“Hear me, O Goddess! What must I do?”

There was no response, no sound at all except for the crackling of leaves in a censer on the altar. The aromatic smoke that poured from the silver burner swirled through the ancient shrine and coiled around Zyrella Anthari, the last true priestess of the White Tigress.

Zyrella's knees ached from hours spent on the flagstones. She had begun her ritual upon arriving with her templars but still had no answer to the dream that had led her here.

Zyrella lifted her hands towards the statue of her goddess. She called on the Tigress again, desperately now. Sparks began to dance in the amethyst channeling stone that hung around her neck. Only through these rare gems could one convert willpower into magical force. Intuitively, she knew now what she must do. Unbidden dreams and unexplained urges—this was all she had ever had to guide her. It would have to be enough this time as well.

With a gesture and a few arcane words, Zyrella activated the spell that allowed her to see into the Shadowland. Her azure eyes turned milky white as she gazed intently into the smoke, her mind focused on the White Tigress.

She expected to see a vision that would give her instructions for a ritual that could free the goddess from bondage. Instead, her spell uncloaked an enemy spying on her through the Shadowland.

The man wore the rust-colored garb of a palymfar assassin, and at his neck was a jet qavra stone pulsing with malefic energy. His mask was lowered, revealing a scowling, hawk-like face and amber eyes lit by zealous fire. Zyrella had never seen him before, but everyone knew the Slayer.

Her muscles tensed. Her heart pounded. If he could observe her in this way, then he was near, no more than a few hours away.

Zyrella ceased chanting and clutched her own channeling stone. The energies she had summoned slipped away but the vision didn’t end. Neither did she dismiss it. She fixated on this assassin as a soldier might stare at his own severed hand, or a mother at a stillborn child.

She stared at Jaska Bavadi, more commonly known as the Slayer.

Minutes passed, and through that time Zyrella experienced the pain of a broken heart and the joy of a lover’s touch upon her breast, grief that only death could bring and the contentedness of feasting with loved ones. But most of all, she experienced fear. For this man drew her as a moth to flame, and this strange and unexpected attraction frightened her more than the deaths his arrival would bring.

Heart pounding, body trembling, Zyrella harnessed that fear, and though it felt as if she were tearing away part of her soul, she dismissed the image. Then she buried her face within her hands and fought backs tears of frustration.

Her templar guards could handle a half-dozen palymfar, but not the right hand of Grandmaster Salahn. She couldn't guess how Salahn had known to send Jaska here, but she wasn't surprised. For years, she had hidden from Salahn, biding time for a day when his powers would wane. She now knew that day would never arrive. Unless she stopped him before sunset, he would absorb the life force of the White Tigress and become immortal and invincible.

“I will not fail,” she muttered, refusing to remain discouraged. “I cannot fail. Not after all these years.”

Zyrella breathed through a series of calming meditations and cleared her mind. She chanted and peered into the smoke again. This time, she directed the magic with more care, concentrating on her spirit-link to the White Tigress, who was imprisoned by Salahn inside a remote pocket of the Shadowland. The bond that would normally be hers by right as a high priestess had only formed recently, despite the magical barriers set by Salahn, during the prophetic dream that had led Zyrella here, through parched scrublands, to desolate Mount Barqeshal.

This time Jaska Bavadi didn't appear.

Zyrella fell into a deep trance, learning every nuance of the complex ritual she needed. When she finished, she cleansed her hands with holy water and doused the smoldering leaves. She drank one swallow and splashed the remainder into her dry, stinging eyes. Then she walked outside and joined her templar captain and faithful companion of twenty years.

* * *

Dressed in a chainmail hauberk overlaid by a travel-stained, white burnoose, Ohzikar Sanwared stood guard between a pair of cracked columns that supported the decaying roof of the shrine's entrance. In his memory the place had shone with purity. Now returning two decades later, he found it just a ruin.

