Izel’s visits became a regular occurrence, and Zogrusz found that he looked forward to their chats so much that he was disappointed on the days when the man did not ascend the mountain. The once-fisherman had a wry sense of humor and a down-to-earth, folksy wisdom that Zogrusz appreciated – never before had he spoken so long and so deeply with a human, and he learned much about the workings of their minds and how they understood their existence. His own ability to converse improved dramatically during these meetings, as he further learned how to interpret the subtle hints and mannerisms that underpinned every interaction between these fascinating animals. He still made mistakes, he knew, but Izel seemed to simply accept that a hermit who had devoted his life to single-handedly building a shrine to a dark god would have more than his share of eccentricities.

So his heart lightened one morning when he emerged from the cave’s entrance to find that Izel was already waiting for him. His back was to Zogrusz as he leaned against the plinth of a half-carved statue of an Eldritch Horror, gazing out at the bloody dawn welling up from beneath the distant horizon. It was a rare treat that Izel would come up here so early, and Zogrusz found that he was affecting the very human quirk of smiling as he hurried over to greet the man.

But then he stopped, a coldness washing through him.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Izel’s consciousness should have been seeping out to stain their surroundings, but Zogrusz could feel nothing. And even if Izel was asleep on his feet, Zogrusz should have been able to see stuttering images from whatever dream he was experiencing. It was like . . . it was like he was dead.

Yet he very clearly was not.

A new emotion coalesced within Zogrusz, and he did not like at all what it made him feel.

Concern. He was afraid for his new friend.

“Izel,” he said, coming to stand beside the man. “Are you alright?”

The man turned to face him, the movement oddly slow and deliberate.

Zogrusz hissed in dismay. His eyes were gone . . . replaced by something else. Blackness filled the gaping sockets, but Zogrusz knew they were not truly empty. The dark had a substance; it was both unfathomably deep and as shallow as a rain puddle. It was familiar. He had stared into such a pit before, at the very edge of reality, far beyond the stars.

He was looking into the void itself.

“What are you?” he asked, and for the first time since he had left the place of his birth, Zogrusz felt true fear.

The thing inhabiting Izel did not smile or nod a greeting. Its expression remained slack, clearly ignorant of how humans acted, but Zogrusz could sense an intelligence watching him from the cold depths.

“The nectar flows, Sower. Squeezed from the flesh of ripening fruits, it dances on the tongue and quickens the essence. Such a delicious vintage. We are pleased.”

It was Izel’s voice, but distant, as if echoing up from within a very deep chasm.

“What did you call me? I am Zogrusz, not this . . . Sower.”

“A true name shared so freely. Foolish. This one left the creche too early, learned nothing.”

“And who are you?” Zogrusz asked, more harshly than he intended. He wanted to grab the shoulders of this creature and shake it, but he did not know what it could do to hurt Izel.

The void-thing continued staring at him blankly, unperturbed by his agitation. “We are a Reaper, almost finished our fifth cycle. This one traded his name freely, so we will do the same. Ycthitlig we are, but on our worlds we were known as the Crawling Dread. A long time since that was uttered.”

“Ycthitlig,” Zogrusz repeated, grimacing at the barbed strangeness of the name. “You are an Eldritch Horror.”

Its expression still did not waver, but Zogrusz felt something had changed in how the creature was regarding him. “Both Horrors, but not the same. This one Sows while we Reap. Once we also Sowed, but we finished our cycles and sank within our chrysalis. Larva to pupa we became, a step closer on the way to ascendance . . . but still so far away.” It seemed to be studying Zogrusz intently, the force of its attention making his skin prickle. “This one is second cycle. Only two times has this one’s abyss been filled, two times has he slept and woken. Unexpected, to find a world made so ripe by such a young Sower.”

“What do you mean, ripe?” Zogrusz asked, his apprehension rising.

“This world is ready for the Harvest.” The thing that had called itself Ycthitlig turned away from Zogrusz, staring once more out at the red dawn. “We are coming.”

Izel suddenly shuddered so violently that it was nearly a spasm. He swooned and might have fallen if Zogrusz’s hand had not flashed out to grab his shoulder. The man glanced at him with wide, terrified eyes . . . eyes that were once more the jade of the Pearl Sea.

“Napuatl,” he croaked. “My friend. What . . . what has happened? How did I get here?”

Zogrusz forced a smile he did not feel. “Izel. I think you must have walked in your sleep. I found you standing here when I arrived. How do you feel?”

