The Caliph of the Latverian Isles was not having the best day 
imaginable.

	Hillwind, as an angel of the Lord of Hosts, was effectively 
immortal. Things like spike traps, deadfalls, poisoned darts, and 
maniacal cultists didn't really cramp his style. His retinue, on the 
other hand, seemed to almost have an affinity for them.

	Twelve toadies and eight traps later, Hillwind was alone, 
irritated, and had a cultist slammed up against a handy wall. "Who 
*are* you people," Hillwind said, a bit more malice in his voice than 
he wanted, "and what on *Earth* is going on here?"

	"--the spellbreaker--" the cultist gasped. "--she's here, the 
legends were right--"

	"She's *what*?" Hillwind said, letting the cultist drop. If 
the Spellbreaker was here, that meant--oh, God, it meant everything. 
"I have to tell the Lord," Hillwind said out loud. "I have to get 
back to Heaven!"

	The cultist, struggling to his feet next to Hillwind, 
convulsed suddenly. Hillwind took a step backward, to a cautious 
distance, as the cultist grabbed at his throat. Suddenly, all the 
moisture in the man's body exploded out of him in a cloud of mist, 
dispersing into the air. The cultist hit the ground a shriveled husk.

	"Like Hell you do," Ezekiel said calmly.

===================================
To Hell and Back
First the "Hell," now the "Back"

Chapter 19: Revelations

this chapter by Thomas Wilde
this impro by Steven Scougall

once again, for the girl
====================================

	And now, we take a moment to study the common Cultist.

	The Cultist, in literature, is usually best defined as a 
troubled loner. Modern society has no place for him and his 
interests, so he often enters into a rough partnership with a group 
of similarly disillusioned individuals. These groups (often referred 
to as a mockery, as in "a mockery of cultists") tend to congregate 
around various places that no sane person would touch, such as 
ancient temples dedicated to forgotten gods.

	One of the hallmarks of the common Cultist is that, when 
found being used as a tool by ancient powers that Must Not Be Named, 
the Cultist is frequently chosen for his or her readily pliable 
personality, or particularly weak psychic defenses.

	In other words, Cultists are chosen for their bodies, not for 
their minds.

========

	Treisel stopped the cultists' first mad rush with a lightning 
bolt. It tore into the floor at their feet, sending them flying like 
tenpins. Stone shrapnel tore at Treisel's face and hands, but he 
stayed standing. One or two evaded that assault, but Iryien stepped 
in front of them. One went down with her foot in his groin, and the 
other staggered backward with a deep gash across his chest.

	The conscious cultists staggered to their feet. They stared 
at Treisel from underneath masks of rage and through films of blood, 
emanating from scalp wounds. Treisel tried to keep his knees from 
knocking together, and began tracing runes in the air for a Fire 
spell.

	Suddenly, the cultists' weapons all hit the floor.

	(Elsewhere in the Temple of the Lost Gods, the pieces of the 
Idol dissolved into sand. Rahve, Caemryn, and Waj stepped back, Waj 
raising his pitchfork, as a pale luminescence arose from the pieces.

	("Free at last," the air itself said, or seemed to say. "Free at 
last."

	(And then it was gone, leaving them to wonder.)

	Blood from wounds flowed back into the cultists' bodies, the 
wounds themselves flashing with silver light and being gone. The 
cultists lowered the hoods on their brown woolen robes. Unremarkable 
features changed subtly, twisting into other people before Treisel 
and Tao's eyes.

	"Treisel, what's going on?" Tao said, brandishing the 
candleabra. Iryien, almost without realizing it, stepped in front of 
her with her shield raised.

	"I haven't the slightest," Treisel replied, "but if I don't 
find out soon, I'm just... I'll just blast the lot of them. That'll 
do the trick."

	"Oh, that won't be necessary, m'boy," one of the cultists 
said. "That won't be necessary at all."

	The cultists were different entirely now, still human, but 
not the same humans. One now had a long mane of silvery hair that 
stretched to his waist. Another, previously male, was now a plump 
blonde woman, plucking distastefully at her undergarments. A third 
had gone from a weakly handsome young man to a jolly-looking old man, 
his nose and chin rounding out from points.

	"Good evening to you, Ms. Feymu, Mr. Arrayarli, Ms. 
Maglashka," the jolly man continued. "M'name's Phil. These're 
Lorraine, Deke, Steve, Mary, and Scooter.

	"We're They.

	"Pleased to meet you, face to face."

