Bernt watched from behind the temperature barrier that closed off his small stone shelter as fire rained from the sky, bathing the landscape in light from above and below. It was the second time Bernt witnessed this phenomenon, but the first time he had such a great view. Seeing the unnatural clouds approach, he’d climbed up the slope to his right as far as he could in the few minutes he had before shaping a small cave directly into the hillside. Now he sat looking out toward the south, where the previously uneven and occasionally craggy landscape gave way to an endless plain that spread that out below him, interrupted only by a series of sheer-walled buttes that had been marked on his map.

  The sight was breathtaking.

  Burning rain set the ground on fire all around, running down the slope in flickering golden rivulets to form puddles like burning oil in every hole and depression in the landscape. Unlike what one would normally expect, though, there was no smoke. There was fire everywhere, but nothing actually burned.

  The effect was surreal, somehow. The fire didn’t feel as threatening as it should, even though it had turned the world outside into an oven. It flickered and flowed through the landscape like water, illuminating the colorful landscape all around without destroying it.

  Of course that didn’t make it any less dangerous to Bernt.

  He’d survived a blast of hellfire that had killed everyone around him, but hadn’t really tested his own presumed fire resistance since then. His right hand, where his sorcerous investiture was, was entirely immune, of course – he could hold his own manaburn spell pooled in his palm without any discomfort. But the rest of him wasn’t like that. His torch spell felt as hot as ever when he held his other hand up to it, and it hurt when he didn’t move it right away. He’d even burned his tongue on some boiled peas the other night.

  He hadn’t kept experimenting after that. Bernt wasn’t going to risk seriously burning himself out here without proper medical attention. Sure, he had a few healing potions, but those wouldn’t work quickly, and they wouldn’t prevent scarring.

  Contemplatively, Bernt watched the torrent of burning rain lessen into a slower drizzle. It would clear up, soon, but the fires on the ground would light up the night for hours yet, until the puddles burned out, rising back up into the sky to form new yellowish clouds that would drift on only to fall again as rain somewhere else.

  Where too much rain gathered to evaporate quickly, burning ponds and lakes would form that might persist for days or weeks. Some – those marked out on his map as landmarks, never fully disappeared.

  Using his right hand, Bernt reached out past the temperature barrier that kept him safe in his shelter and retrieved his pot. The water inside had boiled low and the beans were done. He dumped a biscuit into the mess to soften up as it cooled and pulled out his notes.

  He’d performed a lot of experiments over the past several days – mostly eating whatever looked like it wouldn’t burn him from the inside. So far, he had nothing to show for it, except for a lost afternoon two days ago when a berry from a perpetually burning bush had laid him out with stomach cramps and... other side effects for hours.

  He'd resolved to be more careful after that, but there wasn’t much he could do short of simply stopping. So, he’d continued. Going by his notes, he’d tried four kinds of herbs and grasses, two different berries, two kinds of bark, three types of roots and a singular insect – a cricket. That last one had been especially nasty.

  Despite the variety, nothing had had any effect, magically speaking. Bernt was certain that he’d be able to feel any kind of transfer of mana or magical potential, but nothing of the sort had happened. He’d spent nearly every night poring over his notes, trying to work out whether he was missing something.

  If animals could do this, why couldn’t he?

  The savage Mirian sorcerers he’d read about supposedly grew their sorcerous potential over time – the travelogue of Finnerixes hadn’t specified exactly how they did that, but it at least suggested that it could be done. It did say that they ate the hearts of faerie creatures to gain access to the power in the first place. It was supposed to create a sort of central core that the network grew out of.

  Did they eat magical materials to grow, too? Bernt stared down at his pot of cooling beans, considering. What if…

  Oh, shit.

  Flipping through the loose pages, Bernt dug out the rudimentary copy that he’d made of the sorcerous ant’s mana network days ago. When he’d drawn it out, he’d been concentrating so much on the tiny glyphs and runes that he hadn’t really paid attention to the overall shape of the network. It hadn’t seemed that important. But, now that he was looking for it, there was an oddity there. As far as he’d been able to tell, the creature’s sorcery was concentrated around its mandibles – at least, that was what it had used to set fire to his boot. So, why did it have such a dense cluster of channels in the back, at its fat little butt end?

  Bernt didn’t really know anything about ant anatomy, but he was willing to bet that the creature’s stomach was back there somewhere. It would make sense, right?

