"A grand, ostentatious house, where no hospitality is afforded, neither is any charity given." – Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1898

Tascha's toes were cold. She must have slipped off her shoes. She felt around for them, her feet sliding across moss-soft carpet. Carpet? Oh, Light, she'd fallen asleep in the library again. And she'd snitched one of the bishop's reading pillows, judging by what her head rested on. Brother Kristoff would box her ears but good.

Tascha pushed away from the desk and tumbled out of bed.

Bed?

Disoriented, Tascha struggled to stand, action hampered by the sheets tangled around her legs. Finally kicking and clawing her way free, she gathered them up and flung them away with difficulty. Made of no material she recognized, they clung to her bare arms.

"Where's my jacket?" Tascha looked down at herself. She had on her chemise, pants and boots. "My shirt?"

Memory flooded back. The caravan. The attack. The gate.

The Betrayer.

Tascha covered her eyes. No dream, no hallucination. This was real.

I guess he found someplace to put me. That had been his concern at the end of his questioning. "You cannot roam the Black Temple on your own, and I need to consider which of my allies will best suit your care." Illidan had dropped his hold and stood back, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Kael'thas' followers call on the Light after a fashion, but they have no love for humans. He wouldn't do anything foolish, but the same cannot be said for all under his banner. The Broken are a possibility… do you enjoy raw fish?"

His mouth had curled at her bewildered refusal. "That eliminates Lady Vashj and her naga. Enough. The details will be managed. For now --"

Illidan took hold of her wrist, his hand engulfing her own. Tascha started. His skin felt firm and smooth, a bit warmer than normal but not unpleasantly so -- just like any other night elf she had shaken hands with. He smelled of woodsmoke and musk.

Almost like Maylar.

She recoiled in disgust, from the comparison as much as the touch that prompted it. Illidan's half-smile twisted in a snarl and the darkness pressed down on her soul. Then nothing, until she woke up here.

Wherever here was. Tascha studied her surroundings. The bed was a wooden circular platform wide enough to hold three people. The mattress and pillows were covered with the same impossibly clingy material of the sheets. Golden, many-armed candelabra stood on either side, candle stubs still visible here and there. Light, she noticed, came from a chandelier overhead, and not much of that. A small low table with two cushioned chairs on her right, crafted from the same material as the bed; her blouse and jacket lay on one of the seats. An armoire and an intricately carved dressing table with a mirror were on the left; tiny glass and crystal decanters and containers dotted its surface. Everything was in shades of azure, gold and scarlet.

Despite the decadence, the room held a fustiness of neglect. Tascha dressed, wrinkling her nose at the lingering odor of old incense and something that reminded her vaguely of a sewer. She walked to the wall across from the foot of the bed and followed it to her right.

The room itself was circular – she hadn't noticed before. The walls were black marble. No windows.

No door.

Tascha stopped at the point she had begun. There had to be a door. She retraced her path, twitching aside wall hangings.

Nothing.

Stay calm, Tascha. Stay calm. There had to be a reason why there wasn't a door. She just couldn't think of one.

She swallowed, suddenly aware she was thirsty. And hungry. Other bodily needs were making their presence known as well. She went around the room a third time. It was too much to hope for the fancy water-closets popular among the nobility and the Dwarven district, but there should be a garderobe, a chamber pot, something.

This search was as fruitless as the others. Finally, panic and pressure increasing at equal rates, Tascha stood again at the foot of the bed and called out, "Hello?"

She looked up at the ceiling. Was she being watched? "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Anyone?"

She counted to twenty, then again. Still no answer. She was trapped. Or worse abandoned. Frustration boiled over.

"Master Stormrage!"

" 'Master' would have sufficed."

Tascha stumbled back, bumping against the bed-platform. There was no smoke, no lightning-flash glow. He was simply there, in front of her. In the room's half-light, his night elf heritage was oddly more prominent. His wings were barely visible, and the horns...she'd seen worse in Sigil. At least they weren't blood-stained.

"Do not use that phrase again. I am Lord of Outland, and will be referred to as such."

