The rain fell past her balcony window and pelted the little landing outside. It made the white stones glossy before trickling through the wrought iron rails and slipping into the darkness below.

She reached out tentatively to touch the rain, but came to her senses at the last moment and snatched her hand back. A thunder clap made her pupils dilate, and for a moment, the purple orbs of her eyes were replaced by a depthless black. She blinked back her surprise and turned her attention to the stairwell that lead up to her rooms, straining her ears to hear beyond the rain. There was only one reason why lighting would strike so close; she was to have visitors soon.

There came a soft scraping sound of a key turning a lock somewhere below.

She smiled humourlessly. Black columns of smoke had been rising up from the nearby fields for days. It was only a matter of time before someone came a-knocking.

Whoever has the key can enter the witch's tower. Whoever enters the witch's tower has audience with the witch.

Cautious, heavy set footsteps made their way up the dark stairwell towards her scantly lit room.

The steps revealed themselves to be made by a warrior clad in a dark, oiled cloak. His hair was also dark in the wet, but it had a red sheen to it that hinted at an auburn shade. Under the cloak, he bore the signs of a nobleman; fine clothes with fine armour. It was no great leap of the educated imagination to presume that this was the leader of the men who had recently conquered the nearby lands.

She glanced nervously at the pool of water he was creating where he stood. It was then she noticed that the man wasn't alone. There was a second visitor standing behind the first. Unlike the first visitor, the second was dressed in the sensible browns of a manservant, and there was an insubstantial quality to him, as if he was just a shadow. He had grey hair and a handsome face, save for the gloom in his sunken eyes. She hadn't heard his steps at all.

"I am Francis de Camont de La Force, marquis of Castelmoron, and soon to be the duke of these lands." The nobleman's words drew her gaze back to him. "Do I have the honour of addressing Lady Rampion, Witch of the Ivory Tower?"

Rampion nodded, indifferent to his title and hers. With a sweep of her hand, additional candles in the room flickered to life, revealing a well appointed living area. Velvet armchairs were arranged deliberately around a low set table. The table held assorted objects including a miniature forest of candles that provided most of the light.

As the room grew brighter, a rack for their travelling clothes materialized beside the entrance way as though it had been left behind by the fading shadows. After the wet garments were safety on the rack, Rampion moved to sit on one of the chairs. Taking her lead, Francis occupied another chair confidently, but his manservant hesitated before edging reluctantly into the circle of light.

For a moment, her eyes met the manservant's, and she felt a flicker of power break free from her.

"You..." she narrowed her eyes.

"I see you recognise your own kind," Francis said, visibly pleased. "This is Casper. He attends to me personally. I have travelled to meet many gifted ones such as yourselves, at personal expense, only to find that they are either charlatans or amateurs. Casper is here to assist me with... the task of authentication."

With that, he looked to Casper expectantly.

"She is very powerful, my lord," was the man's reply.

"More powerful than you?"

Casper glanced at her and she caught a hint of a smile. "I dare not vex the lady."

But Rampion was already vexed. She crossed her arms and glared at her two guests. "My patience wears thin, Lord Francis, Mister Casper. What business have you here?"

"We have two... requests," Francis gestured with open palms as he spoke; a symbol of peace.

"I am bound only to grant one."

"Yes, but... to grant one, you would have to perform the other."

Rampion wanted to wipe the smirk off the nobleman's face. A glance at Casper told her that he didn't share his lord's humour. In fact, he seemed to be fixed on her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

When she gave no verbal response to his statement, the nobleman cleared his throat and continued. "My future was first read to me when I was a boy, and thought there have been some fluctuations in the sequence of events, the end is always the same. I die at a dinner, at the hands of a stranger. If only I could see her face clearly-"

"You want me to divine the identity of your killer?" Rampion interjected.

Francis laughed. "Oh, no, nothing so...unambitious. I would like you to first confirm the circumstances of my death and then thwart it for me."

"Another death will take its place."

