She stepped into the room, and a swish of silk and velvet suddenly muffled all other sounds.

A description of the woman wouldn't quite cut it.

The blackness of her hair didn't quite absorb the light; the light was drawn to it and fell away in strands. Her eyes were piercing and blue, if the weapon in question was a metre-long sliver of ice, and the colour in question was a brand-new star. Her dress was expensive and tasteful if the ocean was a puddle. Metaphors never suited Daria Yallen, and they never would.

She was beautiful. She would always be beautiful.

There was a man sitting on the couch. Daria might have known him from somewhere, she thought, only the man he reminded her of was dead for a long time, so it couldn't be--

"Daria."

Rand stood, holding out a hand.

His skin was dark and sunned, his hair dark and handsome, his eyes dark and liquid. Tattoos lined his skin, which were new.

"Rand." She shook it. Her rings were aquamarine and rippled in the light. "Aren't you dead?"

"Aren't you alive? Where are we?"

"I got a letter," said Daria. "Which was odd, seeing as how I'm the last person on the planet. Which is mostly desert now."

"Ah." Rand shrugged. "I was sick. When I woke up, I was in a hallway. And then there a door."

"Mahogany, with lions for handles?"

"Yes, actually."

"Same as mine. Although I wasn't in a hallway." Daria sighed. She sat in a chair, which shivered in pleasure. "Odd."

"Yes." Rand had a knife on his belt. His hand went to it automatically. He knew Daria too well. When she was relaxed, you had to watch your throat. There might be a knife at it.

Good. You've settled in.

"What?" Daria asked.

"Didn't say anything," said Rand.

No, you didn't. That was me.

My name is Writer, and I am not a god. But I have the power of one right now.

"I see," said Daria. "Well, I've brought down gods before, Miss Voice."

Oh, I know. I call myself Writer, Daria Yallen--Daemonicus, if you will--because that's exactly what I am. I wrote you. And you, Rand. I know your orgins.

You're here to play a game with me, and with a friend of mine. There will be four of you--you two, my characters, and two of hers.

I'll explain the rules when the others get here. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves.

Kresthan, once self-titled the Dark One, found himself in a place he'd never been, for once, though he'd sent plenty of others there before him.

"She killed me?"

She did.

"That is something of a relief, actually."

Kresthan stood on clouds, and before him was a wall, the Wall, that stretched from horizon to horizon. Before him, the Gate--above it, a vague figure lounged against a battlement.

The Watcher at the Gate has kindly let me take over, since you're very much a special case. Hello, you can call me Casey.

"That was her name."

Let us simply say... we are related.

"How?"

Sisters, mother-daughter... who the hell knows anymore? At any rate, you and I will be getting to know each other in your future. Go on through the Gate. You'll meet three other people. Yes, all of them are people, no better, no worse than you. So keep a rein on your ego, Kresthan Tracker.

Kresthan blinked, opened and closed his mouth in shock. How had she known the thoughts of his mind, before he had even formed them? No matter. He squared his shoulders and walked forward. The Gate opened for him, washing his black tunic and trousers with a light even they couldn't steal... And he stepped through.

Lareth sat at the covered window, through which only the suggestion of the outside's noonlight came.

Hello, Lareth. You can't see me, but I come bearing an invitation.

"And if I refuse?" he asked, in his native language.

Ne, Lareth e'Torath. Ne tanes'he.

"I cannot? Fine then." He rose to his full height of six feet and seven inches, snatched a cord from the small table set in his sight, and braided back red hair naturally streaked with black. Conscious of his dignity before even an unseen visitor, he straightened his sand-colored shirt with the knotted black armband of a retired Black Guardsman. He considered the rest of the objects on the table, casting his scarlet right eye over all of them--kerchiefs, some clean, some bloodstained; that patch his son Keran had made for him; the arrowhead that had left his left eye a blinded mass of scar tissue that still bled at odd intervals. He wrapped up the latter two objects in one of the stained kerchiefs, tilting his head to see it, and knotted together the clean kerchiefs for use. All of these things entered the hera-leather pouch at his waist. "Tell me where I must go."

