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in releasing the Prisoner from the lead-lined Anasazi kiva, let the bestial genie out of his bottle, and died for his efforts.
    It was good to be free at last, the Prisoner thought, after so many centuries of captivity. But he had wandered enough. This world's only true charms were the billions of intelligent creatures that bestrode it, creatures that he could anger to violence, and watch as they tore each other apart. What he had been doing was like stepping on ants when he could, with the proper planning and aid, raven cities, and turn countries against each other until this world ran red with the blood that flowed in its inhabitants' veins.
    But he could not do it alone. There had to be others that he would control, those who would take the risks and organize the chaos, while he sat back and relished the sights and sounds of carnage, until the red madness that had exiled him here had spread like a plague among the dwellers of earth.
    And those who would most easily fall under his control were those who sought him. Most of them were willing to be disciples in exchange for the power he could give them, like Swain, whose ability to touch the Prisoner's mind, even through his lead prison, had been far greater than most humans.
    Swain, however, was dead. He had died, and yet the Prisoner's hold over him was so strong that he had called him from his sandy grave and Swain had come, though he had been useless to the Prisoner, a fat corpse bloated with other men's fluids. It was a pity to lose such a potentially powerful ally.
    The only human in recent years who'd surpassed Swain's talent of mental contact with the Prisoner was the man Stein, to whom the Prisoner had appeared in dreams. His strength was formidable, and the Prisoner knew the blood must be strong in the man. But unlike Swain, there was no desire to worship in Stein. There was fear and denial, but also great knowledge, knowledge the Prisoner could use if he could persuade—or force—Stein to join him. If he could not, then he would destroy Stein.
    Stein, however, was far away. East. It was a great distance, and the Prisoner wondered if there were any others closer who had been searching for him, for good or ill. If there were, he should seek them out. If they proved to be allies, that would be beneficial. But if they wished to find him to destroy him, then he would destroy them, were he not able to bend them to his will.
    He reached out then, with the tentacles of his probing mind, trying to find not those whom he could contact, but those who wished to contact him. If they were untouchable by his mind, if the blood link was weak or nonexistent, they would remain unknown to him. But if the link was there, and their desire was strong, then he would know.
    The Prisoner felt her. She was the foolish one, the one who had the strength to reach him but not the strength of will necessary to accomplish it. Swain's sister.
    He had known that she and others were seeking him after Swain died, and he had called to her, but she had heard his shouts as if they were a whisper from the bottom of a great canyon. Still, she was the closest of those who had sought him, so he would go to her and find what power she had, to whom she was bound on this earth, and if she would be an effective partner in his reign of terror.
    Effective, if temporary. Eventually, all would die. His purpose was nothing more nor less than universal destruction.
    He did not have the patience to breed humans so that he might enjoy their torments and deaths indefinitely. If he could, he would rather destroy everything now, and then live alone in misery on a world empty of all but himself.
    He could not help it. It was his nature.

Chapter 6
     
    J ezebel Swain sat alone in her cell, grinding her teeth and scratching her arms. It was the same damn thing all the time, just sit and stare at the goddamn walls, and wait and wait and wait. And then, every few days, one of those bastards in white would come and take her