The Heart of Fire by Michael J. Ward Page A

against her robes. ‘Do you feel it?’
    The rune tingles against your skin, pulsating with a powerful energy. ‘The dwarves used runes,’ you nod, appraising the other sigils that adorn her clothing. ‘A way of binding
spirits from the shroud to do their bidding.’
    Damaris smiles. ‘You know something of the art then. Yes, we are able to reach into the shroud, the ghost world, and commune with the spirits there. The minor spirits are easily bound. The
demons, however . . . Well, they can prove more . . . wilful.’
    If you have the word
duty
on your hero sheet, turn to 253 . Otherwise return to 126 to ask Damaris another question.
    29
    You doubt you stand much of a chance against an opponent you can’t even see. Instead you turn and run, splashing through the murky water towards the door. All around you
various missiles are being flung through the air but miraculously, apart from some minor cuts and bruises, you manage to reach the door unharmed. You are even more grateful to discover that the
door is unlocked. You push it open, the grimy water gushing around your legs as it spills out into the corridor beyond. There is a series of angry bangs and thuds coming from behind you. Quickly,
you attempt to push the door closed, struggling against the force of the rushing water. It finally closes with a metallic clink, leaving the poltergeist to vent its fury alone on the other
side.
    After brushing the grime and dirt from your clothes, you take a moment to study your surroundings. The corridor is fashioned from black stone, smooth and without decoration. To your left, it
continues for several metres before ending in a set of worn stairs leading up to a decorative wooden door. To your right there is an open metal grill, beyond which you can see a set of rusted
stairs spiralling down towards the sound of buzzing, hammering machinery.
     
Will you:
Take the stairs up? — 417
Take the stairs down? — 382
     

 
     
    30
    A sudden jealous craving comes over you as you gaze upon the finely-jewelled sword. You take an angry step forward, demanding that the old man hand over his possessions.
    ‘Ah, very good,’ he snorts. ‘The manners of a Wiccan and the smell of one, to boot. You know, you do look very threatening. Apart from your hands, which are shaking like
leaves.’
    You glance down, aware that that the man has a point – your whole body is trembling from exhaustion and the bitter cold. The man watches you with a thin smile. ‘I suppose the test of
good manners is to be patient with bad ones. Let’s see. The sword is not my property, so I suppose you would not be stealing from
me.
Although its owner might take offence.’
    He picks up the scabbarded sword and tosses it towards you. It slides across the wet ground to settle at your feet. If you wish you may now take:
     
    Winter’s fall
    (main hand: sword)
    +1 speed +1 brawn
    Ability: silver frost
     
    ‘Presumably you want gold as well.’ His attention shifts to his pack. ‘But I’m afraid we don’t have a need for it on these . . . little ventures.’
    ‘You said
we
,’ you enquire suspiciously. ‘You have a companion. Where did they—’
    Suddenly you hear a bellowing roar coming from somewhere deep inside the rock. It is followed by someone’s cry and a loud ground-trembling boom. The man smiles at your startled reaction
then shrugs his shoulders, continuing.
    ‘Are you planning on leaving now or do you want my clothes as well? This coat was tailored in Venetia; the lining is Lakrosa silk from across the Dune Sea.’
    You ignore his banter, fixing your gaze on the dark rock. ‘What was that noise?’ you ask worriedly.
    ‘What was what?’ asks the gentleman, leaning over the cooking pot and taking a sniff of its contents. ‘Ah, yes. The stew is ready. Would you like some tea? I brewed some
earlier. Silver Grey, the finest.’
    There is another monstrous roar, dislodging stone and dust from the rock walls. The man moves around the fire