Simply go through your front door, Lareth. The three you meet will not speak Mandragori, but you will understand them, and they you. Perhaps you shall learn something from them, Lareth e'Torath.

Lareth considered his door suspiciously, then grasped the latch, pulled it open, and passed through.

Rand adjusted his glasses awkwardly.

He was annoyingly aware of Daria's presence in the room. She tended to do that to people--mainly to men. Daria could lift a finger and everyone in the immediate vicinity would break out into a cold sweat.

There was a bottle of wine on a table near them--Daria poured a glass for herself.

"Would you like some?" she asked. Rand shook his head.

His body has tightened in of itself--partly out of attraction, he'd admit that, but mostly out of sheer terror and respect. Rand had done some bad things in his life, but nothing like what Daria had done.

And besides, last time he'd been alone in the room with her, she'd nearly cut his throat.

She sipped her wine. It tingled on her tongue, and Rand could feel it from across the room.

Don't focus on her. Focus on anything but her.

Focus on... the wine glasses. There are four of them there, see? Ignore the one in her hand. Act like she's not there.

There are five glasses, Rand realised suddenly.

Two of us and two of them. I wonder who the fifth glass is for.

There was a knock on the door.

I mean, Daria's sane. Chillingly so. And Rand always seems to end up on the wrong side of things. And Carolina isn't really a villain so much as a bitch.

But you.

You're evil. Pure, unfiltered evil. You're the only true villain in my stories.

I suppose you're a part of me too, though, aren't you? The bit of me that terrifies me. Not like Ixia, who's the temptation in my ear--no, you're the part of me that truly wants to follow what she says. She's the bit that suggests--you're the bit that agrees.

Which is why I have to wonder if this is a good idea.

Because I don't really know what you are. I don't know what I'm doing, letting you out of here.

Please don't ask me why I am.

I guess it's like I said. You're part of me. It's not healthy to completely lock you up. I will never accept you as part of me, but I suppose that really can't mean suppressing you.

So you're free, Orion. You're human again. They're in the door to the left of the only way out of here.

Please don't kill anyone this time.

The cage growled and rattled, and then was silent.

A hand reached between the bars, pale and slender, and softly unlocked the door.

The two males reached the door at the same time. Kresthan considered the one-eyed man--inwardly, he cursed the time when he was born, making him a mere five-six, a full head shorter than this giant. Mindful that the overseer of his afterlife was likely watching, he graciously stepped back, allowing the other to open the door and enter first.

Of course, the fact that his expression could stop a riot in moments has nothing to do with your decision, yes?

Kresthan chose to ignore that little dig.

Lareth e' Torath inspected the little man. The dark hair bespoke one of the ones he'd sworn retribution on, but the eyes were an odd shade of maroon, and he dressed like no Valei that he'd ever seen.

He lives in a land that is farther away from yours than yours is from the damisai.

Very well then. Lareth realized that the little man was waiting for him to enter before him. Kindness, or pity?

Does it matter?

Lareth refused to acknowledge that. He grasped the handle and entered the room beyond. If either of the occupants screamed, he would kill them.

Shi'hala was about to step forward, but I think it was the "weapon of male destruction" line that attracted a villainess I haven't thought about in years, and got Shi'hala shouldered out of the way. Their personalities are similar, but... Oh, the fun we shall have with Aphrodite.

Aphrodite was a goddess who worked for her own ends. When her methods failed... she whined. Perhaps this is why part of her punishment was a gag that could not be unknotted, except to eat and drink. Or maybe one of the family on the Tribunal had taken a disliking to her. Who's to know?

Her scarlet tresses flowed down the back of a medieval-style gown of rose damask. While it was modest in strict truth, from the high collar and long, swallowtailed sleeves to the hem that kissed the toes of her matching slippers, the way it fit her should have had it classified as a weapon of male destruction. For that, of course, was her specialty.

