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combination of natural forces occasionally tampered with by magical means, regularly controlled by some sorceress with evil intent? If that were so, did evil like that of her mother, Eran, the Queen Sorceress, exist throughout the universe?
    Swan and her friends re-entered the structure and wove their way along many more passageways until, at last, they reached a hall of some considerable size. From within, she could hear the clanking of swords beaten against shields, and Swan reached to the hilt of her own sword. At the entrance to the edifice, right after she had magically changed pieces of paper from her spell bag into looking like the thing called “money” so that she could pay for her membership, her sword was “peace-bonded.” A fibrous material, like a length of semitransparent vine or small intestine, was wound round the hilt of her sword and to a strap in the frog, to lock the blade in its scabbard. She was ready to magically break this peace bond should the swordplay from within the hall demand.

    Alan Garrison leaned deeper into his chosen corner near the doors, scanning the faces of everyone who entered, looking for William Brownwood.
    If Brownwood had a package with him of any kind, it would be the bomb. What if he saw Brownwood and there were no package, meaning that the device was hidden somewhere? At the very moment that he would see Brownwood, a chain of decisions would have to be made. Should he take Brownwood down, attempt to follow Brownwood until reaching a less peopled area, what? Should he call in backup on the tiny radio that he wore? Should he attempt to arrest Brownwood—there were charges aplenty from which to choose—or should he go for an instant kill?
    Alan Garrison had never killed anyone. He’d come close to doing so on three occasions, once having to shoot a suspect twice in the chest in order to prevent the suspect’s killing of another agent. But the suspect lived, stood trial, was convicted. In the close confines of the convention, there could be no chances taken, especially considering the bomb.
    Wisnewski was right, perhaps, that this was a foolish move, going after Brownwood alone. But the other way, an evacuation and a siege, would either let William Brownwood slip through their fingers and use his explosive device, create a hostage situation of ridiculous proportions or force Brownwood to prematurely detonate his device out of desperation.
    “Hello, Alan! Good to see you. I hope you’re having a good time. I’m late for a meeting.” The dark-haired, bearded man who ran DragonCon greeted him with a smile, then began talking into a cell phone. As he continued past, he looked back over his shoulder at Garrison and added, “Gotta run. Let’s get together for a drink later.” And Ed Kramer was there and gone.
    “Hello, Ed! Good-bye, Ed!” Alan Garrison resumed his watch. He was finally rewarded, not with the face of a mad bomber, but with the face of an angel, the loveliest face he had ever seen. She was dressed as some sort of medieval fantasy character, so authentically attired in long midnight blue gown, grey hooded fur-ruffed cape and elaborately hiked sword that she must have spent either a ton of money or a ton of time creating the costume. Soft waves of impossibly beautiful auburn hair cascaded to her waist. Her features were at once delicate, yet strong, her cheekbones the kind that a high-fashion model would kill for. Her eyes were the softest, most strikingly beautiful grey-green color that he had ever seen. The convention badge that she wore read, “Swan Creath.”
    Alan Garrison wondered what nationality “Creath” might be...
    Upon entering the hall, Swans attention was immediately drawn to several handsome warriors engaged in furious battle on a raised platform. They wore armor and emblazoned on their battle-worn shields were symbols of dragons and other beasts. One of the fighters was brought down with a two-handed blow from his opponent, his shield beaten