As you wish, Master Such. Tascha bit her lip to keep hysterical laugher from escaping. This wasn't Sigil – no endlessly diplomatic employer stood at hand to soothe wounded egos and chastise cheeky staff in a single turn of phrase. Some stories said demons could read minds. She hoped the Betrayer couldn't.

He folded his arms, eyes narrowing to green slits. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, lord." If he had read her mind, the only answer that would assuage his pride and assure her continued breathing.

"Now. What is so pressing that you dare to summon me like a common innkeeper?"

"I apologize, lord, but I was … " Alone. "…worried." The excuse sounded pathetic even to her. "I couldn't find the door, and I have to -- " Tascha twisted her hands together."I mean, I couldn't find a …"

She let the sentence wither away and die.

"I see." His lips curled in a half-sneer. "Behind the purple drapery you'll find what you need."

"Thank you." Tascha whirled away. The wall hanging described was between the armoire and the dressing table. She twitched it aside; an archway opened onto another room that definitely not been there before. She ducked inside.

No garderobe here, but engineering genius would have brought the gnomes' High Tinker to tears. After tending to business, Tascha looked around while she washed her hands. Besides the necessary, there was the inset bathing pool that looked as if it could fit ten people. Carved screens carefully placed for privacy from outside. Shelves held towels and other supplies (she had used the crumbled remnant of an herbal soap). All were beautifully made, but the main room's aura of self-indulgent luxury was missing. Illidan had mentioned blood elves; she could believe she'd woken up in their handiwork. Who had designed it? Orcs or trolls didn't believe in building fancy, from what she'd heard, and she doubted demons cared. Why had it been sealed off?

"Perhaps your impertinence is to my benefit," the lord of Outland said when she returned. "It's been some time since I faced one of your calling and its defenses. I expected you to remain unconscious longer, but you proved me wrong." He sounded both annoyed and intrigued. "An effect of your Lady's gift, possibly. It's something to consider." He seized her wrist. "Later."

A heartbeat of nothing, then they were elsewhere.

Tascha swayed, dizzy. They were in a room much, much larger – close to the size of the Cathedral's main hall -- than one she had woken up in, but similar: lavish, deep-colored drapery and furnishings everywhere. She could smell sandalwood and wine, and the remnants of masculine cologne.

"Lord Illidan, what a delightful surprise!"

The voice was warm and suggestive and inviting. The speaker rose from her couch and bowed deeply to Illidan. "But I haven't cleaned," she added mournfully as she straightened, gesturing to the laded trays on either side of her couch and clasping her other four hands at her waist. She wore a layered skirt and brief bodice made of red and gold silks, with an ornate headdress. Her height matched the Betrayer's and her eyes were glowing silver.

"You make your surroundings beautiful simply by your presence, Mother Shahraz."

"You flatter me, my lord."

"I have a request."

"As you desire, always."

"Lycandaul's quarters have been reassigned to my latest servant. See that they are tended to."

Mother Shahraz appeared to notice Tascha for the first time. Delicate eyebrows half the length of Tascha's hand quirked. "My girls will be so disappointed."

"Not that type of servant," Illidan replied dryly. "Taszhia has other duties."

"Poor Lycandaul the Dull. His bones are barely dust, and now they're being swept away." Silver eyes looked Tascha up and down, and finally met hers.

If she could have, Tascha would have bolted from the room. Beneath the veneer of charm lay overwhelming hatred and an urge to destroy, an urge that could never be satisfied. In Stormwind, she had listened to priests debate the rationale of the Burning Legion from the last war. She wished she was back there now, so she could them the truth: there wasn't one.

"The hair fits, but her namesake has blue eyes, not brown. Still, a pretty little mortal. Well-mannered. Here we are, monopolizing the conversation, and not a peep from her."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Tascha heard herself say, "I'm too terrified to peep."

Mother laughed, delighted. "Keep her alive as long as possible, Lord Illidan. She's amusing. What did you say her duties were?"

"They're not in your specialty, I assure you, Mother Shahraz. You will of course notify me when your task is done."

