Michael Scott - The Sorceress

Dee stepped into the underground chamber to face a frozen god.

In his long lifetime the Magician had experienced wonders. He had come to accept the extraordinary as ordinary, the strange and wonderful as commonplace. Dee had seen the legends of the Arabian Nights come to life, had fought with monsters from Greek and Babylonian myth, had traveled through realms that people believed were lies created by the travelers Marco Polo and Ibn Battutah. He knew that the myths of the Celts and the Romans, the Gauls and the Mongols, the Rus, the Viking and even the Maya, were more than stories-they were based on fact. The gods of Greece and Egypt, the spirits of the American plains, the jungle totems and the Japanese Myo-o had once lived. Now they were remembered as little more than fragments of myths and snatches of legend, but John Dee knew that they had once walked this earth. They were part of an Elder race who had ruled the world for millennia.

One of the greatest of the Elders was Mars… and less than twenty-four hours earlier, Dee had encased him in a tomb of solid bone.

The Magician stepped into a vast but low-ceilinged circular chamber, the floating light painting everything sallow, the color of pale butter, and looked around the chamber. Although he'd known about its location for decades, he'd never had a reason to venture down to face the Sleeping God before, and everything had happened so quickly yesterday that he hadn't had a chance to examine the sepulchre. He ran his hand down a section of the smooth wall beside the door, the scientist within him recognizing the materials: collagen fiber and calcium phosphate. The walls here were not stone-they were bone. Dee spotted two indentations against the far wall. Between them were two dimpled depressions, and suddenly he knew what he was seeing and realized where he was. He was looking at a set of eyes and a nose. The chamber had not been hollowed from a single piece of bone, as he'd thought-he was inside an enormous skull. Terrifyingly, the skull looked almost human. Dee felt a shiver run down his spine; he'd never encountered them, but he'd heard stories of Shadow-realms inhabited by cannibal giants. Yesterday, the walls had been smooth and polished; today they looked like a candle that had been left too close to a fire. Long-frozen stalactites of bone dripped like sticky toffee from the ceiling; huge bubbles had been caught and frozen as they popped; dribbles and streams of thick liquid curled in ornate patterns.

In the center of the room was a long rectangular raised stone plinth splashed and spattered with globules of what looked like yellow wax. The ancient slab was cracked in two.

And on the floor before the plinth was a gray statue partially encased in yellow. It depicted an enormous man on hands and knees, caught as he attempted to climb to his feet. The figure was dressed as a warrior, wearing the metal and leather armor of the ancient past, his left arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide, while his right arm was buried in the floor up to his wrist. His body from the waist down also disappeared into the ground. On the figure's back, two hideous child-sized creatures had been frozen as they'd attempted to leap forward on goatlike hooves. Stick-thin, ribs and bones visible, their mouths gaped to reveal maws filled with jagged teeth, and their outstretched hands were tipped with dagger-sharp claws.

Gathering up his coat so that it would not brush the floor, and hitching up his trousers, Dee hunkered down for a closer look at the statues. The piece looked like something from a museum, a classical sculpture by Michelangelo or Bernini, perhaps-Phobos and Deimos on the back of Mars Ultor. Dee moved his hand and the ball of light floated over the satyrs' heads. The detail was incredible; every strand of hair had been preserved, the drool caught on their chins, and one of them-Phobos, he thought-even had a cracked nail. But these were no statues; yesterday, they had been savage living creatures, and Mars had loosed them on him. It would have been a terrible death. The satyrs fed off panic and fear… and over the centuries Dee had learned that there was much to fear. The knowledge of what the Elders could do to him always sent queasy swells of panic through his stomach. Phobos and Deimos would have feasted for months.

The Magician leaned forward to look at the helmet that completely covered Mars's head. Beneath the yellow coating of hardened bone, the gray stone was still visible. It sparkled like granite, but this was no natural rock. For a single instant, Dee felt something like pity for the Dark Elder. The Witch of Endor had caused his aura to become visible and to harden, stonelike, around his body, trapping him within an impossibly heavy crust. If the god peeled it off, his aura bubbled up like lava and hardened again immediately. Mars, who had once roamed the world and been worshipped as a god by a dozen nations under scores of names, had been practically immobile for millennia. Dee found himself wondering what crime the God of War had committed that had so offended the Witch that she had condemned him to this lingering undeath. It must have been terrible indeed. Then the Magician's lips twitched in a smile as a thought struck him. Reaching out, he rapped his knuckles on the helmeted head. The sound was dull and flat in the bone-wrapped chamber. "I know you can hear me," Dee said conversationally. "I was just thinking that this seems to be your destiny," he continued. "First the Witch trapped you in your own aura, and then I wrapped you in solid bone."

Wisps of black smoke suddenly curled from the Dark Elder's helmet.

"Ah, good," Dee murmured. "For a moment there I thought I'd lost you."

Eyes blazed crimson in the blackness behind the helmet. "I am not so easy to kill." Mars's voice was a gravelly rasp, touched with an indefinable accent.

Dee straightened and dusted off his spotless knees. "You know, every Elder I've killed has said that. But there is blood in your veins. And what lives can be slain." He showed his small teeth in a tiny smile. "Admittedly, you are difficult-in fact, well-nigh impossible-to kill, but it can be done. I know. I've done it. Why, less than a week ago, I slew Hekate."

The interior of the helmet glowed bright red for an instant and the glow faded. Locked in place by granite and bone, Mars could not move, and yet Dee could clearly feel the Elder's eyes on him. Black smoke curled up out of the slit in his helmet, and where his eyes should have been were now two crimson balls flecked with blue. "Have you come back to gloat, Magician?"

"Not intentionally." Dee walked behind the trio of statues, examining them from every angle. "But now that I'm here, I might as well gloat anyway." He ran his hands across the Elder's shoulder, and Dee felt his own aura flicker as the merest buzz of energy crackled through him. Even buried beneath a sheath of stone and bone, the Elder's aura was powerful.

"When I escape," Mars rumbled, "as I surely will, you will be my first priority. Even before I discover the whereabouts of the Witch of Endor, I will find you, and my vengeance will be terrible."

"I'm scared," Dee said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "The Witch has kept you locked in stone for millennia. You've not managed to shake off that curse yet. And you know that if anything happens to the Witch, then the spell dies with her, leaving you trapped like this forever." The Magician moved around in front of the Elder again. "Perhaps I should have the Witch killed. Then you will never escape."

There was a peculiar snuffling sound within the helmet, and it took the Magician a few moments to realize that the Elder was laughing. "You! Kill the Witch? I was called the God of War; my powers were terrible. And yet I could not kill her. If you move against her, Magician, she will do something horrible to you-and ensure that your agony lasts a millennium. She once reduced an entire Roman legion to figures about the size of her fingernail, and then strung them together on a silver wire so that she could wear them as a necklace. She kept them alive for centuries." The Elder chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. "She used to collect amber paperweights; within each one was a person who had displeased her. So yes, go and attack the Witch! I am sure she will be particularly creative with your punishment."