He looked past Pleeancis to the glass case. Pleeancis rolled his eyes.
He didn't understand the human obsession with love. What a bunch of tripe. It was neat that the Boss had put souls in the candle, though. No wonder many of the houseslaves had disappeared recently. Pleeancis giggled, then he remembered that the candle would bring her back. He stopped giggling.
'How can it bring her back, Boss?' he asked and stole a quick, hateful glare in her direction. 'It's just a candle. If you couldn't do it by yourself…?' He let the rest of the question go unspoken. If the Boss-one of the more powerful wizards in Shade and one of the preeminent practitioners of shadow magic-couldn't bring her back with his spells, how in the Nine Hells could a candle?
The Boss smiled absently, but his eyes burned with intensity. 'This is a special candle, Pleeancis, one that draws upon the Shadow Weave. When its light casts a reflection of a…' he stuttered over the next word, as though embarrassed to say it aloud, '… a corpse, the reflective surface becomes a portal, a doorway to the place where the soul of that corpse resides.' He reached into his pocket, no doubt to touch the candle while he spoke. 'The soul can return through that portal, re-inhabit the body, and thereby return to life.'
Pleeancis wanted to puke. He glared at her, showed her his fangs.
'Now that the candle is complete,' the Boss went on, 'the critical factor is the reflective surface.'
Pleeancis hung his head and snarled softly. He wanted to hear no more. The familiar kicked petulantly at the books on the table. He and the Boss had spent years alone together. They did not need her. Stupid love.
The Boss continued on, lost in his own world.
'In this case, for the shadow magic to work, the reflective surface must be the dusky scales of a living shadow dragon.'
Pleeancis's head snapped up. His wings fluttered with perturbation. 'A shadow dragon!'
The Boss merely looked down on him, still smiling, and nodded.
Disbelieving, Pleeancis took wing and fluttered before the Boss's face. He snapped his scaled fingers to bring the Boss back from his madness.
'Shadow dragons are tough, Boss. Tough. And there's only one around here-'
'Ascalagon,' the Boss finished for him and nodded again. Unbelievably, he did not look afraid.
'But Ascalagon is ancient,' Pleeancis squeaked. 'And big. Can't you use my scales?' He preened to show his green scales to best advantage.
'No, little one.' The Boss patted him on the head. 'The fact that Ascalagon is big and ancient is the very point.'
'You're going to get help then?'
The Boss shook his head. 'No.'
Pleeancis's voice rose an octave. His wings beat crazily. 'You're going to take on Ascalagon alone?'
The Boss chuckled. 'Not alone, little one. With you.'
Pleeancis's heart raced. He knew then that the Boss had gone insane but not in the good way.
They had been walking for over an hour. The colorless sky hung above them, a featureless roof of slate. Darkbriar trees surrounded them on all sides like walls of dull, gray bark. Nightmarish versions of a Faerunian cypress, the branches of the dusky leafed darkbriars hung low enough to brush Zossimus's head. The roots of the great trees twisted their way into the soft, marshy earth like giant worms. The smell of organic decay filled his nostrils. A light mist hung in the fetid air. The dull calls of gray birds and bats mingled with the low buzz of insects. Sound was muted; color was absent. The purple of Zossimus's robes and the green of Pleeancis's scales stood out in this murky, otherwise colorless plane like a giant in a halfling's cottage. Despite the trees, the grass, the insects and birds, the Plane of Shadow felt unreal, like a bard's conception of the realm of the dead. There was motion, true, but no life, no color. The plane was a mirror of the real world, a reflection without substance.
'Smells like a dungheap, Boss,' Pleeancis whispered from his perch atop Zossimus's shoulder. Quick as a cat, the quasit plucked a black fly as large as a coin from the air and impaled it between his thumb and foreclaw. 'Why would the big bastard lair here? I thought dragons were supposed to be smart.'
'Quiet, little one,' said Zossimus.
