THE DECEIVER

Lightning danced through billowing thunderheads above the volcano. A presence brooded in those clouds; it?s home destroyed in the fiery depths below, it looked for another. The presence would have gnashed its teeth as it boiled up into the blackness of chaos, but it had no form. Hatred blazed where its heart might have been and it held a face in its memory. The face of a thirteen-year-old named Zach.A home. It must have a home: a thing of substance,an objectwithwhich to manipulate and control the puny minds of men. The presence left the cloud and floated above the earth?seeking, sensing, probing the minds below for weakness, for the skills it needed.The woman sat at her workbench, her fingers playing idly with a ball of wax. On a shelf above her were a variety of figures?gargoyles, vampires, and wizards?all cast in pewter and all sculpted by her skilled hands. She was known for figures of medieval lore. Those who dabbled in the dark world of demons and witchcraft prized her work.She seldom had a shape in mind as she began sculpting. The wax seemed to form of its own volition. Now, her fingers began shaping an animal. It was thin and hungry looking; it?s eyes curiously alive. Presently, a jackal stood on her worktable looking back at her. She could not look away. Her hands began to tremble as she reached out to touch her creation. ?Cast me!? the jackal hissed. ?Now!?