========

	At the Great Zinnonean University, Chancellor Hatstring's 
desk exploded.

	There was no warning, no cloud of magic or twinge of psychic 
instinct. One moment, Hatstring was sitting at his desk, exulting in 
his current streak of two months without a visitation by the 
personification of Death, and the next, the expensive handcrafted 
wood was kindling and crossbow bolts.

	Hatstring's streak was, needless to say, broken.

========

	Simon the donkey, who had once been a man, was feeling... randy.

	His memories of being bipedal were a faint and ragged dream. 
Simon began to think of himself more and more as a donkey, and not as 
a human who'd had some bad luck.

	And donkeys, sometimes, feel nature's call.

	She was a strong donkey, with quick eyes and a quicker tail. 
Her coat was as lustrous as one could conveniently expect. She looked 
at Simon with fondness and a little bit of desire, that little bit 
that a donkey can manage.

	Nature began to take its course.

	As Tao Feymu met face-to-face with They, Simon's form began 
to melt. Hooves formed into hands and feet. His coat of protective 
hair and tail faded away, replaced by soft pink flesh. He let out a 
bray of dismay as he stumbled to the ground behind the female donkey, 
skinning newly attained elbows in the process.

	The farmer who owned the female donkey paid a visit a few 
minutes later with a spear, and found a naked man sitting in the pen 
with his donkey.

	Simon had to do some fast talking.

========

	The people of Hesgeynford were going insane. Day and night, 
since Tao Feymu had dispatched the Lobster to parts unknown, the 
surviving frogs were croaking. No one could sleep. No one could open 
a cabinet without a toad jumping out at them. The taste of frog legs, 
or the smell of cooking frog legs, or the *remembered* taste or smell 
of frog legs, set stomachs to tumbling from the dirty streets of the 
slums to the splendored opulence of city hall.

	Then the croaking stopped.

	All at once.

	The frogs went back to the airy substances from which they 
came, turning first into a somehow froggy-smelling green mist, and 
then into nothing at all.

	The people of Hesgeynford came out into the streets, looking 
at each other in wonder and more than a little shock.

========

	A baby was born with a birthmark, shaped like the continent 
of Zinnonea. When the doctor spanked her, her first infant cries were 
horrible profanities in perfect Dabruscan, a dialect that had not 
been spoken in a thousand years.

	In the Great Zinnonean University, a certain book burst into 
green flames and was gone, never to return.

	The town of Prachett, a small community of academics that 
neither Tao or Treisel had ever heard of, had a blind woman, a seer 
and herbalist, who had provided wisdom and medicine for the village 
since anyone could remember. People who paid her a visit that morning 
found, in her place, a sixteen-year-old girl with perfect eyes who 
claimed to be the seer's successor. She said she was the seer's 
granddaughter, but when she said it, she smiled a little bit and 
looked north, towards the Latverian Isles.

	At a bawdy show in Feaw, the provocatively attired women 
onstage stopped suddenly and looked around, as if they couldn't 
remember what they had been doing. Slowly, they put their discarded 
clothing back on, sat down, and began telling children's stories to 
an audience of men who were too shocked to move.

	Farmers found housecats snuggled up to wolves in their 
backyards, sleeping contentedly. The sun danced for a solid minute as 
it moved across the afternoon sky. Flowers the color of blood bloomed 
and died in city streets, all within the course of a minute. Across 
the world, milk went sour, rivers ran cold or boiling, mountains rang 
like struck bells, wizards went mad, and those with what people 
called Second Sight looked in the direction of the Latverian Isles, 
as if waiting.

	Waiting. That's the word.

	The world was waiting.

========

	"You're playing both sides, Ezekiel?" Hillwind said. "You're 
a traitor?"

	"Oh, come off it, you ponce," Ezekiel said disgustedly. 
"There are no traitors in the War of Heaven. We're all angels here."

	"No. You *were* an angel," Hillwind retorted. Old words came 
to mind, and, flickering with time spent in disuse, his holy sword 
came into his hands. "Now you're a demon, Ezekiel. That spell you 
just cast proves it."

	Ezekiel rolled his eyes. "I never *could* talk to any of you people..."

	"Defend yourself, Ezekiel!"

	"Defend *your*self, Hillwind."

========

	"Well, then!" Phil said, clapping his hands together. "On to 
business, then, hm?"

	"...what sort of... *business*, Mr. Phil?" Treisel said suspiciously.

