When Itzil had thought about the stronghold of a demesian necromancer, she had dreamt of a forlorn, spiked and twisted tower, heavy with the skeletons of extinct species twisted into barely animate gargoyles, whose tormented souls where forced to sing the praise of their lords, the only mark of cold beauty in a withered land ravaged by the profane arts. Inside, half-rotten, twisted slaves filled its galleries as they presented exquisite art and delicacies, the perversion and subjugation of life turned to a master's craft. The bones of long dead thralls and the preserved husks of favorite concubines danced for the delight of sadistic masters who could only see their ledgers and the divide between profit and loss.

  Besides the lively village and the woods at its bottom, the tower itself also failed to life up to its myths. Plumb, almost small, heavy and a little barebones; Certainly a suitable place to survey and hold, but nothing beyond a fortification. Still, as the sun disappeared into the east and some of the silent peasants joined them on the walk up, Itzil got an inkling that there still was a little truth to the myths of her people.

  As one of them came close to her, she pulled back the hood- and revealed a skull to which a bronze mask was attached.

  “So, that is your price for their education and peaceful.” She stated as she inspected the adornment.

  “I don’t like to see it as a price.”

  “Of course not.” Itzil grunted.

  Xunathos remained calm. “I only take those who volunteer. No lone necromancer can gather an army of the dead. There simply is not enough magic in this world for that. The dead rise easy, it is true. But they are less easily bound.”

  “And the people just let you use their bones like that?”

  “Of course. Why not? Their souls are devoured by the Lady of Death upon their judgment. What business do they still have with their bones? This way, they’ll help and protect their families for longer. For the people here, this is not slavery. This is a heroic legacy to strive for.”

  Itzil snorted with apprehension. “Itzil certainly forbids you the use of her bones.” Xunathos laughed. “For one, I got a waiting list. Other glamor for this honor and I can only train so many apprentices to take over for me at a given time. But for the other, you are a stranger here. My noble obligation is to the people. If you were to die and I'd have need of your corpse, you’d be raised. And no one would object.”

  The creature's yellow eye glinted. “She will not fall here, let this be assured. The Darkness has assured her this.” The wizard, by now at the gates of his domain, pushed the door open. “Do not worry. I doubt danger is coming to this valley. But I did my utmost to prepare and I hope this makes you see what cruelties i need and which would impede me.”

  The drake laughed, flat and dry. “Amusing. When we met, it was Itzil that had to put you at ease.”

  He chuckled. “Indeed. But come in now, won’t you? The wards diffuse with opened doors and the dead need kenneling.” They stepped inside and the wizard lit the spell-light again. The lower level was unfurnished, kept in the same sparse, militaristic design- undead guards patrolled it, with crossbows and armor of the antique demesian style. Curved helmets that covered the entire head, with even the slits plastered over and simple breastplates of the same make. “Panoplies” Xunathos called them. "Homemade."

  The barricades, pressure plates and spells inside the otherwise empty ground floor gave strength to the Necromancer’s words. He did not rest easy. On the end of the corridor the siege defenses left for them two hatches, one in the ceiling, one to their feet. Itzil flicked her tongue. Upwards, it smelled like books and incense, downwards, where Xunathos led her, decay and strange, biting odors wafted up. Xunathos led her downward, where the way parted soon enough. One path led to a hatch with a ladder, which the skeletons and descended. The last one pushed the wooden construction up and Xunathos reeled it in.

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  The sorcerer then led Itzil along the other way and through a heavy stone door, where a great gathering of racks, bizarre alchemic glass and metal tubes, jars, cylinders, jugs, distillation pots and more stretched out before them. Colorful potions, sorted with labels in the demesian tongue, were stashed away in the alcoves, while several alchemical tubes, mortars and burners lay in wait on wooden tables.

  Some of the draughts, who swirled with dark and metallic colors, had the crude image of animals on them, others Itzil recognized as droughts of healing by their signs and blue hue, an additive to the mixture to signal their function. “Careful with the tail.” the wizard warned. “From flesh dissolution to transformation, I got most here and not all I got an antidote for. Some of them i don't even know what they'll do.”

  “Flesh dissolution potions? Itzil wonders why you would need that in your peaceful village.”

  “You want rotten undead flesh on your beets?”

  "Itzil does not eat those. Her hunger is for warm, squirming flesh."

  To the left was a long wooden grate that looked down onto the skeletons, who each, like obedient prisoners, had taken their own cell. The necromancer began to intone- gently, as if it was a lullaby. One by one, the skeleton’s figures collapsed onto themselves, clattering. "Till tomorrow, friends." He smiled whistfully and relaxed. “When the controll spell ends and they aren’t disassembled, hell breaks loose.” He added and turned around, walking for the end of the chamber and signaled Itzil to follow. He rummaged through a storage board while the guest inspected her environment, careful not to touch anything, no matter how harmless it seemed.

  “You know not whal all do. Haven’t you brewed them?”

  “Not all. Some I found on adventures. I keep them around to analyze, maybe recreate them. As you can see, that takes a fine while.”

  Itzil eyed the liquids, distrustfuly. In her home, the things that glittered in beautiful colours did so either as warning or to plead for the loins of a woman. “Strange gems to collect; no good luster, no hardiness, they don’t last and you can’t touch them. Do you taste them from time to time, at least?”

  “Magic mustn't be used frivolously - I only use them when there is a need for it.”

  “Bah, humans and your little maxims.” Itzil crossed her trunk-like arms in front of the flat chest. “A pleasant experience is a need enough.”

  Xunathos laughed. “Well, I get that from learning new things, from experimenting. I can heartily recommend it.”

  “Itzil is not made for spellcraft. She tried it, can not get it to work.”

  He nodded. "Only elves and humans are able to store mana well."

  The beast nodded, bitterness in her voice. "She's heard as much. Humans are always quick to remind her of their superiority."

  "And yet, you beat us. Your animal cunning seen you through this far, right?."

  Itzil stared into the darkness, far away from him. "She survives. A very different thing."

  Xunathos bend closer. Was there sadness in her voice? He smiled on. "There is a little magic, even in your kind. And we can always start here with your training, right?”

  “Itzil wants to see her coin first.” Xunathos grinned and finished the walk to the end corner, where he unlocked a heavy trunk and reached inside. With a metallic jingling, he produced a fat, brown satchel that he threw to Itzil. But the dragon growled as she seized it in the middle of its flight with the speed of a swooping hawk.

  “Do not do this. It makes Itzil want to rip your guts out.”

  “Ah. Ehm. Sorry.” She did not respond.

  He resorted to his best defence; acting as if everything was alright.

  “Well, want to see the rest of the tower?”

  “Sure.” As if nothing had happened, she strolled behind him as he went on to explain the hidden mysteries and defenses of his construction to her with the eager joy of a schoolboy, showed her the iron hatch and rope ladder, the only way up to the first floor, the divination room, his library, the simple kitchen, the family gallery and more. Only thing lacking for a classical wizard were the artifact storages. She asked for them, naturally. With a wink, he added "One can't put every egg into the same basket."

  "We drakes put them together all the time." Itzil replied. "Conserves the heat for our hatchlings better."