At first the figure was just a silhouette on the horizon. Briefly, Slyn thought the druid was returning, and he tilted his head. But no. This was no man. A darkness clung to the figure, and a chill blasted forth. Frost coated the henge stones and Slyn's blade, and icy fingers seemed to invade him, clutching at his bones, tugging at his veins. His horse neighed beneath him and sidestepped, its fur freezing.

Slyn growled and sucked in a breath. He stared forward, eyes narrowed.

The figure was walking through the devastation, making a beeline to the henge, unperturbed by the surrounding Widejaw warriors. Black smoke enveloped the creature, sending out creeping tendrils. Widejaws hissed and stared, daring not attack. Some stepped back in fear, crying of evil spirits. Others knelt.

"A demon," Slyn hissed. His horse bucked beneath him.

As the creature drew nearer, Slyn gritted his teeth and growled. He had seen beasts before—the great mammoths of the west, the fetid rocs of the Goldtusk tribe, and even a dragon in the distance—but he had never seen a creature this foul. The demon approaching him had the torso and head of a man. The chest was muscular, the head bald, the face hard. The limbs, however, were things of nightmares. One arm was a dripping, twisting tentacle lined with suckers. The other arm was a great, clacking lobster claw. One leg was furred and dank, ending with a hoof. The other was the leg of a bird, ending with a sharp talon.

The demon climbed the hill, his hoof and talon leaving smoking, seared footprints in the grass. The runes upon the henge stones bled, the crimson droplets running down the rock. The iciness left Slyn and now heat bathed him. Sweat soaked him. His hair crackled upon his head, and his armor grew so hot his skin sizzled. Across the hills and valleys below, men knelt and bowed and cried out to the demon.

Slyn refused to bow, refused to flee. His muscles tensed and his veins bulged. He opened his jaw wide, baring all his teeth at the creature.

"I am Slyn, son of Heshok, chieftain of Widejaw." He sneered, holding his sword high. "Name yourself, demon."

The visitor regarded him. His face was calm—the weathered, scarred face of a mortal man, perhaps fifty years of age. The eyes were pale green. Mad eyes. Eyes burning with deep, demonic flame. The stranger tilted his head.

"You burn a village of barbarians." The demon looked around him, lips pursed. "Grass-roofed huts. A few goats. I think I saw the body of an old man holding a stone-tipped spear." He turned back toward Slyn, and his eyes narrowed. "You are the great Widejaw warriors the north speaks of in awe, and you fight humble shepherds and gatherers of berries?"

Slyn took a step closer to the demon, sword raised. The stench of sulfur, burning hair, and worms blasted his nostrils.