	"The kind of business that we've had in mind since the 
decision to *make* the Spellbreaker," Lorraine said sourly. "What do 
you have, kid, rocks in your head?"

	"Now, now, Lorraine..." Phil said, wagging his finger at her. 
"Remember, not everyone's omniscient..."

	"...right. Sorry."

	Phil turned back to Treisel and Tao. He was about to say 
something else, but Rahve, Caemryn, and Waj arrived suddenly at a 
dead sprint. Scooter turned towards them as they entered the passage, 
which Waj took as an opportunity to punch him out. Scooter, the God 
of Fools and Sixth Lord of They, fell down.

	"Tao! Treisel!" Waj shouted.

	"*Nobody* move!" Rahve shouted, pointing two crossbows sort 
of inclusively at the group of gods. Caemryn took a step back, away 
from them, the better to catch the group in an explosion if need be.

	"It's okay," Tao said. "No, really. It's all right. These 
people won't hurt us."

	"Bloody *right*," Lorraine said. "You okay, Scooter?"

	"Hyuk," Scooter said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

	"I believe," Phil said, "the time has come for a few answers. 
Come on, kids." Phil rubbed his hands together. "I've got me a story 
to tell, and I've been waiting to tell it for three thousand years.

	"This'll be *great*!" he yelled, and did a grotesque little dance.

========

	In the Beginning, They were.

	Phil was the God of the Balance. In layman's terms, he 
handled the administrative duties of the Realms Beyond. He made the 
sun set, the moon rise, the waters flow, and the seasons run on time. 
His symbol was a clock. His symbols were always, *always* set to the 
correct time.

	Lorraine was the Goddess of Knowledge. Scholars and wizards 
were her people. She protected those who went a little too far, who 
braved whatever they needed to, in order to Know, and watched over 
those who studied too much, and took care of themselves too little. 
Her symbol was an open book.

	Deke was the God of Dramatic Irony. Whenever someone said 
something they shouldn't've, whenever someone made the mistake of 
boasting a little too loudly, or thinking something wouldn't 
happen... they were his. The twin masks of comedy and tragedy were 
his symbols, worn by his few priests. As they walked through the 
tunnels of the Temple of the Lost Gods, Deke took a moment to draw 
Treisel aside and apologize: "I was just doin' m'job, y'know? Right?"

	Steve, the God of Chance, took adventurers and gamblers as 
his people. When Deke stepped in to plague a mouthy warrior, Steve 
came in as well, to help that warrior live through it. Steve is 
credited with the invention of dice, which, when turned to double 
sixes, became his symbol. If you listen to a roulette wheel, you can 
hear Steve's voice.

	Mary, the Goddess of Emotion, held the fate of lovers and 
enemies in her hands. Whenever you've loved someone so badly that you 
can't seem to breathe, or hated someone so much that your teeth grind 
together, Mary's been watching. She watched over little girls and 
newlyweds as well, guiding them through their first fumblings in the 
arts which she created. Her symbol is a teardrop. Mary's voice is 
always calm and even. She smiled at Iryien, as if they shared a 
secret, and Iryien walked a little faster.

	Scooter, the aforementioned God of Fools, watched over 
drunkards, small children, idiots, and all others whose blatant 
ignorance made them invincible. Scooter did his job very well, if 
unimaginatively, and giggled at Waj in a way Waj didn't particularly 
like. His symbol was an empty bottle.

	For fifteen hundred years, They did their jobs, and did them 
well. Mystery cults came and went, but none of them ever seemed to 
last beyond that first crucial century. They were lulled into a false 
sense of security, sure that their places were theirs for eternity. 
They didn't notice the mystery cult of God until it had grown too 
large to stop. They watched, helplessly, as this new God threw down 
Lucifer into Hell, and Lucifer pulled other angels down to follow 
Him. In the end, They lost followers hand over fist to this new God, 
the only God, and They had to consider other avenues.

========

	"...and you know what they say," Phil said with a smile. "If 
you can't beat 'em... join 'em."

	"What?" Treisel said. "The Prophecy of the Spellbreaker said 
that you were thrown out. You were deposed."

	"Phaw," Lorraine said. "God's followers like to make their 
god sound mighty like that. 'Our God's the One God! Our God's the Fun 
God!' No, we made the guy see reason. 'Why do all this clerical work 
on your own,' we said to him, 'when we can just go on doing our thing 
and you get the credit?' We didn't want to go to the trouble of 
finding a new dimension, not when we'd been so successful for so 
long. He was easy enough to convince."

