Chapter 1

The mountains of Tyrrick rise stark against the deep blue sky on the western edge of the continent. In those mountains is a cave, known to the superstitious locals as the Cave of Spirits. They say an ageless necromancer resides there, scion of a vanished people, and that any who enter the Cave of Spirits will never come out again, for he will drain them of life, and add theirs to his own.

Deep in the Cave of Spirits, a pair of small lamps burned, lighting the place where the natural rough rock changed into perfectly smooth stone, perfectly polished without a single join to be seen. More lamps lit the stone within, highlighting a long corridor, and then a main room, perfectly round with a flat stone floor and domed roof, with two hallways leading off. Brilliant light flashed out of the left, a short hallway linked to a small bedchamber.

The bedchamber held a single bed, certainly large enough for five or six people to sleep on. At the foot of it knelt a man before a heavy oaken box, pale-skinned and bare-chested, his head shaved except for a long flowing scalp-lock, silvered with age. He wore a pair of tight leather trousers that highlighted his well muscled legs and a sizable bulge at his crotch. His arms, as well defined as his legs, were held over the box, each hand holding an empty glass beaker. After a moment, the light subsided and he stood, no sign of age despite his silver hair.

He turned and walked to a nearby dresser, where a heavy book bound in leather sat. His dark brown eyes perused the page it was on as he set the beakers down beside several others. After a moment, he stepped back to the box, and pulled the lid down, then latched it. Timing for the next step was crucial. He stepped out into the hallway and turned slightly sideways, as though dodging somebody. He continued on as a dim form appeared behind him, female and nude, her breasts hanging down with the memory of gravity, her arms vanishing near the elbows and her body vanishing at the flare of her hips.

“Arakel,” the ghost said in a rich, sultry voice, “why do you always ignore me?”

Arakel continued to walk down the hall to the main room. “Why is it that when I begin my alchemical workings you vanish, Lim,” he countered.

Lim pouted, her generous lips drawing down. “Because if I stick around while you play with your potions, you might try and stick me in a bottle or something.”

Arakel sighed. Though she was a ghost, Lim held every bit of superstition as those who lived in the villages and towns beyond the mountains, believing that a necromancer like himself could simply steal a soul and force it into a material vessel. While he could tear a soul from a body if he wished, it was both difficult and impractical, since he didn’t know the spells needed to create a vessel to hold it. All he would accomplish would be to create more like Lim, annoying spirits who trailed after him and annoyed him.

“What are you doing back there in the bedroom Arakel,” Lim asked, pushing her breasts together with hands that were connected to nothing.

“If you would stay like I ask you too, you would likely know by now. As it is, you’ll need to wait until I work on it again,” he replied, walking through the main room and down a second hall until he came to a set of stairs. Wooden hooks protruded from the wall here, and Arakel peeled off his leather pants, revealing that the rest of his body was as hairless as his head. He put the pants on a peg, and then walked nude down the stairs into a room with a large sunken pool. Without hesitation Arakel dove in, swimming to the far end as Lim floated above him, idly kicking shins and feet that, like her hands, were not connected to the rest of her ghostly body. After a bit, bored of watching Arakel swim to and fro in the pool, Lim floated away, passing through the walls to travel straight through the rock and emerge into the dim evening light.

It was raining outside, a cold rain that could shock the dead awake, though the rain passed through Lim without her even feeling it. She often explored the mountains around the Cave of Spirits, usually when Arakel was working his alchemy. Despite what he said, she was certain he was going to stick her in a box, or jar, or something. She had never trusted mages when she was alive, and trusted them less now that she was dead.

She floated down along a nearby path, usually unused unless Arakel was going out and about, or some daring villagers came up to test their nerves in the cave. Since she had met up with him, almost five hundred years ago, nobody had gone more than a few steps into the cave. She thought it was rather boring, and often tried to lead some girls up the path, certain that Arakel could use some solid, but soft, company. However, most of them ran away, and one had even thrown herself off a cliff in an attempt to escape.