  Of course, it was only a guess. He’d have to capture a more familiar kind of animal from here and try to map its sorcerous mana network to confirm his suspicion. If he was right, though, he was going to have a problem. The sorcerous portion of his mana network didn’t come anywhere near his stomach, digestive tract, or even his mouth – it stopped at his shoulder. For that matter, his normal mana network wasn’t intertwined with his organs at all – the parts that weren’t shaped into investitures just ran through his limbs and torso in smooth loops. Even if he were willing to convert more of his existing mana network, he probably wouldn’t be able to mimic the effect.

  Defeated, Bernt sat back and sighed. If he was right, then he couldn't grow his sorcerous mana network organically at all.

  He wished he could talk to Pollock – the old man usually didn’t have answers, but he had a way of asking just the right questions. Now, he was back to trying to find a good bridging material to complete his augmentation. But that had been his original plan all along, he reminded himself. The best case scenario, even. But… he still felt disappointed. It had felt like an important fallback option.

  Now, he had to find a suitable bridging material to unite his investitures. If he didn’t, he’d go back to Halfbridge empty handed and with no clear way forward. Sure, he could probably create an augmentation separate from the sorcerous portion of his spirit – but without a way to develop his sorcery further, his discovery would be seen as something mediocre. Burnt-out mages might still use it to repair damage to their spirits, but they would likely stall afterward. There would be no hybrid “arch-sorcerers”.

  Not if he didn’t figure this out.

  Until that moment, Bernt hadn’t even fully acknowledged that he held these ambitions for himself, or for those his discovery would help. He’d toyed with the idea, sure. Had even planned for it. How incredible would it be to be the first of an entire new kind of spellcaster? Not a freak accident, or a less effective mage, but a new order with its own unique potential? Still, he’d mostly just thought of it as just an option.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He didn't know when it had started to feel real to him. But here, looking at the prospect of failure, he found that he couldn’t let it go. He needed to talk to someone who could help. Someone who understood sorcery and spirits on a deeper level, who might know what he needed, or maybe how to work around this.

  Someone, or something.

  Bernt flipped to his map and eyed the spots marked on it. If he were a powerful, fully sapient fire elemental, where would he go?

  It was time to see if Xul’evareg’s advice was worth anything.

  ***

  Jori watched as a freezing mist flowed out from nowhere, congealing into a roiling mass just above the ground and causing ice crystals to form over the smooth surface below. The entire area around the confluence here had been turned to glass well before they arrived. That was inevitable if Roaznis and her thralls had been summoned from and returned here repeatedly, and the fighting since had only smoothed it further.

  The returning demon congealed out of the mist as it subsided, leaving behind… more mist? It was a glowing wisp of mist, though as she looked closer, she thought she could make out tiny limbs inside. Was this what the weak demons from the fourth hell looked like?

  Xoryath summoned a bit of hellfire to burn the thing, but Jori stopped her with a wave of her hand, as she did every time. All of the demons so far had tried to run or fight, and two had even managed to escape, but she wasn’t just here to kill all of Roaznis’ former thralls. No, she wanted to recruit.

  “Stop!” Jori snapped at the little thing as she approached. It wasn’t moving, but it never hurt to be clear. She pointed over to the side, where the mostly burnt remains of the hag lay. “Your mistress is dead. Your obligation to the hierarchy of Varamemnon is broken.”

  The little wisp floated backward in the air a little bit and its head shifted, looking around. It stopped when it saw the spot nearby where freezing mist leaked into the third hell from the fourth. Jori let it, waiting for it to say something. A confluence wasn’t a portal – it was just a spot where two planes touched. Powerful demons could tear a passage through, but something as weak as this thing would be stuck on this side. It wasn’t going to get away – not unless it was a lot faster than it looked.

  “I want to go home,” the thing squeaked. “I don’t like it here!”

  Jori nodded, humming in agreement. She could understand that – she wanted to go home, too.

  “And what tore you away from your home? The ‘great ones’ kill us, and force us to serve,” she began her pitch energetically. “They keep us weak and set us against each other to win barren, dead land for them. They hoard the souls we need to grow and consume them while we die!”

  The wisp was still, now, staring at her curiously.

  “Ummm. What?” it asked, hesitantly.

  She’d gotten this far before, but they usually tried to run at this point. They wouldn’t be familiar with the idea of a revolutionary, but they could recognize a high-risk proposition when they heard it. This one, though. Well, it was tiny and obviously terrified. But, it didn’t run. It knew there was nowhere to go.