For the last two hours, Ohzikar had looked out across the wide vista of jagged hills and scrub plains, worrying about the storm clouds gathering along the horizon. Except during spring, rain rarely fell in Hareez. However, occasional storms plagued hot summer days like this. Such a storm could be torrential, and it could cover the approach of assassins.

Zyrella took his arm, and they walked through the remainder of the shrine's courtyard. Over the centuries, most of it had crumbled into the river canyon below. In the space that yet remained grew a dozen lethargic shrubs, two stunted trees, and several trails of limp vines. It was no longer the lush garden in which they had played together as children.

The deep lines of Ohzikar's contemplative face eased into a strained smile. “Well, how did it go? Can you free her?”

"I saw what I must do. The goddess has conserved all her energy, waiting for this moment when Salahn is most vulnerable, but I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to help her."

Frowning, he brushed bits of ash from the limp strands of her ebony hair. Worry and fatigue, even an aura of hopelessness, weighted her features. He'd never seen her like this before.

"There’s something more that’s bothering you. Tell me."

"The Slayer is coming for us. I caught him spying on me from the Shadowland, so he can’t be far away."

Ohzikar blanched and his jaws quivered, but then he stood erect and clenched his teeth. "Bavadi is only one man. We can stop him. At the least, I will delay him long enough."

"There may be others with him, Ohzi. I don't want to lose you."

Ohzikar took her into his arms. "Do not fear. Trust in my strength." He stroked the back of her neck. "Ever since we were children, we knew this day must come. We have trained and endured many hardships. We are ready. This is our destiny, and our goddess needs us."

Zyrella brightened, if only a little. "I would be lost without you, Ohzi." She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "I must prepare now."

Ohzikar escorted Zyrella to the shrine entrance. Halfway to the altar, she let slip her robe. The silk slid from her smoothly muscled, olive skin like a cloud through thin mountain air. For some moments, Ohzikar admired her. Then he sighed and marched off to prepare his templars for Jaska's arrival.

* * *

Four palymfar advanced along a rugged trail that twisted up Mount Barqeshal. The warrior-assassins wore their traditional rust-colored burnooses with deep hoods and saffron veils over an umber bodysuit reinforced with studded leather and padded cotton. The colors allowed them to blend with the deserts and mountains of Hareez. Each man also wore around his neck the signature palymfar device: a leather choker bearing in the center a jet qavra stone.

Jaska Bavadi lifted a hand and the group paused. His men wiped the grit from their eyes. Jaska blinked hard once and looked around. The sun was dipping behind the mountain while storm clouds loomed in the east, growing ever stronger. It was going to be a rough night. A grim smile flashed across his face.

His second, a towering man named Kasap, stepped up beside him. “Will we make it in time, master?”

“We will get there before the Grandmaster begins the final stage of his ritual. It is the best we can do.”

“Do you really think she could stop the ritual?”

The witch had proven capable of avoiding them for a decade, despite their best efforts. And no one else had ever successfully evaded Jaska. With his jaw clenched, he hissed, “Yes, I do.”

Grandmaster Salahn believed Zyrella unable to interfere, but for months, the preparations needed to bind the demonic White Tigress had consumed his attention. A dream had convinced Jaska otherwise. A disturbing dream of striped fur and olive skin, of whispered messages in a language he couldn’t speak. But in the dream he had understood one thing quite clearly: Zyrella had arrived at the abandoned shrine on Mount Barqeshal, determined to stop Grandmaster Salahn. Jaska had immediately abandoned a mission in progress and set out with the five warriors accompanying him.

“Come, Kasap, we’re close enough now to scry the enemy’s position.”

He led the five warriors accompanying him behind a large outcrop where they could work in hiding. Jaska said to them, "Link your qavra with mine and concentrate on the temple."

"What should we look for, master?" Kasap asked.

"Nothing. Simply hold the connection. I will observe the enemy alone. The witch is sure to have scrying wards set up and one individual backed by greater power is more likely to break through unnoticed."

