As usual, no inferences about the people, places, and ideas described below should be drawn from the story. *** Tales of the Daemon #6: Crossfire, Part 4 of 4 BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA In every city across the nation, there are one or two places where, after a long day's work, a man can kick back, have a few beers, and tell his opinions about everything under the sun. Such a place is Rube Burrows, named after the 19th century highwayman. On this night, discussion ranged from the impending baseball strike to whether or not Superman could take Mighty Mouse, [the Mouse lost]. However, as usual, politics was the main discussion. One camp was under the opinion that times were getting better, while the other wished that they could get a "real man" in office. One gentleman, heavily intoxicated, staggered to his feet, and shouted, "There hasn't been a President worth the name since Jefferson Davis!" He was shouted down by various notes of approval or disapproval, inclu- ding one youth, looking barely old enough to drink, who replied, "Hear, hear! I just got out of college, and because I ain't black, or yellow, or a woman, or even a damned sissy, I can't get work! What ever happened to the days when hard work, determination, and brains led to success! When do I get my turn!" He sat down heavily, rattling the empty bottles covering his table. He was alone, and the amount of beer in his system was turning his face to the same hue as his firey hair. Reaching for another bottle, he felt a hand on your shoulder. Turning, he saw a tall man, who's raven hair was a strong contrast to his nearly alabaster skin. "May I join you?" he asked. "It's a free country" the youth replied. "You seem like a fine young man. You are new to the city, yes?" the stranger asked. "Yeah, what of it?" came the surly reply. The stranger smiled, "A few friends of mine are getting together later tonight, to talk about ways to make life better. We'd appreciate your input." "Why not," the youth muttered, "The worst you could do is beat me up, and do a scene from 'Deliverance'. I'm already screwed." "That will not happen," the stranger replied, smiling thinly, "Come to the Temple Sibyl, at 11:45. Tell them Thorn sent you." "Thorn, right." the lad replied, "I guess I'll be there." "Good." the stranger murmured, "You won't be disappointed." LATER THAT NIGHT The Temple Sibyl is five miles south of Birmingham, on Route 31. The youth exited his cab, as the last tour left for the night. The recon- structed Roman Temple was a popular attraction, rivaling the large statue of Vulcan. As he stared, a bald stranger approached. "Are you here for the meeting? Thorne said to come here." The youth shrugged, "I guess. Did he talk to you too?" "Yup, I'm Seth Harris, by the way." "Damon. Chris Damon." was the reply. Harris shook his hand, "So, when is this meeting going to start? It looks like everyone is going home..." A darkness fell as the spotlights turned off. As the two watched, security guards checked the area. One, dressed in a black jumpsuit, sauntered over, "Can I help you boys..." A memory clicked in Damon's head, "Thorn sent us." "You must be the new brethern. Come this way." The guard led them into the now-closed temple. Inside, workers were hanging red banners from the walls, and preparing the altar. "Just wait here, and you'll learn few things." Seth's watch beeped. Midnight had fallen. The bass sound of Wagner filled the air, as black-robed figures filed in. Most were hooded, save for Thorne, who carried a large book-like object. Reverently, he placed it on the altar, revealing the embossed eagle, wreath, and swastika of the Third Reich. "Brothers!" he called, as the music faded, "The Order of the Cross is met. We, the heirs of the New Reich, must affirm our dedication to the purity of the Master Race. Speak the Oath!" The assembled figures raised their right arms, proclaiming: "By Hitler's Dream, and Hitler's Cross, Let no man stop our Great Crusade. We pledge our lives, bear any loss. To complete the Plan the Fuehrer made." Thorne opened the case, revealing a small medal on a bed of red silk. "Behold! The Iron Cross!" The cross glistened oily, almost reeking a miasma of corruption. To the assembled crowd however, it was their Holy Grail. Cheers, prayers, and oaths of loyalty echoed across the chamber. "Enough!" Thorn thundered, "We have business. Lars, return the cross to the office. We must discuss Operation Lebenstraum." A Nordic figure shed his robe, and gathering up the case, carried it out the back of the chamber. The crowd began to gather into small groups and exchange reports. A few, slipped out. Damon was among them. Glancing at the guards, he paced the perimeter of the room, ending up behind the altar. Then, he vanished into the shadows. Lars had just placed the case in an open safe, when a blow struck him from behind. He slumped to the floor as Damon knelt at the safe. "Jackpot." he muttered. "I wouldn't do that, Sonny." came a voice behind him. He whirled about, only to see Seth Harris standing behind him. "You don't understand..." Wordlessly Seth charged, grappling at him. The two figures swayed back and forth, as each tried to unbalance the other. As a metal object clattered to the ground, Seth was victorius. There was a crack, and Chris Damon fell, lifeless. Thorn rushed in. Seeing the body, and the dagger beside it, he smiled. "Good work, Mr..." "Harris. Seth Harris." "You have defeated my biggest rival, a man who would do anything to gain the Cross." "May I see it? Up close?" Seth pleaded. Thorn paused, then nodded, "You have earned it." He moved to the safe, and lifted the case, opening it, "Is it not a thing of wonder?" Awed, Seth moved closer, "Yes. Even from here, I can feel it's power. The charade is ended, now is the hour!" "What?" The daemon turned, as horns curled from his brow, "I slew a man, a curious Fed. The Daemon lives, soon *you'll* be dead." "No! By the name of Hitler, who wore the Cross, I call on it's power, to make you dross!" A black mist issued from the Cross, filling the room. It swirled and twisted, wrapping around Netrigan. Who inhaled it. With a wicked smile, he struck Thorn, who screamed as he