He doesn't want her to know about me. Tascha felt a chill up her spine that had nothing to do with her present company. Politics were messy. She had managed to avoid being ensnared in them at the Cathedral through constant courtesy and keeping a low profile. So why are we here? There was too much she didn't know, too much she didn't understand.

The demon dipped her head. "Of course, my lord."

Another heartbeat of nothing, another room.

The dizziness was worse. Tascha's knees buckled. Only Illidan's grip kept her upright. Her vision blurred; everything sounded far away. What was happening to her? Jumping through the portal hadn't been this debilitating. She tried to focus her thoughts to work a spell, reaching for her inner Light. Darkness closed in around her and she cried out.

Then there were cool on her forehead, familiar warmth spreading through her from their feather-soft touch. Her sight cleared and the vertigo disappeared as if it had never existed. Light, Light, o blessed Light…

"There now," someone cooed in overdone sympathy. "Is that better?"

Tascha's head snapped up. Her benefactor smiled at her beatifically, brushing spun-gold hair behind long, slanted ears; she stank of roses and jasmine. Tascha hated her on sight. Something vile peered at her from behind the other's green eyes. The blood elf sat back on her heels and giggled, pulling on a mailed glove. "I think it's upset," she said over her shoulder.

"Enough, Ylisse." Another blood elf moved intoTascha's line of sight. He looked familiar, but she couldn't put a name to him. "Help her stand."

"Yes, my Prince." Ylisse lifted Tascha to her feet before she could protest. The blood elf stepped back, wrinkling her nose. "I need to bathe." A spattering of laughter answered her.

"Kael'thas, bring your bitch to heel before I do. I didn't summon you for a show of what passes for wit among your Sunfury blood knights." Tascha felt a tiny blossoming gratitude for the Betrayer's intervention.

No one likes to see their pet project mocked. The gratitude died on the vine.

"I do apologize, Lord Illidan." Ylisse demurely lowered her eyes.

"If you speak again, I'll rip out your tongue."

"I am here, as you requested last night, Lord," Kael'thas said smoothly. "I understand the matter is of some urgency."

So this was the leader of the high elves – the high elves who called themselves blood elves, at least. He didn't much resemble the paintings rescued from the wreckage of Dalaran.

"Yes. I want you to choose three of your Sunfury and deploy them to the Temple. Don't include that one." A wing snapped out at Ylisse. "She annoys me."

"As you command, Lord. Their tasks?"

"Whatever I assign them. Guarding my newest acquisition, if you must know."

Kael'thas looked at her. His gaze was speculative, but not malicious. Or mocking, or condescending, or calculating. He saw a person, not a tool. "I see."

"You don't, but you will. We will discuss this further, and in private. For now, you are dismissed. Don't bother cleaning up. She hasn't eaten yet."

Kael'thas and his guard bowed to Illidan. After a pause, Kael'thas bowed to her; not as deeply as to Illidan, but a bow nonetheless. Tascha tried to return it; Illidan's sudden grip on her shoulder kept her still. Kael'thas gave no sign he had noticed, but turned and led his guard through a curtained side entrance.

"You may partake." Illidan steered her toward what she had earlier missed: a table set with platters of breads, sweet rolls, bacon, fresh fruit, pitchers of water and juice all scattered among half-empty plates. "We need to continue our interview from last night, but I would be a bad host – a bad lord – if I neglected your needs."

She couldn't hear any mockery in his words. In a way, that was worse than open humiliation. It was whispered among the night elves that the Betrayer had gone mad because of a woman. Tascha didn't know about the woman part, but she could believe the rest. She sat down, scraped the contents of the least-used plate onto one of its fellows, and refilled it. Tascha resisted the urge to grab with everything within reach. After days of dried meat and hard bread, the aroma of fresh-cooked food was like a punch to the gut.

She ate slowly, aware of Illidan behind her. She looked around, wanting a distraction. The floor was carpet in red and had a gold rug with a red phoenix. Cushions in red and gold and blue were clumped little groups, by small floating lamps or small low tables. The only blue or green thing in the entire room was a tiny little suit of armor that trotted frantically between two piles of cushions. It was pointless and whimsical and utterly adorable.

