep understanding and appreciation for each other. And she and Mozenrath were not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, they barely managed a mutual respect for each other, if you could even call it that. He would not have sought her out for any other reason other than his own self-interest; she needed to remember that.

She expected him to say something sarcastic, even hurtful, but for once, he didn't seem to have a comeback. They both gazed at the book for a long moment.

"Some say the blank pages have a power of their own, even before the spells are written on them." His voice broke through the awkward silence that had grown between them, and she felt a small wave of relief wash over her.

"What do you mean?" She asked, but he just shrugged again.

"Precisely what I said. I don't have any more information than that. In any case, I think we're done with today's lesson. You're tired."

She was. The Grimorum was full of powerful spells, and the more powerful the magic, the more exertion it took on the part of the sorcerer to wield it. Still, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting she was fatigued.

"I'm fine. But if you want to stop working, I suppose that's enough for today."

He rolled his eyes at her stubbornness, but decided not to bother with an actual retort. He picked up the book. "Until next time, little witch."

She wasn't surprised that he was taking the Grimorum with him. It was more unexpected that he'd let her look at in the first place. He'd certainly never leave it with her. This wasn't a man who shared power.

"Would it kill you to stop calling me that, Mozenrath?"

"It might." He did smile then, just a little. He always looked better with a smile, she thought – it softened his features somehow. Much better a smile than with a smirk or a sneer. "So I better no risk it," he continued.

Sadira bit back a smile of her own. "Just go," she said, and he did.

Afterwards, Sadira found herself feeling strangely crestfallen. After a moment, she decided the absence of the Grimorum could account for her strange mood. She'd never been the presence of an object that seemed so imbued with magic – not her own spell scrolls, and not even the Staff of Doom itself.

In addition, she wondered he meant, with all that talk about the blank pages. Something told her that, despite his words to the contrary, Mozenrath knew more than he was saying.

That was the thing about Mozenrath, she thought, as she went about preparing herself supper. Interacting with him was like playing a game of chess against a very skilled opponent. You had to think three moves ahead just to stay in the game.

Not for the first time, she reflected on how different it was to spend time with someone like him, as opposed to her friends. She may not like him as a person – well of course she didn't, how could she? – but he was … a challenge. He kept her on her toes, and not just with the magic. In the brief moments when he seemed genuine rather than simply arrogant, when it seemed like he might be regarding her with something approaching fondness, she reminded herself that these small gestures could easily be a subtle form of manipulation. Indeed, that was the most likely explanation. She needed to keep reminding herself of that.

Mozenrath might not suspect it, but Sadira was no stranger to manipulation herself. She'd manipulated Aladdin, after all, back when she was still infatuated with him. It had been quite easy to convince to come to her place for a drink, just by implying that he let Jasmine control all his actions. In fact, she had almost been disappointed by how simple it had been to get him to do what she wanted. She wouldn't call Aladdin stupid, but for someone who'd grown up on the streets, just as she had, he was surprisingly … naïve? Was that the right word? He could think on his feet, certainly, but he had no subtlety. Whereas Mozenrath …

Well, Mozenrath was Mozenrath. And she wasn't going to waste the rest of the night thinking about him, that was for sure. He wasn't worthy of –

The sting of smoke in her eyes broke into her thoughts. The bread was burning. Again.

"Damn it!" She said out loud, turning off the heat. She sighed, scraping of the black, burnt part off the loaf as best she could. Then she set it on the table with the rest of the meal, and sat down to eat. She started in on the soup, which tasted just fine. At least she'd managed that part well enough.

-Line Break-

"'Why are some of the pages blank?'" Mozenrath muttered to himself. "A good question, little witch. You just might be useful to me yet."

"Who Master talking to?" Xerxes asked.

Mozenrath started slightly. He hadn't realized he'd spoken his thoughts out loud. "No one," he said brusquely.

"Witch use book?"