Jaska dropped into a meditative state and opened his inner sight. Shadow tendrils snaked from the others' qavra to Jaska's larger stone. Jaska's eyes clouded as he projected his spirit into the murky Shadowland that draped reality like a burial shroud. In that between-realm, he raced ahead to the shrine.

Inside he discovered Zyrella kneeling at an altar and peering into a cloud of smoke. Her olive skin and raven hair shone in the sunlight streaming through cracks in the ruined temple’s roof. He had never seen her before, but he recognized her aura through a talent given to him by Salahn.

A sudden attraction toward her sent chills down his spine. Jaska shook his head, trying to regain his focus. He would not fall prey to her enchantments. Unexpectedly, she peeled away his scrying cloak and their eyes met. It felt as if their souls touched and he could do nothing but stare at her, helplessly.

Abruptly the connection severed. Jaska retreated to his body, deeply disturbed by her presence. Body and mind, he burned with a passion that left him feeling spent, as if they had already made love.

Finished with the ritual, his men walked around and stretched. Jaska started to join them, hoping to dispel the lingering effects of the witch's sorcery. But as the scene raced through his mind, he cursed to himself. Zyrella had distracted him from an important detail, one he now pictured as an afterimage: the statue of the White Tigress standing complete. Years ago he had visited this shrine and had seen the statue toppled and broken into pieces. Now it was whole again.

"Master, what's wrong?" Kasap asked.

Looking at Kasap and the others, all recently students of his, a brief worry flashed through his mind. These young men were not experienced enough for anything like this. But this was all he had to work with. There was no other choice.

"Great forces are working against us, and the witch is far more powerful than I thought. Come, we must hurry."

* * *

Zyrella knelt on a cushion before the altar and arranged the elements she needed: incense and fresh leaves in the burner, more holy water, and henna for drawing diagrams upon the altar and wide tiger stripes on her body. She deepened her breath and gazed up at the form of her goddess: a marble statue of a large mountain tigress with curving, black marble stripes fused into the white.

An identical statue stood in the Grand Temple of the White Tigress in Kabulsek. This one, however, was greater in power. Though this original shrine had waned in prestige, it yet held more power than Salahn knew. A high priestess could tap this power through secret rites, and Zyrella now knew those rites.

Long ago the White Tigress had stalked these barren foothills of the Wedawed Mountains as an ordinary albino tiger until the great deity Kashomae lifted her to godhood on this very spot. But like all the other lesser deities in Hareez, the Tigress had fallen to Grandmaster Salahn who trapped them in the Shadowland and leached their spirits to increase his power. The White Tigress was the key component in his quest to become a god because he needed to absorb the spirit of another entity who had made the same transition.

Thunder boomed in the distance, and a warm breeze whipped hair into Zyrella's face. Sparks scintillated within the amethyst qavra that dangled between her breasts on a golden chain. As her senses sharpened, she heard the faint resonance of screams uttered years ago when the palymfar had attacked the shrine. Her grandmother and two aging templars had led Zyrella, Ohzikar, and the other children to safety.

Today those distant echoes stoked Zyrella's desire for vengeance. Picturing lost family and friends, she desperately channeled this emotional force into the ritual, hoping it would give her strength enough to free the White Tigress.

* * *

The Gasrah River cut a canyon through the foothills beneath Mount Barqeshal and wound through the lowland scrub. Gusts of wind brought the rich scent of the stirred loam along its verdant riverbanks all the way up to the mount's summit. Dark clouds and a rushing wave of rain followed. Rivulets formed in the dry dust, swept around the jagged rocks, and poured from the mountain. Within minutes, the Gasrah swelled to twice its normal size.

As best as he could in night and storm, Uurta Kalara scanned the terrain as he scratched through his beard. Having drawn the longest straw, he stood sentry along the path going up the mountain, just out of sight from the shrine. Every sixty-count each called out to signal that all was clear.