Izel swallowed hard, kneading his temple with shaking fingers. “I . . . I have a headache. But I think if I lie down for a while I will feel better.”

“Go back to your bed,” Zogrusz urged. “Rest. Our dark lord does not need you today. If you feel well on the morrow come visit.”

Izel nodded. “Yes . . . yes. Sleep is what I need.” He attempted a wavering smile. “And hopefully when I wake I won’t find myself freezing up here again.”

“Take care,” Zogrusz said as Izel started to make his stumbling way down the scree-strewn slope.

Without turning around, the man waved a farewell, and so he did not see the concern creasing the face of the disguised Eldritch Horror.

***

Zogrusz attempted to work for a while on one of the steles scattered near the entrance, but he found that he couldn’t concentrate on his carving and so eventually he wandered once more into the mountain and returned to his cavern. His thoughts whirled as he dragged himself up the tiered steps of his ziggurat and flung himself down on his throne. He had shed his man-cloak, but he did not swell to his full size, as his true form no longer fit within the confines of his cavern. And so Zogrusz perched on the edge of his throne with his chin on his knuckles (mouth-tendrils twined around his forearm) and considered what had just happened.

Another Eldritch Horror had come to his world. Or had it? Ycthitlig had spoken to him through Izel, but Zogrusz suspected that his friend had merely been a conduit and that the physical form of the creature was still very far away.

We are coming.

The words chilled him. Ycthitlig – the true Ycthitlig – might right now be swimming through the dark, following whatever thin trickle had first turned his attention to this world.

A trickle that Zogrusz was very likely responsible for. Ycthitlig had called him a Sower. What else could he mean other than his actions here had manifested the dread that Eldritch Horrors fed upon? He had sowed the seeds that were now bearing fruit, the number of his worshippers growing across these lands. And Ycthitlig had claimed he was a Reaper. The term unsettled Zogrusz. One who reaped waded among crops and cut down what had grown. They plucked fruit from vines and crushed it into juice. They ripped up what was growing beneath the ground.

Zogrusz did not like those comparisons.

Ycthitlig had claimed that he had once sowed, and had spoken of experiencing many ‘cycles’. Zogrusz suspected that this referred to the long sleeps he found he could not resist after the hollowness inside him was finally filled. Each time he rested he awoke changed, larger and possessing new powers, but if Ycthitlig had spoken true then eventually he would transform into something else entirely. Larva to pupa. Sower to Reaper. Reaper to . . . Great Old One? Or were there more steps along the way?

Zogrusz shook his head, banishing this speculation for another time. What was important right now was when Ycthitlig would arrive and begin his reaping. He doubted that the Horror would have bothered with this . . . sending if its appearance was imminent. Hopefully, it was years away . . . decades . . . in truth, Zogrusz had no idea how long he had wandered the cosmos. Perhaps he had spent centuries searching for a suitable world on which to feed.

And what would happen when Ycthitlig came here and began his reaping? Would any shred of consciousness remain after? Or would this planet become as dull and lifeless as the countless other worlds Zogrusz had visited?

The thought appalled him. He remembered Amotla, with its soaring dome and mosaic-encrusted walls. The diligent craftsmen working for years to shape a block of stone into something beautiful. All that had been created would be rendered meaningless without anyone to appreciate it. And the people . . . Zogrusz thought of the innocent little princess in the garden. The kind fruitmonger. Wise Izel, who had lost and then found his will to live through Zogrusz’s words. Could he abandon everyone here to be reaped, simply set out again questing for another world among the stars with that spark of consciousness needed for him to feed? How many times had Ycthitlig ‘ripened’ a world before he finally transformed from a Sower into a Reaper? Had he once been like Zogrusz, worried about what would happen to the world he inhabited?

And there was something else . . .

Recently Zogrusz had again begun to feel full past the point of satiation. Bloated with the flood of worshipful dread the spread of his new religion had unleashed. What had Ycthitlig said? Something about an ‘abyss’ being filled, which led to the end of a ‘cycle’ and the growth of his size and powers? But should he sleep with this threat traveling to his world? Could he choose not to sleep? In the past, the compulsion had been overwhelming. And also, what could he do when the other, far stronger, more evolved Eldritch Horror finally arrived? Fight? Beg? Appeal to their sense of mercy?

Zogrusz’s head sank deeper into his hands. What was he going to do?