Mark Anthony - Tower of Doom

Jadis shut her eyes and tilted her head back. For a heartbeat she stood as still as a statue. Suddenly her coppery skin began to undulate. Dark fur sprang out on the back of her arms, her legs, her neck, and quickly spread to cover her entire body. As fluidly as if made of clay, her hands and feet lengthened and her limbs grew shorter. Her back stretched sinuously. A tail coiled out behind her, flicking and lashing like a black serpent. Gracefully, she crouched on all fours.

The woman Jadis was gone. In her place was a black werepanther.

Jadis extended her claws and bared canine teeth gleaming like white daggers. It felt good to don her cat form once more. As with so many things, she owed the Kargat for discovering that she had been born with the blood of a werepanther surging through her veins. She would never forget the day an older Kargat, a grizzled wereboar, had helped her undergo her first glorious transformation. She had instantly fallen in love with the grace and power of her panther form, a love that had only deepened over time.

With easy strength, Jadis sprang into the high opening. She padded swiftly down the shaft. The blackness was no barrier to her green-gold eyes. She found herself in a labyrinth of ventilation shafts, many sloping down at odd angles. Guided by her sensitive nose, she followed the scents of damp rot and fungus, traveling deeper below the keep. Finally she leapt from the mouth of a tunnel into a dingy corridor. Moans of agony drifted on the air, along with the rank stench of blood and fear. The dungeon.

Clinging to the shadows, she padded down the passageway. She came to a huge iron door set within a stone archway. The scent of fear was stronger here. Instinct told her that beyond the door lay the inquisition chamber.

Jadis froze at the metallic sound of a lock turning. Her black fur blended seamlessly with the shadows. She watched with werepanther eyes as the iron door swung open. Two men clad in the livery of the keep's guard stepped into the corridor carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher was a young woman, her face a shroud of agony. She was quite obviously dead. Behind the guards came a gaunt man clad in tight- fitting black. Jadis recognized him as the Lord Inquisitor Sirraun.

"Shackle her in the cell with the others," he ordered the two men. "We'll execute them all in three days' time."

The guards, nodded, disappearing down the corridor with their grisly burden. Sirraun locked the door with an iron key, then vanished into the gloom. Jadis waited until the shuffling sound of his footsteps faded before padding from her hiding place. Interest glittered in her eyes. Why had Sirraun ordered a dead body shackled? Stranger still, why behead a corpse? Curious, she approached the door.

Sirraun had locked the portal, but sometimes a talon was better than any key. Jadis's body contorted once more, but this time the transformation stopped halfway. In the dimness she might almost have appeared a normal woman, at least from the waist up. But flickering torchlight illuminated traits that were far from human-black fur, pointed ears, and a sharp-toothed smile. She stretched out a finger, extending a gleaming talon toward the keyhole.

Jadis's flesh was not the only substance capable of transformation. Without warning, the stone arch that surrounded the iron door began to twist and flow, forming itself into the shape of a huge maw. Fangs of rock formed beneath curling basalt lips. The gigantic stone mouth trembled with a deep rumbling sound almost like laughter. With terrible speed the fanged maw snapped shut. Jadis sprang back barely in time to avoid getting chewed to ribbons. Even so, a knife-sharp fang traced a hot line across her leg as she tumbled to the floor. The huge stone mouth opened and closed hungrily several times, teeth gnashing. Hastily, Jadis scrambled away. As she did, the stone mouth undulated, reshaping itself into a mundane-seeming archway once more.

With calculating eyes, Jadis regarded the portal. The enchanted stone mouth was a formidable defense. She was more interested than ever in what lay beyond the door. It had to be important. Bending her supple neck, she licked the wound on her leg with a pink tongue. Her form flowed once more. The lithe shape of a werepanther disappeared into the darkness.

From his cramped hiding place inside an empty barrel, Pock peered through a knothole at what appeared to be a black panther dropped from an opening in the far wall to land silently on the stone floor. Earlier, he had pursued the sultry Lady Jadis as the baron had ordered. He had followed her into this room only to find she had vanished. Hoping she might return, he had hidden inside the barrel to wait. Soon he had all but forgotten about his mission. Once the barrel had been filled with wine, and its wood still exuded an intoxicating aroma. Pock's purple head was spinning. He speculated whether this was the first time anyone had ever smelted himself drunk.

The sight of the black panther quickly sobered his dizzy little brain. Pock wondered how the large wild cat had found its way into the fortress. More importantly, he wondered if panthers had a taste for gnome meat.

As he watched in trepidation, the black panther padded across the room. Suddenly the creature's body blurred, molding itself into a new shape. Pock blinked. When he opened his eyes again the black panther was gone. In its place was-a beautiful, naked woman with coppery skin. The Lady Jadis.

"I must be drunk!" Pock murmured to himself, though rubbing his eyes did not make her disappear.

He watched as the lady retrieved her gown from beneath a pile of old sacks and hastily slipped it on. She moved softly to the door and was gone. Pock waited until he was certain the coast was clear, then tumbled out of the barrel.

"Pretty kitty," he mumbled lasciviously as he tottered toward the door. "I wonder if she would like to be my personal pet…"

He swayed groggily on his feet, grinning foolishly, as he made his way through the keep. Something told him the baron was going to be very interested in this.

"I tell you, it ain't right, Cray."

"I hear you, Rillam."

"Teaching deaf children to speak wizard-talk with their hands! It's unnatural, it is." Two men stood in the mud outside the Black Boar, speaking in low voices. A few other villagers had gathered around them. All wore the drab, threadbare garb of farmers and workmen. "What's more, she isn't afraid of sick people," Rillam went on in a disgusted voice. He was a burly man with a piggish nose. It was clear from their attentive posture that the others regarded him as a leader of sorts. "Why, she put her hands right on Am the Beggar's clubfoot without so much as a shiver! Now, I ask you-why would a pretty young woman in her right mind even want to look at cripples and lepers, let alone touch them?" Rillam rubbed his stubbly chin, his beady eyes speculative. "You know what I think?" Curious whispers ran around the huddled knot of villagers. "I think that just maybe she's a-" Rillam paused dramatically "-a witch." Gasps ran around the circle. A dozen hands fluttered in the sign against the Evil Eye.

"A witch?" a young man said tremblingly.

"That's right," Rillam said with a nasty grin. "And you all know what we do with witches…" Murmurs of assent ran through the small throng.

There was no moon that night. A thick fog had rolled off the moor to shroud the sleeping village in soft folds of darkness. Nothing stirred on the empty streets. The stray dogs that roamed the village square by day had sought out abandoned basements and forgotten shacks in which to cringe, as if even mere animals knew enough not to wander about the barony of Nartok after the sun had set. The mist swirled. A hunched figure lurched awkwardly out of the inky mouth of an alleyway between two shabby buildings. The streets were not entirely empty after all.