dropped the Cross, losing it's pro- tection. He writhed, and fell still. "Wings of Bat, horns of Ram, Skin of Lizard, form of Man. Now complete, my master plan. Born again, is NETRIGAN!" As he spoke the spell, the aspects of his power came upon him. Not even remotely human, he stood triumphant. The Dagger, lying at his feet, glowed with alarm. Netrigan looked down, "Your power fades, blade of gold. Your time is ended, your tale is told!" At this, the Dagger shined it's brightest, and shattered. "My foes are vanquished, one by one. Hear me world. My time is come!" "I wouldn't say that." Netrigan whirled, only to see a long shard of the Dagger's blade lift from it's resting place, and plunge into the fallen Cross. As they met, thunder crashed, and golden lightning arced from the point of contact, revealing the misty form of ... Tommy Adams. Stung by the lightning, Netrigan growled, "How are you here! My spell was clear." "You cast a spell on Tommy Adams. I gave up that name when I joined the Church," Adams replied, as his clothes rippled into a new form, "You can call me Brother Cain." Netrigan howled, "My brother's host! No normal ghost! But he is gone, so you are toast!" "Am I?" Cain smiled, "The Cross is no more, the Daemon is free. I call on the Past, to conquer thee." As he spoke, ghostly forms, dressed in clothes of a thousand eras, came into solidity. The forms changed, the faces varied, but the eyes were the same. Brother Cain, now wearing the garb of the Golden Agent, stared into Netrigan's glowing eyes, "We, the Avatars of Netatron, are one." "We call on his power," added another, in the robes of a Druid. "To bind you back into the cage of bone," chimed a third, a Roman priestess. "Deal with it." Cain concluded. The 'bodies' of the ghosts glowed with a pale light, merging into a web of mystic force, which grew in size, until the room was full. As the net tightened, Netrigan laughed, shredding it with a gout of flame. The battle was joined. There was a flicker, and the room became a cave, and Netrigan a mass of writhing tentacles. The glow formed into a spear, plunging into the heart of the beast. Flicker: Netrigan was a thick, black fog, only to bet met by a golden tornado. Flicker: Netrigan was a mass of stone, assaulted by a flow of lava. Flicker: Netrigan regained his demonic form, more draconic than ever. The avatars became a great phoenix, burning with the flame of Truth. The world had vanished, leaving them suspended in the void. Each tore into the other, sending trembles throught the plane. "Enough!" came a voice like a choir. The avatars vanished, leaving only a spark of radiance, which grew in intensity, only fading to reveal a Nordic figure, clad in a pale gold Greek tunic, sitting on a setee. "Hello, brother." Netatron said. Netrigan breathed a torrent of flame, which merely dissolved. "Would you stop that? You know it won't work." Netatron smiled, "And gain your natural form. You look silly." Netrigan rippled, becoming a near-twin of the figure before him. The hair was black, the eyes green, and the skin swarthy, but the faces were the same. His tunic was of his familiar rusty red. "A devil's shape hides a daemon's heart. To reign in Hell, you must look the part." Netatron went on, "And why are you always saying those *stupid* poems? You never could resist a stylish motif." "You hate my verse? It could be worse!" Netrign smiled, "After all, I once heard of an adept who had to speak backwards to use magic." "Very well." Netatron shrugged, "Since I'm free, I suppose we should use the standard rules?" "OK," Netrigan agreed, "I'll be the rhyming tempter, I've gotten used to it." "No more lizard forms. He's confused enough. Use this one." "I want horns. I like horns. Ram, or Ibex." Netatron sighed, "Very well. But you'll only appear in spirit." "What about you?" "I think I'll work through my avatars. Give him access to their skills and memories. I'll just wave the baton." Netrigan nodded, "Oh, like in the Dune books." "Whatever," Netatron said absently, "Do we have a deal?" "I'll tempt, you inform. We'll see who wins." Netrigan agreed, lifting his hand. His twin grasped it, and there was a flash of light, or a sudden darkness. [Both, actually. That's magic for you.] Damien stood, amidst the rubble. Gathering the shards of Cross and Dagger, he placed them in a pocket. A ghost of memory surfaced, and he added the Cross of Torquemada to the mix. Then he snapped his fingers, and vanished, leaving only mysteries behind. EPILOGUE, THE CROSS ESTATE Magic flared, in a place beyond Space and Time. Floating in midair, Damien poured mystic energy into a bowl, filled with scraps of iron and gold. There was little direction, as the magic took its own path. Finally, the spell ended. Where two crosses and a broken dagger had lain, there remained only an ornate Key. Damien nodded with satisfaction. "Well guys, what do you think?" *Good and evil mixed as one. Tis a wonder you have done* Netrigan replied, *Any plane is yours to see. This may rival Titania's key.* From his better half came only a glow of approval, mixed in with a tinge of resigned acceptance. "Glad you like it," Damien said, dropping it into the pocket of his rusty suit. 'Turning' to a door flanked by black and white columns, he left the plane, exiting into his living room. Passing a mirror, he stopped to smooth his hair. Once again, his look had been changed. His russet hair war grey at the temples, and hung to his shoulders. His eyes remained blue-green, but thankfully, were once again human. Straightening his "Power Tie" on his pale cream shirt, he checked his teeth, and moved on. A sudden flicker caught his eye, and he noticed a white envelope, lying on the coffe table. Curiosity, both his and his tenants, filled his mind, as he moved to open it: Dear Mr. Cross: It would give me great pleasure if you would agree to dine with me, at my house, tonight at 7:00. We share certain interests, and could discuss our mutual experiences. I might even have a proposition for you. Sincerely, The Baron TO BE CONTINUED --------------------------------------- Mario Di Giacomo, ECM101@uriacc.uri.edu "You're so weird!" "You have *no* idea" ---------------------------------------