The cliffs of Toren were high, black and dangerous. During storms the sea flung itself against the rock wall as if determined to batter it down. Even on quiet nights the water appeared to resent the presence of the natural barrier, foaming where it touched rock. But if this war between land and water was leading to a victory, it was coming too slowly for mortal eyes to guess the winner.

In the distant past, many watercraft had become casualties of this battle. The black cliffs were difficult to see most nights and were a hidden peril if the moon was obscured by cloud. More than a thousand years ago, when the lighthouse had been built, the shipwrecks had stopped.

Made from the same rock as the cliff wall it topped, the round stone walls of the tower were resisting time and weather. The wooden interior, however, had succumbed to rot and neglect long ago, leaving only a narrow stone stair curving up the inside of the wall. At the top was a room floored with a huge circular slab of rock through which a hole had been carved. The walls built upon this slab had suffered worse; only the arches still remained. The roof had fallen away years ago.

Once the center of the room had been occupied by a floating ball of light so bright that it would blind anyone foolish enough to stare at it for more than a few moments. Sorcerers had maintained it, keeping the sea safe for centuries.

Emerahl, wise woman and sorceress, was the only human visitor to that room these days. Years ago, when clearing some of the rubble that filled the hollow structure, she had found one of the masks those long-dead sorcerers had worn. The eyeholes were filled with dark gems to filter the dazzling light they had fed with magic.

Now the lighthouse stood crumbling and unused and ships must judge the passage past the black cliffs without its help. As Emerahl reached the topmost room she paused to catch her breath. Placing a wrinkled hand on the column of an arch, she looked out at the sea. Tiny specks of light drew her eye. Ships always waited until daylight before navigating the passage between the cliffs and the islands.

Do they know this place exists? she wondered. Do people still tell stories of the light that burned here? She snorted softly. If they do, I doubt they know it was built by a sorcerer at the bidding of Tempre, the fire god. They probably don’t even remember Tempre’s name. It’s only a few centuries since he died, but that’s plenty of time for mortals to forget what life was like before the War of the Gods.