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The heart of Caliban became hot against her skin.
"Glenshadow!" the husky voice rasped. There was a siz-
zling sound, a ringing in the air, a massing of powers to
be unleashed. The figure on the mountain raised his staff
and vanished.
Puzzled, Kolanda Darkmoor withdrew the wrinkled
black thing from her brow and gazed at it. "What is it?"
she asked. "Why were you so... ah. Aha, I think I see.
He was one of them, wasn't he! One of those who killed
you?"
The husky voice no longer chortled. Now its whisper
breathed of deadly hatred. "She must hold me aloft now.
I will find him again. I will kill him."
Quickly, Kolanda lowered Caliban. She dropped the
thing back beneath her breastplate and smiled, a cruel
smile on a face that should have been beautiful. "I owe
you no favors, sorcerer," she said. "Our accounts are
square. Go back to sleep."
Caliban stirred for a moment between her breasts, and
then became still. She shuddered in revulsion as she al-
ways did. Years before, Kolanda had made her pact, a
pact between herself and the withered heart of an old
renegade wizard, hunted down by wizards of the various
orders. Caliban was a black-robe who had set himself be-
yond the bounds and had paid the price. But Caliban was
also a mage who even in death had somehow torn out his
own heart with his two hands, and willed his spirit into
it.
This was Caliban, and this was the pact between them
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