This was a land, and an existence, Faraday knew very well.
She had been here before, on the evening she had risen from the campfire she'd shared with Axis and the two Avar men, Erode and Loman, as they'd journeyed northwards to Gorgrael's ice fortress.
Faraday had risen and left that fire and not seen Axis again until he'd come to claim his inheritance in Gorgrael's frightful chamber.
Now Faraday lived it all over again.
She caught sight of a flickering campfire ahead, and thought she saw DragonStar's form rise and move about it, throwing on more wood as if awaiting her company.
"DragonStar!" Faraday breathed, and hurried forward. Maybe all would be well, after all.
A strange whisper, barely discernible in the night, ran along the edge of the wind.
Faraday paused, the cloak wrapping itself about her body in the wind. Nothing. She hurried on.
There, again, a soft whisper along the wind and, this time, a hint of movement to her right.
She stopped again, every nerve afire. Her fingers pushed fine strands of hair from her eyes, and she concentrated hard, peering through the gloom, listening for any unusual sounds.
"Faraday." A soft whisper, so soft she almost did not hear it.
A whisper ... and a soft giggle.
"Faraday." And another movement, more discernible this time, among the eddying snow.
She stared, hoping it was her imagination, hoping she was wrong.
The flickering campfire caught her eye again, and she looked back. DragonStar had raised his head and was staring into the snow in her direction, but just as she was about to call out, something distracted DragonStar, and he bent back to the fire.
"Faraday."
No mistaking it this time, and Faraday closed her eyes and moaned.
"Faraday? It is I, Timozel."
She mustered all her courage and looked to her right. A shape was half-crouched in the snow some four or five paces away, its hand extended, its eyes gleaming.
It was not Timozel, but Sheol... but a Sheol who had assumed the form of Timozel: the boyishly lean body; the hair plastered to the skull with ice; eyes which, once so deep blue, were now only rimmed with the palest blue, the rest of the irises being stark white.
Timozel's form, but with Sheol's intelligence and strength shining from behind those frightful eyes.
"Help me ... please," Sheol whispered in Timozel's voice.
"No," Faraday whispered. "Go away."
"Qeteb trapped me!" Sheol whispered. "I never wanted to be a Demon! No! Never! Qeteb forced me into a life of darkness, and I've had no choice."
And now? thought Faraday, but for the moment she made no comment.
"He has trapped me, Faraday! Trapped me! Forced me into his service."
"No," Faraday said, but she was unable to look away, unable to call for help. Once again the force of the Prophecy lay like a dead weight about her shoulders. Nothing she could do now could alter its abominable course.
"I'm as much a victim as you are, Faraday. Please help me. I want to escape. Trust me."
"Go away," Faraday muttered hoarsely, and the wind caught at her cloak so that it tore back from her body.
Now Sheol was almost at her feet, and her fingers fluttered at the hem of her gown. "Please, Faraday. I want to revel in the Light. Please, Faraday! Help me. You could be my friend. Help me!"
No! she screamed in her mind, but she could not voice it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw DragonStar rising from the fire, a hand to his eyes. Then her hair whipped free and, caught by the wind, obscured her vision.
No! But the resurgent Prophecy had her in its grip now, and it would not let her go.
"Trust me," Sheol whispered at her feet. Trust me.
No!
"DragonStar," she cried. "Forgive me!"
Sheol's hand snatched at her ankle.
"Gotcha!" she crowed.
Faraday closed her eyes to fight her panic, took a deep breath, then looked at Sheol.
"This is your choice," she said. "You can take me to Qeteb, or you can let me go. You do have a choice. You do not merely have to mouth the words from some drama that was played out forty or more years ago. Sheol, listen to me, listen to your choice. Take me to Qeteb, or join the light, free your soul.
Let me go."