He knew that choosing this dank forest for its lair was smart. Zossimus had numerous protective and divinatory spells cast on his person, among them a spell that allowed him to see through magically created obscurement, but even his magically augmented vision could not see behind natural barriers to sight. Between the wall of darkbriars, the ubiquitous fog, and the indistinguishable gray hues of every damned thing, Ascalagon could be watching them even now, and Zossimus would not know it. The thought made his heartbeat accelerate. Once again, he told himself that the dragon would be open to reason. He had brought along an incentive to aid negotiation. Behind him, floating on an invisible platform of magical force, was an open mahogany coffer trimmed in platinum. Within lay a king's ransom in dusky opals and black pearls-his offering to Ascalagon.
Of course, Zossimus had prepared for the possibility that the dragon might prove unreasonable. He had cast so many spells on his person that the turgid air around him fairly sparkled. An enchantment had rendered his skin as hard as granite, to fend off dragon fang and claw. A field of invisible positive energy surrounded him, to protect against Ascalagon's vitality-draining breath weapon, and various additional protective enchantments sheathed him too, all of them attuned to some aspect of Ascalagon's nature. He was as ready as he could be.
A short while later, they reached a circular clearing, perhaps two spear casts in diameter. The short, gray grass looked like an age-faded carpet, devoid of color. The soft glow from the Shadow Plane's feeble stars trickled past the wall of darkbriars to cast the clearing in an even deeper patchwork of shadows-the ideal environment for the dragon.
Zossimus knew that he would have to face Ascalagon on the dragon's terms, which probably meant in the clearing. His spells would expire soon. He needed to persuade Ascalagon to show himself
With a thought, he stepped from the treeline then propelled the invisible platform forward and rested it in the center of the clearing. 'We wait here,' he said to Pleeancis. The quasit looked around the clearing, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. 'How will the dragon know we're here?'
'I suspect it already knows.'
Pleeancis's eyes went wide at that. His tail flicked in agitation. He grabbed Zossimus's robes all the tighter. They did not have to wait long.
Within a few moments, the bats and insects fell silent, leaving only the whisper of the breeze through the dark-briar leaves. Zossimus steadied himself, thought of Jennah's return, and rehearsed in his mind the power-laden phrase that would trigger the first transmutation he would cast-if necessary.
The shadows on the far side of the clearing grew darker. The soft rustle of leaves bespoke the passage of something within the wood. Even with his vision-augmenting spell in effect, Zossimus still could see nothing but darkness, the impenetrable darkbriar boles, and the brush. Pleeancis clutched so tightly to his shoulder that the quasit's hindclaws sunk into his flesh. He ignored the discomfort and peered into the shadows.
He took a few steps forward, farther out from the safety of the treeline. He knew the colors he wore, even the color of his skin, made him easily sighted. He was the splash of color superimposed against the painting of a forest done only in varying shades of gray.
Still, he saw nothing.
A rich, whispered voice from just behind his ear nearly caused his heart to stop. The exhalation of rancid breath was as strong as a mild breeze.
'Consider well your next words, human. For the moment, I find you more curious than appetizing.'
Ascalagon.
Pleeancis let out a squeal and teleported himself within Zossimus's robes. 'Unholy crap,' he muttered. 'Unholy crap.'
Zossimus ignored the quasit, steeled his courage, and slowly turned around.
Ascalagon's smoke colored eyes, each the size of a man's fist, bored into him like carpenter's awls. Zossimus could have reached out and touched the dragon's scaled muzzle. The sleek reptilian head was the size of a caravan wagon, the teeth as long as broadswords. Its respiration covered his face in moisture.
Ascalagon's head sat atop a serpentine neck that extended from back within the trees. Within the shadows of the darkbriars, Zossimus could only just make out the huge, powerful body-the great wings that walled off that side of the clearing, the powerful shoulders and forelegs that ended in dagger-length claws, and the semi-translucent black scales, some as large as a kite shield.
