was Sam Thistle, the son of a knight, probably himself now a knight. He and Jan were the same age, and would play chess as children. Jan had always been a loner, and Sam had been his only childhood friend.
"Amabel," Jan said, voice soft, lips barely moving. "I...."
He could say no more. He saw tears in her eyes. Tears filling his own eyes, Jan fled the tavern, shoving revelers aside.
He walked through the snowy streets, not knowing where he went, tears on his cheeks. Some townsfolk stared, while others pretended not to notice. Those who remembered him from years past knew of his love for Amabel, and they averted their eyes, nodding sadly. Let them see me cry, let them mock me. I don't care. I'm a warlock now. Nothing can hurt me anymore. Nothing.
Yet still his tears fell.
When he could take it no longer, he rushed into an alley, fell to his knees, and wept. Pathetic, he knew, but he could not curb his tears. Shame filled him. The mighty warlock, the youngest of his kind, sobbing in an alley like a child! He clenched his fists. No. No! If I want her, I'll have her. I always get what I want. Always. I won't let her go.
Wiping his eyes, he stood up, fire burning through him. The old anger flared, the anger that could always drive him, the anger that led him to become a warlock, the youngest warlock in the world, maybe the most powerful, too. I will have her. Sam Thistle will not stand in my way. When they had been children, Sam had been a worthy adversary in their chess games, but Jan always ended up defeating him. I will defeat you now too. You have placed me in check, old friend, but you have not yet won the game.
That night, Jan walked up Friar Hill, the grassy knoll in north Burrfield where wandering friars sometimes preached. There he spread ashes around him and lit a ring of fire. Clouds gathering over the stars above, Jan raised his hands, and the ring of fire crackled around him, burning black. Demon ghosts danced around him, eyes red, smiles drooling. Tears on his cheeks, rage burning through him like the fire, Jan Rasmussen reached downward, deep into the hill, deep into the earth, down and down into the pits of Hell.
"Issa!" he shouted, his words shaking the world. "Answer my call."
Around him, Friar Hill disappeared, Burrfield disappeared, the entire world vanished. He could see only the caverns of the underworld, burning with columns of flame and rivers of lava, reverberating with the screams of sinners and the screeches of demons. He sent his power into the bowels of the Ninth Circle, the deepest and hottest level of Hell where demons whipped sinners and pain dwelt.
"Issa!" he cried. "Do you hear me?"
He had discovered the demon Issa three years ago. She was the most powerful demon he'd ever contacted, chief of the torturers of Hell. She oversaw a demon army of fire and malice, an army bred to torment the souls of sinners. Issa was cruel and mighty, a deadly combination.
She was also, Jan knew, madly in love with him.
He could use that now.
As in a feverish dream, he flew through the fire. Jan's spirit roamed the tunnels of Hell, passing over sinners on racks, flying over pools of lava where demons dunked screaming souls, and flew toward the greatest demon there, the cruelest entity of fire.
Issa.
She opened her eyes, irises woven of fire, and they were all Jan could see, two flames gazing into his soul.
"My love," she whispered and licked her lips.
Sam Thistle, spoke whispers around town, was a great knight, a warrior who fought in the Crusades, a deadly enemy. He could be tough to kill, even for a warlock, but Issa knew no bounds. No knight could harm her, not even Sam Thistle. She would do this for him.
"Issa," Jan said, voice traveling from miles away. "I need you to kill someone."
She blazed, unfurling her bat wings. "For you, anyone."
Someone grabbed his shoulder.
Jan screamed in pain.
His physical body, roused from the dream, yanked his soul back in, sucking it up like a noodle. Jan's
"Amabel," Jan said, voice soft, lips barely moving. "I...."
He could say no more. He saw tears in her eyes. Tears filling his own eyes, Jan fled the tavern, shoving revelers aside.
He walked through the snowy streets, not knowing where he went, tears on his cheeks. Some townsfolk stared, while others pretended not to notice. Those who remembered him from years past knew of his love for Amabel, and they averted their eyes, nodding sadly. Let them see me cry, let them mock me. I don't care. I'm a warlock now. Nothing can hurt me anymore. Nothing.
Yet still his tears fell.
When he could take it no longer, he rushed into an alley, fell to his knees, and wept. Pathetic, he knew, but he could not curb his tears. Shame filled him. The mighty warlock, the youngest of his kind, sobbing in an alley like a child! He clenched his fists. No. No! If I want her, I'll have her. I always get what I want. Always. I won't let her go.
Wiping his eyes, he stood up, fire burning through him. The old anger flared, the anger that could always drive him, the anger that led him to become a warlock, the youngest warlock in the world, maybe the most powerful, too. I will have her. Sam Thistle will not stand in my way. When they had been children, Sam had been a worthy adversary in their chess games, but Jan always ended up defeating him. I will defeat you now too. You have placed me in check, old friend, but you have not yet won the game.
That night, Jan walked up Friar Hill, the grassy knoll in north Burrfield where wandering friars sometimes preached. There he spread ashes around him and lit a ring of fire. Clouds gathering over the stars above, Jan raised his hands, and the ring of fire crackled around him, burning black. Demon ghosts danced around him, eyes red, smiles drooling. Tears on his cheeks, rage burning through him like the fire, Jan Rasmussen reached downward, deep into the hill, deep into the earth, down and down into the pits of Hell.
"Issa!" he shouted, his words shaking the world. "Answer my call."
Around him, Friar Hill disappeared, Burrfield disappeared, the entire world vanished. He could see only the caverns of the underworld, burning with columns of flame and rivers of lava, reverberating with the screams of sinners and the screeches of demons. He sent his power into the bowels of the Ninth Circle, the deepest and hottest level of Hell where demons whipped sinners and pain dwelt.
"Issa!" he cried. "Do you hear me?"
He had discovered the demon Issa three years ago. She was the most powerful demon he'd ever contacted, chief of the torturers of Hell. She oversaw a demon army of fire and malice, an army bred to torment the souls of sinners. Issa was cruel and mighty, a deadly combination.
She was also, Jan knew, madly in love with him.
He could use that now.
As in a feverish dream, he flew through the fire. Jan's spirit roamed the tunnels of Hell, passing over sinners on racks, flying over pools of lava where demons dunked screaming souls, and flew toward the greatest demon there, the cruelest entity of fire.
Issa.
She opened her eyes, irises woven of fire, and they were all Jan could see, two flames gazing into his soul.
"My love," she whispered and licked her lips.
Sam Thistle, spoke whispers around town, was a great knight, a warrior who fought in the Crusades, a deadly enemy. He could be tough to kill, even for a warlock, but Issa knew no bounds. No knight could harm her, not even Sam Thistle. She would do this for him.
"Issa," Jan said, voice traveling from miles away. "I need you to kill someone."
She blazed, unfurling her bat wings. "For you, anyone."
Someone grabbed his shoulder.
Jan screamed in pain.
His physical body, roused from the dream, yanked his soul back in, sucking it up like a noodle. Jan's
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