"Spirit, kill that infernal goat, and bring me its insides."

We move faster than the shadow of a cloud on a windy night, silent as the moon. We swept down to the goatherd before he could do more than draw his little bone knife. He tried to stab us with the knife--bravery indeed!--but who can cut the Night? We are not so easily distracted from a task; we ignored him and reached for the goat, ebony claws ready to smash it. But others besides the goatherd watched over this goat; the young guildmage stepped directly into the path of the blow we intended for the goat.

The black wave of Night washed over her, but she held us at bay; her magic causing her to glow with a light as bright as night is dark. Guildmage and Spirit: we paused to weigh our strength and consider our opponent.

But the Spirit of the Night is greater than any creature of flesh, and we recovered first. No human can stop Night, not even a woman of magic. With one huge clawed fist, we sent her flying into the undergrowth.

The goatherd had circled behind the hut with his small night-colored dog. He hadn't given up, and was heading for Bwire. Perhaps the goatherd thought to hide from us, but he forgot that the night's darkness is our element--no gloom could hide his movements from us. We considered briefly: we owed Bwire no personal loyalty, and we were still under his command to kill the goat. Very well, then: let the shaman look to his own safety.

We had paused too long: the guildmage had ensorcelled the goat, first wrapping it with a dark glow, then when that spell had faded, sheathing it in a light as bright as day. The shining goat charged straight at us, and gored us with a horn. The horn slipped free of our dark flesh as smoothly as it entered and left no mark: it takes more than a horn to damage Night. But the spell protected the glowing goat, so that every time we reached for it, it wriggled away. Horns that did no damage; a goat slick as if mud-covered: a foolish dance we and the goat stepped. The goat was laughing at us! This could not be allowed to continue.

Bwire was even less amused at the goat's protections. Furious, he strove to assert his control over us even more forcefully. He spoke a dozen clacking words and entered our mind to command our body as the Spirit of the Night, just as he had entered our minds when we were the panther, the shadow, and Neshi. We felt his spirit join ours.

The heart of Night is no fit place for any man, not even a corrupt and dangerous shaman.

True Night is a place where all stars have fallen, and the sun will never rise. It is cold but filled with dark fire; empty but open to all the creatures that stalk in darkness. For long moments, Bwire sought a way out, his heart beating faster and faster as terror overtook him. Finally, he made a fire and fled through the sparks, for he was a shaman. But he had been trapped in our mind long enough that he did not hear the dragon flapping overhead, on its way to the guildmage's city. Neither did he hear the goatherd creeping toward him through the brush, trying to attack him on his flank.

Even though Bwire had attempted to control our mind and had failed, still his command to kill the goat remained. The circle of lights around the goat was fading. At last, we thought, its defenses are weak. Night always comes to those who wait.

The goat charged us again, stubborn and limited in its tactics. We fell back for a moment, as much from surprise as anything--would it never learn?--but recovered and snatched the goat by the horns. Its coating of brightness gone, it wriggled but could no longer escape. With a laugh like darkness, we raised our catch high, to dash it to the ground with all our force.

As we raised the goat over our head, the goatherd plunged his knife into Bwire's back. Bwire screamed and struggled to save himself. He had only one defender left, and we were holding the goat. Reaching toward us with a magical net, he pulled us back into his hand, and then into his veins. He sacrificed us to strengthen the fading spark of his soul. Our spirit-life ended at the hand of our maker, and the end of our physical form saved his life.

The goatherd's knife fell to the ground, useless. The goat hung suspended in the air for an instant after our sacrifice, then slammed into the ground. It hacked once, and coughed out the Amber Prison--and for the first time, we saw the stone that had been the target of so many spells and plots. It seemed a simple stone, only as large as a child's fist, but we are the Spirit of the Night and know many things. We recognized the man it held as a spellcaster of unusual power.

Bwire and Fola saw the Prison at the same instant and rushed to pick it up, the goatherd forgotten. But the goatherd did not forget Bwire; he stretched out a leg as the shaman ran, tripping him into the tall grass. Bwire did not rise; he knew when to play dead.

Fola caught up the Prison, freed the one trapped inside it, and sucked the dragon that flew overhead down into its gold depths. And as suddenly as that, things were finished.

While the others were distracted, Bwire crawled away, like the snake he was. But the Spirit of the Night lived on within him, waiting to hatch like a serpent's egg. Bwire had let us into the temple of his mind, and we had no plans to leave.