[Text note: The following has been determined to be an excerpt from L'orda Rosi (The Order of the Rose), written in the high Alasean tongue over five centuries before the birth of She who will be known as the Wit'ch of Winter's Eyrie.]

Midnight at the Valley of the Moon

Drums beat back the stillness of the winter's valley, snow etching the valley in silver. A hawk screeched a protest at the interruption of its nighttime nesting.

Er'ril leaned his knuckles on the crumbling sill and craned his neck out the inn's third story window. The valley floor was dotted with the fires of the men who still followed the way of the Order. So few campfires, he thought. He watched the black shadows bustling around the firelight, arming themselves. They, too, knew the meaning of the drums.

The night breeze carried the scent of oiled armor and snatches of shouted orders. Smoke from the fires reached toward the heavens carrying the prayers of the soldiers down below.

And beyond the fires, at the edge of the valley, massed a darkness that ate the stars.

The hawk screeched again. Er'ril's lips thinned to a frown. "Silence, small hunter," he whispered into the moonless night. "By morning you and the scavengers will be feasting your bellies full. But for now, leave me in peace."

Greshym, the old mage, spoke behind him, "They hold the valley heights. What chance have we?"

Er'ril closed his eyes and let his head hang lower, a sick tightness clamping his belly. "We'll give him a naught longer, sir. He may yet find a weakness through their lines."

"But the Dreadlords mass at the entrance to the valley. Listen to the drums. The Black legions march."

Er'ril turned from the window to face Greshym with a sigh and sat on the sill, eyeing the old man. Greshym's red robes hung in tatters on his thin frame as he paced before the feeble fire. The old mage, his dusty hair just wisps around his ears, walked with a bent back, his eyes red from the fumes of the hearth.

"Then pray for him," Er'ril said. "Pray for all of us."

Greshym stopped and warmed his backside by the fire while frowning back at him. "I know what's working behind your grey eyes, Er'ril of Standi. Hope. But both you and your Standi clansman are clutching empty air."

"What would you have us do? Bow our heads to the Dreadlord's axes?"

"It will come to that soon enough." Greshym rubbed the stump of his right wrist, almost accusingly.

Er'ril remained silent, his eyes caught by the sight of that smooth stump. He should not have pressed the old man some six moons ago. Er'ril remembered the Gul'gotha dog that had trapped the two of them and a handful of refugees in the Fields of Elysia.

Greshym seemed to notice his stare. He raised his stump toward the flickering flame. "Listen, boy, we both knew the risks."

"I panicked."

"You were frightened for the children. What with your niece among the townspeople."

"I shouldn't have pushed you. You told me what would happen if you tried to renew." Er'ril bowed his head, picturing the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the fields of tallac. He again saw Greshym raise his right fist to the heavens, begging for the gift of Chi, his hand vanishing in the fading sunlight as the ritual began. But this time, when the old mage pulled his arm back down, instead of his hand reappearing richly coated in red Chyric power, Greshym pulled back only a stump.

"It was my choice, Er'ril. Put this aside. It was you who saved all our hides that day."

Er'ril fingered the scar on his forearm. "Perhaps . . ." After Greshym's maiming, he had lunged at the Gul'gotha beast, tearing the creature to bloody ribbons. Even now, he was unsure if rage or guilt had driven his wild stabs. Afterward, he had been covered in steaming blood and gore; the children had shied from him in fear, even his niece . as if he were the monster.

Greshym snorted. "I knew it would happen. The same fate befell the other mages of the Order." He shoved the sleeve over his stump, hiding it away. "Chi has abandoned us."

Er'ril raised his eyes. "Not everyone has suffered the same fate."

"Only because they have held off renewing." Greshym sighed. "But they will. They will be forced to try. Eventually even the hand of your brother, Shorkan, will fade. When I last saw him, the Rose had already waned to a feeble pink. Barely enough power for one decent spell. Once that is gone, he will be forced to reach into Chi himself, to try to renew, then he, too, will lose his hand."

"Shorkan knows this. The academy in the neighboring valley -- "

"Foolish hope! Even if he should find a student who is still blood-red, of what use is one child's fist? It would take a dozen mages fresh to the Rose to drive off the force out there. And what of the other hundred battles going on across our lands? We're besieged by the Gul'gotha's Dreadlords from all fronts."

