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easily gouged a ravine.
    Shade remained perfectly still and protected, yet the stallion looked his way. The sorcerer did not flee, did not try to defend himself.
    With another angry snort, the nightmarish steed raced off to the southwest. His hooves made no mortal sound, just as they had made none prior to his arrival, and did not even quite touch the ground as the supernatural beast rushed into the distance.
    Shade continued to hold his place long after the ebony stallion had vanished. Finally, the spellcaster slowly drew back his cloak and stepped from his hiding spot.
    It was not fear of the creature that had made him hide, but rather the unnecessary and certainly violent confrontation that would have taken place. He could ill afford anything that might prevent him from pursuing his quest, especially this. The two of them had fought titanic battles in the past and never had there been a clear victor. That was likely in part because they knew each other better than any . . . and because they had been friends as much as they had been enemies.
    Steer clear, old companion, he thought with one last glance at the path the fearsome stallion had taken. This time . . . I may be more than willing to vanquish you. This time . . . I know how . . .
    Finally satisfied that the demonic steed would not return, Shade turned to his left. There, he beheld a sight nearly as familiar to him as the shadowy horse. There was little left of what had once been a towering citadel, the ash and tremors so constant in this forsaken realm doing their best to bury the remnants of a place even more foul.
    Here had once stood the hidden sanctum of Azran Bedlam.
    Had his features been distinct, they would have revealed something of the sorcerer’s disturbed thoughts at the understanding that his “random” flight had taken him so near to the ruins. Bad enough for anyone to find themselves in the Hell Plains, but to pass so close to the madman’s citadel was to risk life and limb—and soul.
    The ground trembled again. Shade adjusted his balance and cautiously trod toward the ruins. Wisdom warned him to leave the area; desperation drove him forward.
    As if to emphasize the last, a gut-wrenching pain sent him doubling over. Gritting his teeth so as not to call out and possibly alert minions of the Dragon King, Shade dropped to one knee. He started to bring one gloved hand to his face, then paused when he saw the hand.
    The appendage—glove and all—was transparent.
    Forcing himself to focus despite his agony, Shade stared at the hand. Slowly—much too slowly—the hand solidified again.
    He exhaled in relief.
    A feminine chuckle echoed through the ruins.
    No longer concerned with secrecy, the sorcerer spun toward the sound. The hand that had been transparent now radiated dark blue light.
    What remained of a stone wall shattered, the fragments hurtling yards in every direction. Those that soared toward Shade struck an invisible barrier just inches from him.
    Now, is that any way to greet your own blood, Gerrod?
    Hearing the name disturbed him as much as the woman’s voice reverberating in his head, for it stirred more memories, memories so old yet so powerful that they could never completely die.
    “Gerrod is dead,” he whispered to the unseen speaker. “I have seen his ghost . . .”
    You are his ghost . . .
    Turning toward an area deeper in the ruins, Shade cast once more. Icy crystals fell upon the area and, where they touched the ruins and the ash covering them, turned brittle, then dissolved.
    But this only served to amuse the speaker, whose voice, while alluring,also had a hollowness to it that reminded the sorcerer of the grave . . . and with good reason. You are becoming your father’s son at last . . . a few millennia late . . .
    “Show yourself,” he grated. “Show yourself or I’ll bring the Eternal One back here . . .”
    And he would be just as likely to pursue you as he would to fight