"You misunderstand. I wish to avoid the terrible affair of dying altogether."

Rampion's eyes flashed dangerously. "That's not a matter of two requests."

"Isn't it?" Francis counted out two fingers as he spoke. "One, confirm the prophecy of my death. Two, stop me from ever dying."

Rampion stood. "Get out," she hissed. She rose from her seat and pointed at the entranceway.

Holding up his hands, Francis rose slowly to his feet. "I'll take my leave for the night... but... I believe Casper will stay... yes... to persuade you to complete the tasks I ask of you. I will be back tomorrow for your answer."

With that, the nobleman withdrew back out into the stormy night, leaving Rampion and Casper in an uneasy silence.

"A master of persuasion, are you?" she demanded, glaring down at Casper.

He met her words with a half smile. "Not me," he said. There was absolutely no fight in the man, which stole the fire from her as well.

"Enough with the riddles," Rampion sat back down heavily in her chair. "If you have threats, make them. If you have spells, work them. If you have speeches, perform them. Then, be gone!"

"I will do nothing of that sort. But perhaps you will allow me to show you a part of my story?"

His words startled her. The sharing of memories between two of their kind was an extremely intimate gesture, something usually reserved for apprentices or lovers.

"Why?" she whispered.

Another half smile. "Please, my only request."

Rampion swallowed. She nodded slowly.

The lands of Casper's memories were distant yet the same; wet, destitute and unforgiving. Living creatures clamoured over each other to stay alive, and those that survived for an age became like soulless mercenaries with hardship wrapped around them like fallen, bloodied flags.

It was a different age, an age where Rampion herself had been young. The realization that Casper and she shared the same times surprised her, though it shouldn't have; as soon as she entered his memories, she had felt the deep reservoirs of his power.

If the sun shone over his lands by day, Casper did not know it. His lair was a network of caverns deep underground, dark except for the occasional glint from a sea of treasure that sprawled underfoot. Men came to him, and he refused them nothing. Gold, wisdom, elixirs of health; Casper dolled them out without a second thought.

I was like you, once, Rampion commented sadly.

Oh? What happened? Casper asked.

Betrayal.

It wasn't betrayal that undid Casper, but a few words from an old slave.

One day, the Grand Empress of all the lands paid Casper a visit. She brought with her an assortment of attendants. Most of them were young and beautiful with lithe tongues for flattery, but there was one curiosity amongst her entourage. She brought with her an old man who was as thin as a skeleton with skin like an old paper bag and no teeth or hair to speak of.

Her request was both simple and unreasonable.

"I inherited this slave from my mother." the Empress tugged the leash that she held. It was made of gold chain, attached by a collar to the old man's neck. "You wouldn't know it by the look of him, but he is an oracle that has served my family well in the past."

Casper cocked an eyebrow. If this man was an oracle, it was by his wisdom and not any amount of magically imbued properties. Interesting.

"He refuses to show me respect, and I wish for that to be corrected," the Empress continued with the airs of a woman who was used to receiving every courtesy.

With another sharp tug, the old man fell to his knees. But when the slave looked up at Casper from the floor, it was with a good natured grin that showed two rows of black, toothless gums. Casper crouched down to meet the man eye to eye.

"Why not do as your master says?" he asked the old man gently. "Why not just follow her orders?"

With a rasping voice like dry twigs rubbing together, the old man replied, "she is not my master."

The Empress's heel calm down hard and fast, knocking the old man flat onto the ground. "Do you see what I have to deal with?" she seethed.

Casper felt a tendril of irritation rise from within himself. There was no need for such cruelty.

"Come now, old sir. She holds you at the end of a chain. A word from her lips and your life is forfeit." Casper was the voice of reason. "Why do this to yourself after so many years of good service?"

"My..." the man rasped. To the Empress' annoyance, Casper conjured a cup of water, but the old man pushed it aside. He continued, though each breath sounded like it could be his last. "My services are freely given... or not at all."