Illidan's wings flared impatiently. Tascha thought of people watching their pets feed and winced. She poured a goblet of juice, gulped it down.

And choked. The 'juice' burned her throat like cinnamon fire.

Wine! Tascha filled another goblet with water and drained it. Who has wine for breakfast?

"The blood elves do." Illidan walked around the table to face her. "As did their ancestors the Highbourne, and no doubt, certain of your own nobles and leaders. I didn't pry into your thoughts, your expression spoke volumes. Tell me, Tascha of Stormwind, is there something you wish to ask? Something you failed to ask before?"

"I want to go home." No hysterics, no pleading. What good would they do? "I swear, I will never tell anyone about… this." She rubbed her forearm. No one would believe her if she tried. They hadn't when she explained Sigil to them.

"No."

Illidan closed the distance between them. "You have intruded upon my realm, and your service is your punishment for that crime. Compensation, if you will. I understand some of your leaders practice that method of justice.

"You will learn to use the power vested within you at my command. Do as you are told and live. Refuse and others will suffer for it: your kind has secret camps across my realm. Try to cheat me out of your powers by heroically taking your own life and you will learn there are worse things than dying."

Tascha hid her face in her hands. No rescue. No escape, not even through death – she couldn't let others die needlessly. She was trapped. And what he demanded was the impossible.

"You said this was arcane magic," she said, latching onto one last desperate hope. "I can't use arcane mage. I'm not a mage!"

"By the time I am done with you, you will be."

"It takes years of study to learn magic!"

"Not for everyone. There are those who wield magic through their body and their will. The book-obsessed call them sorcerers, claim they're undisciplined and weak. A false claim. I know from experience. I was a sorcerer, before I sought different paths to power." He sat on the edge of the table, arms folded: the lord, casually taking his ease. "You can do the same. In truth, you have an advantage I did not. You know the power is there and will not have to waste precious time ransacking your soul for it.

"An advantage you'll need to protect yourself. Do you wonder why you were so weakened by your teleportation?"

He paused, obviously wanting an answer. Tascha nodded.

"I believe it's because of the clash between the nature of the fel magic I used, and the Light-given power you have. It seems to vary, as well. You were barely able to speak in front of Mother Shahraz and her proximity seems to have caused your recent collapse. Yet you have no difficulties around me."

"You're not like her."

Illidan looked at her sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

Tascha grasped to put her impressions into words. "You don't feel – you don't want – "

"I am not a true demon, and I am not in the sway of the Burning Legion, if that is what you are attempting to convey." His gaze never left hers. "I am unique."

His wings opened, closed. "As I was saying," he went on, standing to pace, "you will need to use this power to shield yourself from the pain Mother Shahraz and her ilk cause you. You aren't strong enough to use the Light in that fashion, and never will be."

Tascha glanced away, gripping the tablecloth in her fist. She couldn't look at him, or she'd do something stupid.

"Until then you will have to be moved under escort. The Sunfuries will share that task with the Broken. There is still the question of your immediate care, but Lady Malande should be willing to deal with that." He stopped, cocking his head as if listening.

"Ah. Mother Shahraz has finished." He held out his hand. "One last discomfort, Taszhia, and you will be back in your nest."

This time, the vertigo threatened to bring up everything she had eaten. Keeping her eyes closed helped somewhat. She felt Illidan shift, his wings stirring her hair as they flexed.

Then she heard him laugh. Tascha opened her eyes

The bed had been made. The candelabra were full. The armoire and dressing table had been dusted, the mirror polished, the table and the chairs cleaned. The earlier fustiness was gone; the air smelled faintly of lemon. The purple drapery was tied to one side. Pillars lined the walls, curving up to meet at the ceiling and linked by fanciful horizontal trim in the shape of tree limbs. Suspended on chains from the ceiling hung a little divan.

Tascha stared in disbelief. It wasn't. It couldn't be. But it was.

A birdcage.

"She even gave you a perch." Illidan leaned against one of the pillars, arms folded, his amusement plain.

"Mother is right, little bird. You are entertaining."