Voronica Whitney-Robinson - Sands of the Soul

While their fire crackled cheerfully, Steorf was once again engrossed in translating Ciredor's text. Fannah had curled up near the warmth of the flames and had fallen asleep. Tazi sat with her knees drawn up against her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins. With the moon only the barest hint of a sliver like a scratch in the inky blackness, the stars were without competition and shone as brilliant points of light in the desert sky.

Tazi thought that they looked like they were close enough to touch, if she would only stretch out her arm. She had never seen a more beautiful night. As she looked from Steorf to Fannah, she couldn't help but think that they would never share another night like this again.

"Trouble in paradise, little Tazi?" Ciredor asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He gazed into a scrying sphere he had created and held balanced just above his spread fingers. Within the miniature globe, he could see Tazi, Steorf, and Fannah struggle to reach their decision of unity.

"I think you are correct, Thazienne," he said to the globe. "It is time for your numbers to dwindle. Rather than have Steorf escort Fannah out of the desert, I would prefer that you bring her to me. I do not think we need the boy-mage any longer. Who knows what else he might discover within those pages of mine?"

He abruptly turned away from his scrying sphere. No longer suspended by his magic, it tumbled to the ground, disappearing before it could strike the stone floor.

Ciredor stepped out onto the parapet of the minaret that was his personal temple. He walked to the edge and closed his eyes. With his head tilted back, he breathed in deeply of the warm smell of sand and dust. When he opened his eyes, he had reached a decision.

Ciredor moved past his unfinished business within the tower and started the walk down to the entrance. He reviewed his mental checklist.

"So many things to do," he murmured, "and so little time left to finish them all. Of course, for some people, time has run out all together, so I suppose I shouldn't complain."

Humming an obscene tune he had learned as a child, Ciredor threw open the doors to the Calim and smiled. As far as he was concerned, all was right with the world.

"I'm afraid your sorcerous companion might throw a kink into things, little Tazi," he continued talking as though he could still see her through his sphere. "I cannot allow anything to disrupt my plans now that they have come together so perfectly. You, dear Thazienne, will be easy enough to deal with when the time comes.

"While you have had your moments and given me some problems with your errant ways," he admitted to the wind, "in the end, you are merely a street brawler, albeit one pleasing to the eye. There might be some use I can put you to before I am finally done…

"Now there is something delightful to contemplate," he added to himself.

Ciredor stepped onto the sand and walked a few paces away from the doors to the minaret. He knelt, placed both of his palms flat on the hot sand, and closed his eyes. The necromancer lowered his head until his brow brushed the rough grains of the Calim and appeared to be lost in deep prayer. His lips moved soundlessly, and the slightest sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead. He passed several long minutes like this.

A low rumbling began in the distance and shook the area. Ciredor lifted his head slowly at the onset of the vibrations. The shaking localized at the minaret. Several feet in front of him sand sprayed in all directions, and two purple desert worms erupted from the ground. They were both close to the same size, and Ciredor guessed they were probably litter-mates.

"Very young," he said appraisingly, "judging by your size."

Each one was about eleven feet long and two feet in diameter. A series of spikes, each half a foot long, rimmed their mouths, and with them, they were able to tunnel beneath the desert sands and rip apart their prey. Their tails ended in glistening spikes that Ciredor knew could inject a deadly poison.

He was pleased with their prompt arrival, even if they were not yet a fraction of their species' full size. The two worms reared and writhed in front of him, apparently uncomfortable, roused from the safety of their burrows and exposed as they were. Their eyes were almost non-existent, typical of creatures that were more accustomed to life underground. Soundlessly, they undulated as he marched around them like a drill instructor inspecting his troops.

"You'll do," he finally approved.

Without warning, the worm on the right lunged for Ciredor perhaps out of hunger or anger at the summons to this location against its will. The mage was momentarily startled by the unexpected disobedience, but his lightning reflexes saved him from the boring orifice of the creature he had called. He dodged to the left, and the worm smashed into the sand where the mage had been standing a moment before. Ciredor's smile disappeared, and he watched to see what the worm would do next.

The renegade monster reared back and prepared to lunge again. The second worm continued to writhe in place but did nothing to help or hinder its sibling. It seemed to be waiting for the outcome.

It didn't have to wait long. Ciredor stood his ground and did not flinch as the worm lunged a second time.

Without using any magic at all, Ciredor caught the worm with both of his hands just below the monster's mouth.

"I don't think so," he snarled as he strained to force the spinning row of teeth away from his face, enjoying the physical challenge.

With a burst of strength, Ciredor wrenched the worm away and threw it to the ground. However, the monster had not yet given up.

It reared up again and lunged a last time at Ciredor. The dark mage feinted to the right, and as the worm once again smashed into the sand, Ciredor jumped on the back of it. Like an unbroken stallion, the worm rose up in the air, bucking from side to side, but it could not shake Ciredor from its back. The mage held onto the worm's neck with his left arm and stabbed his right arm directly into the soft head of the desert dweller. With a triumphant snarl, Ciredor yanked out most of the worm's simple brain stem. The creature slumped limply to the sand.

Ciredor climbed off the dead worm, right arm dripping a putrid slime. He regarded his soiled robes with a moue of distaste. With a practiced gesture, he waved his left hand first over his right arm and over every part of his stained silks. After his enspelled pass, the ebony material glistened in the starlight as though freshly spun. Then he turned to the second worm.

The creature had lowered itself to the ground at the death of its sibling. As Ciredor regarded the creature coolly, the worm slithered docilely at his feet, curling around him like some faithful hound. Absently, Ciredor stroked its side, and the worm nearly quivered in pleasure. When the worm had passed around Ciredor's feet a few times, it hesitantly slithered over to its deceased littermate. The creature raised up its head, obviously preparing to devour the dead relative. Nothing went to waste in the Calim.

"That wouldn't be wise," Ciredor warned sweetly, wagging one finger from side to side.

The worm halted in mid lunge and turned to regard the mage. Ciredor moved over to stand beside the young worm and leaned close to its head.

"I don't want anything to spoil your appetite," he informed the creature, like a mother lecturing a naughty child. "I have something else in mind for you to dine on. You can always come back and have this one later. It's not going anywhere."

Ciredor chuckled, pleased with his own joke.

"Here's what I want you to do," the necromancer commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper.

When he had given the worm its instructions, he patted it along its body.