The unwelcome rain slid from the oiled cloak Uurta had donned over his burnoose. Often the wind sprayed this runoff into his face. He couldn’t wait until his turn was up. He was suffering from a cold and felt miserable. He was getting too old for this and had already lost his edge. He had considered retiring, but like the others, he had forfeited a peaceful life when he vowed to serve the White Tigress and avenge his murdered family.

Something moved within the shadow of an outcrop. Chills ran across Uurta's skin. His hand fell to his sword hilt. His orders were to sound the alarm as soon as he even thought he spotted an enemy. But he delayed, not wanting to look like a frightened fool, as he had a month ago when he had nearly beheaded a washerwoman who caught him by surprise.

Suddenly, a mesmerizing voice whispered through the rain. "You cannot move, and you will do nothing to resist me."

Uurta stood dumbstruck as the rust-red shadow of Jaska the Slayer closed on him. He called on his training but couldn't break free of Jaska's mind control. His only peace was in knowing that when he didn't call out in turn, the others would be alerted. Thunder struck and lightning illuminated murderous eyes as the steel claws of the Slayer's bagh nakh tore through Uurta's throat.

* * *

Jaska placed his left hand over the dying templar's throat and chanted a spell before dumping the body into the canyon. In the back of his mind, he began counting. It was a technique all palymfar mastered, that they could count even while talking, sneaking, or fighting. Only spell casting could disrupt his counting.

His students rushed past him and moved into their attack positions, following a narrow trail he’d spotted when scrying, a trail their enemy apparently didn’t know about, or had forgotten. Most of these templars had probably been children when the temple was destroyed.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine… "Uurta Kalara!” yelled Jaska using the voice he’d stolen from the templar. “All's clear!"

Jaska did not follow his men. Instead, he took a different, more difficult route. Using a spell of darksight, which allowed him to see through the night’s veil as if it were early twilight, Jaska scurried over boulders and talus with ease.

On the backside of the shrine's courtyard, he reached a sheer rise the height of three men. Jaska spoke another spell. The magic crawled down through the tendons and muscles of his legs. Once he felt the muscles tighten until it felt like they might burst, he knew the spell was ready.

He leapt up and caught the ledge.

Quickly, he glanced into the sparse courtyard. To his left, twenty yards from the shrine, the mountain's flattened summit fell into the Gasrah River Canyon. To his right the shrine melded into the surrounding rock. Opposite him, a gap in the crumbling defensive wall marked the location of the former gate.

Two templars paced the cliff edges, but currently, neither patrolled close by. The remainder waited in the courtyard's center. Within the shrine, the priestess chanted her profane rituals. He didn’t see the templars’ captain anywhere. A sixty-count passed with no reply from Uurta and the templars stiffened.

Suddenly an arrow whistled on the wind then punctured a templar's eye. The victim writhed and moaned as he died. A second arrow thunked against a readied shield as the templars took defensive positions.

Kasap and his brothers Denar and Tebyn charged through the gap and crashed into the nearest templars. Kasap swung a battle-axe in sinister arcs while Denar and Tebyn slashed with their sabers and tiger claws. The templars recoiled in surprise.

After a few moments, the three palymfar retreated, as if they were overwhelmed, drawing the templars along with them.

When the two patrolling templars rushed to join the others, Jaska climbed up into the courtyard. Blended with shadows and rain, he passed unseen and entered the shrine.

A short hallway opened into a torch-lit sanctuary thick with the dizzying smoke of burning leaves and incense. Jaska's breath caught in his throat. On the dais stood the pristine statue of the White Tigress. At the altar below knelt the priestess Zyrella. Her pale, naked flesh bore painted tiger-stripes that trailed from her onto the floor and up the dais to the statue.

Though he needed to kill Zyrella swiftly, Jaska eased forward with lethargy. Already her presence was mesmerizing him. But he willed himself on, knowing he must strike before she turned this strange force directly against him.