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reach this place at this time.
    They are not unseen. At least three recording
devices, from different sources, will capture their battle. A half
dozen faces hide behind curtains in windows across the alley. Two
men, a mile away in different directions, point telescopes at the
rooftop. There’s a helicopter not far off. And sinister, mystical
things have been aroused, creatures of darkness and of light,
gambling on the outcome – the stakes beyond the ability of mortals
to pay.
    The rhythm of the city pulsates on the
rooftop, the sounds of traffic and sirens and a hundred thousand
televisions, stereos, the feet of dancers on a stage, the rumble of
trains on their subterranean tracks. There is, perhaps, time for a
breath, a complete inhalation and exhalation, before it begins. The
warriors will clash until death ends it.
    In that heartbeat of time, a great many
things happen across the city: a boy steals his first kiss, a baby
comes screaming into the world, a chef serves the last meal of a
prisoner condemned, a fashion designer climbs into a yellow taxi,
lies are told, truths revealed, an old man alone in apartment
exhales his last air. It all combines with the lifebeat of the
city, that rhythm, which even now fuels the hearts of two warriors
on a rooftop.
    There’s no bell to signal the start, no
whistle or gunshot or flag waved or handkerchief dropped, yet the
warriors move at precisely the same moment. They know every curve
of the battle, every breath of it, beginning and end. For a
thousand watching, the tension is intense, but the warriors are
completely at ease, relaxed, loose, and ready. Nothing can distract
them from their individual, identical intentions.
    That first sound of their weapons connecting
is like thunder. The city rocks with it – and realms beyond, where
the betting is closed and everyone, creatures of both light and
dark, are about to lose. They’ve come close to see this final
round. They’ve followed the exploits of each warrior on their
various years-long quests. Some, in fact, have interfered; the
warriors bear scars as proof.
    The first sound of their weapons clashing
resonates long and deep, the echoes causing every other city sound
to recede, the rain to pause, the cameras to flicker, the windows
to crackle like spider webs.
    That first clash of their weapons shatters,
albeit it briefly, the glass veil that separates this mortal city
from those unmortal things. It’s only a flash, less than a
heartbeat – less than a breath – less even than the crack of
lightning that explodes in sympathy.
    The warriors slip off the
rooftop, out of the rain, and into another realm. The greedy bored
things that had watched most closely, surprised and overwhelmed and
woefully unprepared. The manipulative little shits screech
inhumanly as immortality is stolen from them by the impossible
weapons of two impossible warriors meant – destined – to destroy each
other.
    The warriors don’t get a
lot of time in the other world before their own pulls them back,
but they do a lot of damage, they spill a lot of blood, they send a
powerful message: Do not meddle in mortal
affairs . The humans may be made of weak
flesh and brittle bone, but they can be devious and dangerous and
deadly, even facing things that cannot die. Do not meddle in mortal
affairs, or risk the truth of your own mortality.
    In higher realms still, things even greater
notice – and smile.

14 January
     
    The fog came in ahead of the morning sun,
just as the prophecy foretold, but only a handful of people knew
about such future prospecting. The strong, solid, most likely
scenarios were always kept locked away in underground bunkers,
hidden libraries, or terribly well-guarded fortresses. But Mr.
Jones understood immediately. He had been waiting, counting down
the days, anxious and excited and even a little bit giddy. He had
read the signs, such that they were, and he had seen one of the old
books.
    It was gone now, behind lock and key, safe
from