Melancholia smiled at him. “And yet, Cleric Craven, I do not trust in your judgement or your wisdom.”

The strength flowed from Craven’s legs, but by some miracle he remained upright.

“The Passage is an idea concocted by the small-minded,” Melancholia continued. “The great irony is that the sorcerers who fear death the most are the sorcerers who claim to understand it the fullest. The Necromancer Order is an Order of hypocrisy and fear and ignorance. You have no right to speak of death the way you do, because you so obviously cling to stale ideas of immortality. Truly, I feel sad for you.”

Craven felt the eyes of every Necromancer on him, but he couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry and his tongue was far too thick to form words.

“Which leaves me with a problem,” Melancholia said. “I have all this power, but nothing to do with it.”

“You must initiate the Passage,” Solus said. A shadow snaked up behind him and skewered him through the neck. He fell, gurgling blood. Melancholia didn’t even look round.

“The Passage will destroy the stream,” she said, “and I have no wish to banish death. All I want to do is share it with as many people as I can.”

Craven frowned. “What?”

“Once you experience it, you will understand. This is not something you can learn about in old books. It’s not something you can comprehend through philosophical debate. You need to become part of the stream. All of you.”

Craven backed away. “Us?”

“You. Everyone for miles around. Maybe even the whole country. And when this country is dead, I’ll move to the next. I’ll bring death to everyone. Then you’ll see how beautiful it really is.”

Craven was so scared that he was actually relieved when the door burst open and the Rippers stormed in.

Three Necromancers panicked so much they found themselves charging towards the sickle-wielding maniacs. Swift swishes of those long blades cut them down mid-step, with only one of them having the time to make a sound. Craven grabbed the White Cleaver, pushed him towards them.

“Save me!” he screeched. “Protect me!”

The White Cleaver needed no further instruction. He dived into their midst, his scythe flashing.

Craven stumbled back with Adrienna Shade, doing his best to keep her in front of him. Melancholia strode across the floor to them, smiling.

“Shall we depart?” she asked, her hands on their arms, and the shadows swirled around them and then they were in darkness and gloom, away from the sounds of fighting. They were down below, in the caves. Shade tore herself from Melancholia’s touch, turned and ran. Melancholia laughed and sent a shadow to slice through her back. Shade collapsed and Melancholia smiled at Craven. “You’re not going to run from me, are you?”

“No,” Craven managed to say.