  It was just a guess, but the way it cringed, looking for an escape while trying to appear compliant felt… familiar to her. This was a kindred spirit, of a sort. Jori didn’t know how things worked in the fourth hell, but she guessed that she was looking at whatever passed for the very bottom of their food chain – those who served the same function as imps in the third.

  What was a little more risk, when you were doomed to die from the moment you were born?

  "I can’t send you through there, to send you back to wherever you came from,” she said, pointing toward the mist. “But I can keep you safe, and I can help you grow. Join me, and I will share my souls with you and reveal secrets of magic that the great ones hide from us!”

  Jori pointed first at Xoryath, then Maladzhoth and Faedris. “Look at my cousins. We have the hellfire that is our birthright, and the others will catch up, soon. Join us, and you will grow, too!” She didn't know what a little mist thing would grow into, but she was certain that she wanted to find out.

  The little wisp flitted up to her, and a cold breath of wind washed over her as it stopped. It swiped an ethereal hand through its own substance and held it out, a small point of blueish light concentrated on its tiny finger.

  “By these terms, I will serve,” its little voice came, suddenly intense. “Swear it!”

  Jori looked at the tiny demon for a moment, confused. She hadn’t really meant it to be anything this formal – her cousins had taken her at her word. To be fair, though, she supposed that was unusual. It meant that they weren’t obligated to her, and could leave or betray her at any time without necessarily offending anyone. This was more than even a simple oath of service. No, the little thing was trying to form a pact. She’d never bound a demon into service before, but if that was what it wanted…

  The imp pricked a claw into the back of her left hand and quickly touched it to the wisp’s “blood”. The substance would carry a measure of their contractual intent, and assuming that they were in true accord, would bind them to it. She’d never actually done this sort of thing before.

  Almost instantly, the two substances melted together and expanded. Jori flinched back, surprised, but the wisp just watched. Between them hung a small circle of familiar symbols, one that she could read instinctively. It was a description of the nature of their relationship. The wisp would serve Jori and her interests and in exchange, Jori would provide the wisp with the souls it needed to grow as soon as she could practically arrange it. There were other details, but she didn't bother reading all the symbols. It was just a reflection of their mutual intent. They knew the rules.

  The contract dissipated into the air, but Jori could feel a weight settle inside her, sinking into her very bones. It was a strange feeling, but it was done. This was normal, right? Demons did this sort of thing all the time.

  “So… what’s your name?” she asked.

  The wisp spun in a loose circle before coming over and settling on Jori’s shoulder, just above her wing. She was icy cold.

  “My name is Lidis, great one.”

  Jori blinked at the honorific. She’d just been railing against the “great ones”. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maladzhoth smirk. He’d noticed the irony.

  Annoyed, she cleared her throat and addressed the little creature again. “The mortals that you hunted are our friends – do you know what happened to them? Are they alive? How many of them are there?” She'd instructed one of her imps to try to return to his duties chasing Bernt and his friends if he was summoned. He'd been gone for a week now, but she hadn't heard back. She wouldn't until he was killed on the mortal plane at the earliest. The fact the he wasn't back was a good sign – he would have self-deported if either the Duergar or the demons tried to force him into a new pact. But it seemed that no one remembered that he had only been bound to service through Tallash, who was dead.

  “Ehm… friends?” the wispy creature sounded confused. “They are nine, in the main group, but… none will survive. Zijeregh hunts the slippery mortal warlock for Nuros, somewhere, but she will come for them all, when she is done. Maybe even the mortal masters will crawl from their holes to wet their swords.”

  Jori twitched at that name. “Zijeregh? The whisperer is there?” She would have to warn Bernt. He needed to know. She paced back and forth over the even, glassy ground, grinding her teeth. How could Bernt fight mind magic by himself – especially from a powerful demon like that? He hadn’t even been able to defend himself against a kobold sorcerer a few months ago. If he knew, then maybe… but he didn’t know, did he?

  She would just have to wait until he contacted her, and hope that it wasn’t too late. She'd talk to the others, see if they could think of a good strategy. Besides, they didn't have to sit still, here. If Zijeregh was going to fight, then they needed to be prepared to take advantage if she lost. She turned to Lidis, eyes glowing red.

  “Do you know where Zijeregh was on this side – in the hells?”