"She practiced some of the spells, if that's what you mean. But no, she didn't find the one we need, the one that will take us to Avalon."

"Mozenrath not tell her book's secret?" The eel asked anxiously, and he felt his temper flare. He'd explained the rules to Xerxes before, and he didn't like repeating herself.

"I told you," he snapped, grabbing his familiar in a vise-like hold. "That's not the way it works! She has to figure it out on her own."

Xerxes knew better than to struggle. "Master sure witch is smart enough to –?"

"Of course she is!" He snapped impatiently. "The most brilliant sorcerer I've ever –"'

He broke off. Still in his grasp, Xerxes was staring at him. Mozenrath let him go.

"Leave me. I wish to rest. Don't wake me unless it's important." Not waiting for a response, he turned from his minion and walked out of the main hall, to the seclusion of his more private rooms.

The bedchamber was spacious, simply but expensively furnished. And unlike his lab, which was full of the magical books and artifacts he'd "inherited" from Destane, everything in here was new. He'd burned all of the man's belongings that could even remotely be considered personal. The very thought of sleeping on the same sheets the twisted old bastard had laid his bones down on every night … it had made his stomach turn.

He wondered, not for first the time, how he had managed to hide his contempt from Destane for long enough to usurp his power. "He was like a father to me," he'd once told Aladdin. A father, indeed.

A father he wanted to kill.

It had been difficult back then, to conceal his seething hatred. In fact, it had probably been the most difficult thing he'd ever done. But it had been worth it, in the end. For power. Always for power.

And revenge…

Mozenrath closed his eyes. Think of something else, he commanded himself. Even think of Sadira, if you must.

Sadira did have a disturbing way of entering into his thoughts completely unbidden. It was most annoying when he was trying to concentrate on something. He supposed it was because she was really the only person he interacted with on a consistent basis. And she was so different from Jasmine, the only other girl around their age that he a passing familiarity with.

Jasmine bore the name of a flower, he knew, but he'd always thought the princess was more like a jewel than a blossom. She was smooth, polished and pampered by the privilege of her birth. She'd never had to work a day in her life. She'd never been hungry, really hungry – for power, or food, or anything else.

Well, not everyone was given such a life of plenty. Some had to fight for it, had to claw their way over the dead and dying to get to it. One thing he could respect about Sadira was that she was making her own way; she hadn't had anything handed to her.

But Jasmine was beautiful, of course, and so he coveted her – just as one might covet a jewel. He wanted her the way he wanted riches or power. She was another thing he could see himself having, another fine silk, another golden goblet, another status symbol to add to his collection.

But Sadira. Sadira was …

Sadira was what? He asked himself angrily. If Jasmine was a jewel, well then, Sadira was a tool. Not as pretty perhaps, but much more useful. Yes, that was the way he should think of her. That was precisely the way. A tool to be used and discarded, that's what she was to him.

And soon this clever tool, this instrument, would figure out the mystery of the Grimorum, and he could do just that.

Satisfied he had put his thoughts in order, Mozenrath lay down on the bed. The familiar ache in his fleshless right arm began, but this time, he was too weary to let it keep him from sleep.

He dreamt of her.

There was nothing shocking, nothing exciting about her appearance. She simply stood before him, dressed as she normally was. Her eyes were bright, and very clear.

"I won't be wielded." There was none of the usual fire in her voice. She spoke calmly and firmly, as if reciting a simple, immutable fact.

"Yes you will," he told her, annoyed. "We have a contract."

"That's not what I meant." She leaned in then, to whisper in his ear. "I will be the instrument, the tool you wield to save your own life, but no more. I won't be your weapon."

As she pulled back, he grinned. "We'll see about that, Sadira."

She looked almost sad. "Do you think only in terms of using?"

"What other way is there to think, my dear little witch?"

Then, to his horror her face changed into an even more familiar one.

"You used to know," the little girl said tearfully.

Mozenrath woke up gasping for air, and did not sleep for the rest of the night.