They'd taken her girdle from her, of course. Whoever would have guessed that so many of the small gods and goddesses would back Apollo against her? And all over that little descendant of his and her betrothed. Pah. The man was wasted on Cassandra.

Apollo had more than the small gods to back him, Di.

"What on Uncle's earth are you yabbering about?" Aphrodite grumbled... and found that her gag was gone. Thankfully, that shocked her enough to keep her tongue stoppered.

Good evening, Aphrodite. I'm Casey, and I'll be your writer today. If that is too much for your little brain, then think of me as a goddess above even the Titans that spawned your ancestors. Aphrodite had the distinct impression that "Casey" had been waiting a long time for this. Or you could stick it up your... well, I suppose that's enough of that. You've wandered into a labyrinth. As you are aware, a labyrinth has one entrance and one exit. This labyrinth, though, is a Memory Labyrinth. Every dead end you reach will take you to a memory--yours, or one from another of the five people here. Once it has run its course, you will find yourself back in the corridors of the Labyrinth. Am I completely clear?

"Completely." As she spoke, the darkness lifted with the flaring of torches. There was a door before her.

Go right on in. And try not to piss off too many of them. With all the strictures on you, you're little more than an immortal with a bit of lust magic, understand?

"Yes." Aphrodite placed a palm on the door, already slightly ajar, and pushed lightly. It opened on silent hinges, and she entered.

Daria and Rand stood as the door opened.

There was a short man there, with brownish hair, and a woman there, who was beautiful. There was a man with a hideous face, who Daria winked at--Rand knew the stab of jealousy was coming, but he wasn't prepared, anyways. Daria did that, used her slight charms and little wiles to pit people against each other, made you already hate a guy you didn't know.

He had not loved her. He'd screwed her, but that wasn't love, it wasn't making love, and he hadn't fallen for her.

Daria was a trap.

Rand stood and nodded. "Hello," he said.

"Hello," Daria echoed. She uncrossed her legs--a little whisper of velvet slid across the room. Rand was sure his Adam's apple hadn't moved, right?

"I'm Rand. This is Daria." He glanced over at the table. "Wine?"

Click.

Open.

A fourth man walked in.

He was... clean. And grimy. Something in the way his hair hung in front of his face wasn't quite normal. His mouth was a little too wide to be human--his eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on someone living.

He was tall, and he was dressed like an Irionite royal. Daria knew him by that.

"Orion," she said. "Aren't you dead?"

Orion smiled, nodded, and slipped to the back of the room.

"Well," said Rand. "That's creepy."

Lareth raised a scarlet eyebrow at the female who winked at him. Mockery. He could see that her companion reacted poorly to the gesture, and he did not like the way she had manipulated him towards instant jealousy.

No matter. Lareth ignored the wine, and took up a place leaning against the wall, in the corner where he could tilt his head and see everything.

Kresthan felt like his eyes could never fill with enough of her. Not the darkhaired one. The red-haired lovely who entered moments after him.

Unrequited, my boy. She is a love-them-and-leave-them type.

She spoke as if he cared.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Mm, fresh meat. She ignored the scarred one in the corner--there were men enough here without paying attention to Mr. Flawed Goods.

Kresthan over there might be an interesting choice.

Just because of that, she wouldn't even look at him. Now the one who came in...

Heh.

Welcome to what Casey has just dubbed the Vilcathalon. For now, the six of you will be split up into two-person teams. And we're going to play a game.

The door to this room now leads to a labyrinth. When I say so, you will enter the labyrinth, staying with your partner, and look for certain objects--in other words, we're sending you on a scavenger hunt. When you have found three of these objects, you will come back to this room. The first group to finish gets to leave.

The rest of you will have to stay for the second round.

The teams are as such:

Daria, you're with Kresthan. Orion and Aphrodite. And, lastly, Rand and Lareth. Introduce yourselves.

And.... go.