	"That's not the important thing, Tao," Phil said. "Look around you."

	They stood in a cavern, one that extended in either 
direction, farther than they could see. There was no light source, 
but there was light, and shadow. None of them could remember their 
arrival in the cavern, or see the door through which they'd entered 
it.

	In the center of the cavern was a long oak table, with eight 
chairs at it. At one end, the chair was scarred and pitted, like it 
had survived a fire; at the other, the chair's arms and seat were 
polished to a reflective shine. The top of the table was easily 
twenty feet off of the floor.

	"This is the table where we convinced God and Lucifer to let 
us continue our work, albeit as their subordinates," Phil said. "This 
is where they sealed the bulk of our power into that idol that you 
smashed," he said, looking at Rahve and Waj. "This is where God 
created the idea of the Spellbreaker, where Lucifer gave the 
Spellbreaker free will, and where we left the Spell."

	"On that table, Tao," Lorraine said, "is the Spell. There 
have been other Spellbreakers before, every so often, but none of 
them have ever lasted long enough to get here. Both Heaven and Hell 
have been locked in an unspoken state of war, both of them trying to 
get the Spellbreaker on their own side, and thus shift the balance of 
power to themselves. But if the Spellbreaker gets the Spell--"

	A wet thump echoed towards them, from further down the cavern.

	Something round bounced into their view. It stopped bouncing, 
started to roll, and fetched up against Caemryn's foot. She looked 
down, gasped, and jumped backwards, as she looked at the dead face of 
Hillwind, now the ex-Caliph of the Latverian Isles.

	"...if the Spellbreaker gets the Spell," a mocking voice 
echoed from the darkness, at the other end of the cavern, "then 
things get just a little more complicated."

	The borrowed bodies of the cultists paled. Wrinkles raced 
across their faces like a map being drawn; formerly taut muscles 
sagged and fell, hair became ragged and thin. They turned to Tao and 
tried to get words out, before the end, but their bodies fell before 
they could speak. Before Treisel realized what had happened, the 
cultists' bodies were skeletons, lying in dust.

	"Ezekiel," Waj said. "How--?!"

	Ezekiel stepped into the light, slowly. He wore white robes, 
the stereotypical cloth of the Host, now plastered to his body with 
Hillwind's blood. His mace, bloody and caked with hair, dangled 
loosely from his left hand. Feathers fell off of his wings like heavy 
snow. He himself bore a crazy wet smile, blood and shreds of flesh 
drooling from either end of his mouth.

	"Oh, my God," Iryien said.

	"He's Fallen," Waj said softly. "He's finally Fallen."

	"I don't know what I was so worried about," Ezekiel said 
calmly. He spat once, to the side. "This doesn't feel like damnation 
at all. It's rather... pleasant. Of course, I may just be a little 
giddy..."

	"Ezekiel, if you take another step, I'm going to... to..." 
Treisel began.

	"You're going to stammer ineffectually, try to cast a spell, 
and watch as your girlfriend saves the day, Treisel, as usual," 
Ezekiel said, not unkindly. "I mean, let's call a spade a spade here, 
shall we?" He took another few steps and leaned against the table. 
"Let's be truthful here, if nowhere else in the world. This is where 
Tao was really born."

	Slowly, Iryien drew her sword, and Rahve reloaded her 
crossbow. Both of them moved forward, next to Tao and Treisel.

	"The truth is, Tao," Ezekiel said, still grinning insanely, 
still glacially calm, "the truth is that They were wrong. When you 
get the Spell, you will upset a balance of power that has stood, in 
perfect opposition, for fifteen hundred years, and neither side wants 
to be the one that loses out.

	"We don't know what that Spell will do in your hands. God 
never said, and Lucifer never asked. Believe me, he's kicking himself 
over *that* one." Ezekiel tapped the mace into his palm. "Just close 
your eyes, Tao.

	"It's almost over."

========

To Be Concluded

========

Sometimes, in the halls of Impro, there comes a writer whose talents 
are so amazing, so awe-inspiring, that he is undoubtedly destined for 
greatness. His words should be treasured, blessed, for in those 
words, greatness waits in an embryonic state. One day, that writer 
will transform the world with his crystalline prose, his dynamic 
plots, his quotable and imitated dialogue.

I, of course, am that writer.

Sweet hot buttered damn with a cinnamon stick, do I kick ass.

Take it home, Steve. "To Hell and Back" concludes, after this.

Thomas Wilde
Maryville, Missouri
2/17/01