Casper frowned. Something about the old man's words resonated with him. They were like the first drops of water creating ripples in a stagnant, underground lake.

"Quiet, you fool," the Empress hissed, grinding her heel into his lower back. She looked exasperatedly at Casper. "Will you fix him or not? See his neck is chafed raw, yet he chooses to defy me!"

"Wait a moment," Casper said. "Let's see if we can't apply the art of persuasion to this curious case." He was lying, of course. Foreign ideas were taking root in Casper's mind. He needed more time to comprehend exactly what was happening. He wanted to hear more words. "Old man, please speak to me."

The old man tried to rise, but the Empress had him pinned down. He mumbled something weakly. As the old man couldn't move, Casper lowered himself to the ground, going so far as to press his own cheek against the floor to hear the man's words.

"It is she who chafes at the chain. In here," the old map tapped a crooked finger to his head. His words were barely sound. "In here, I am free."

"What did he say?" The Empress snapped.

Casper tapped a finger to his head. "In here, I am free."

They were back in Rampion's tower, and she was silent as tears brimmed and overflowed. Outside, the storm had eased to a drizzle and the inky night was shedding its veils.

"Why did you show me that?" she whispered with a hand to her mouth.

"Because you needed to be shown. Because you have begun to begrudge the men who come here and begrudge your services to them. I admit that I was sent here to persuade you with threats and spells and speeches, but I chose not to."

"How ever did a vulgar man like Francis ever manage to-" Rampion began, then stopped herself. The answer struck her. "He knows your Poison."

Casper nodded. "And he knows yours, too."

At his words, Rampion felt a violent chill rush through her. A man who knew how to kill her could use the knowledge to enslave her. From her encounter with Francis, she had no doubts that he was ambitious enough to do so.

"I will not be bent to his use," she hissed. "I will never accept him as my master." She looked up at Casper. "What will you do?"

Casper smiled, this time, it was genuine and full. It reminded Rampion of how the old slave had grinned, even as he was dressed in rags and dragged by a chain. Casper looked past her, out the window, and his eyes widened with surprise.

"Oh look, is that sunrise? I've never seen it before."

Casper beheld the dazzling light of a rainy dawn. Then, he beheld nothing at all.

Rampion was silent as the remains of a once powerful man faded before her eyes. Though they had only just met, she felt that she had known him for an age, and she mourned him like a dear friend. She wondered if the time of her people was ending. A hundred years from now, would anyone remember that a witch had lived in an ivory tower? Would they tell tales of how she worked miracles? Or would they curse her name?

Time passed, but Rampion seemed immune to it now. Rain clouds were gathering in earnest again, and thunder prowled the skies. For the first time, the sound of heavy raindrops filled Rampion with a sense of weightless freedom. She walked, as if floating, to her balcony window. Trembling, she stepped out and embraced the mercy of the falling skies.

Francis retuned that afternoon to find the grounds around the ivory tower blanketed by small, purple bellflowers. He paid them no heed and hurried up to claim his prize. But the tower was empty, and his fate remained the same.

A note from Augie

This was written for the August Labyrinth Writing Contest. The prompt this month was to write a story containing three or more elements of classic Gothic literature (there was a list of 10). Gothic is not something I've done before, but you know me, I tried to tick all the boxes. Not sure if that makes this story gothic per se... but it was equal parts frustrating and fun to write.

If you read this story and liked it, I'd recommend going over the Writing Contest thread at the Labyrinth forum (on fictionpress), reading the other entries, and voting. Stories and poll should be up early September.

Fairy tale enthusiasts will no doubt pick up the subversion of a well known story. If you like that sort of stuff, I have two other short stories that are loosely related - Woodsman and Hello Blackbird.

30/8/14 - I did a bit of an edit on Liz's suggestion. And in answer to the question, the link is tangential. Francis is a reference to the father of Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force, who wrote Persinette, a story that was later adapted by Brother's Grimm.