"He has a vision."

"Posh!" By now, Greshym had returned to face the fire, silent for several breaths, then he spoke to the embers. "How could three centuries of civilization vanish so quickly? Our spell-cast spires that once reached to the very clouds have toppled to dust. Our people rage against us, blaming us for the loss of Chi's support and protection. Cities lie in ruin. The feasting roar of the Gul'gotha echoes across the countryside."

Er'ril remained silent. He squeezed his eyes closed when a horn suddenly trumpeted across the valley. A Standi horn! Could it be?

Er'ril swung to the window, and almost fell out of it as he leaned into the night, one ear cocked to listen. The horn again split the night. Even the distant drums of the Black Legion seemed to falter a beat. Er'ril spotted a commotion by the northern campfires. He squinted, trying to pierce the night's blanket. A roiling of activity disturbed the firepits, then for just a heartbeat, outlined by the camp's cooking fire, the rearing of a chestnut stallion. It was Shorkan's steed!

The night swallowed away the sight before Er'ril could tell if the horse was mounted by one or two riders. Er'ril struck the sill with his gloved fist.

Greshym was already at Er'ril's shoulder. "Is it Shorkan?"

"I believe so!" Er'ril pushed away from the window. "Hurry below! He may need assistance."

Er'ril did not wait to see if Greshym followed as he rushed from the room and pounded down the wooden steps of the inn, leaping from the last landing to the main floor. Once his feet hit the planks, he charged across the common room. Makeshift beds lined the wall with bandaged men occupying nearly all of them. Normally, he would stop beside a bed and place a hand on a knee or exchange jokes with one of the injured. But not now. Healers stepped aside as he burst across the room, and a posted guardsman swung the door wide to allow him outside.

The frigid night air burned his lungs as he flew through the portal and across the inn's porch. As he reached the icy mud at the foot of the porch, he heard the thundering of heavy-shod hooves approaching fast. Flickering torches shoved deep into the mud did little to illuminate the horse's approach. As soon as he sighted the flaring nostrils and wild eyes of the stallion, it was upon him. The horse floundered to stop as the rider yanked back the reins. The steed buried its forelimbs to the pasterns in mud as it heaved to a halt. Foamy spittle flew from its lips as it shook its mane, and huge flumes of white blew into the black night from its feverish nose.

But Er'ril gave no more than passing notice to the savagely exhausted horse. Where he might ordinarily blast the foul rider who would so poorly treat such a beautiful beast, tonight he knew the rider's urgency. He raised a hand to his brother.

Shorkan shook his head and slid off the horse, landing with a groan, but keeping his feet under him. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Well met, brother. Give me a hand with my friend."

Er'ril noticed for the first time the small second rider who had been seated behind his brother. The small figure shivered in his brother's coat over a set of nightclothes. Blue-lipped and pale-faced, the tow-headed boy could be no older than ten. Er'ril helped the boy off the sweating horse and half-carried the trembling child up the steps to the porch.

"We've a warm room and hot ko'koa on the third floor," Er'ril said over his shoulder to his brother. Shorkan was passing the reins of his stallion over to a groomsman. Er'ril saw the pain in his brother's eyes as his horse limped away.

Both brothers bore the grey eyes and thick black hair of their Standi heritage, but Shorkan's face, even though he was the younger of the two brothers, wore deep-etched lines of worry at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Er'ril wished he could shoulder more of his brother's burden, but he was not the one chosen by Chi to bear the gift of the Rose. Er'ril could only offer the strength of his arm and the edge of his blade to aid his brother.

"Quick then. Up to the room." Shorkan tipped his head, listening to the drums from the valley heights. "We've a long night ahead of us still."

Er'ril led the way inside and to the stairs, the boy stumbling beside him. At least some color was returning to the child's face as the heat from the fireplaces warmed him. His pale thin lips reddened and his cheeks bloomed with a rosy warmth. From under straw-colored hair, his blue eyes, rare for these parts, stared back at Er'ril.

Shorkan studied the number of beds as they passed through the common room. "More injured?"

"Skirmishes at the valley ridges," Er'ril explained.

Shorkan merely nodded, but a deeper frown buried his lips. He gently pushed on Er'ril's shoulder to get him to climb the stairs a pace faster.

Once in the room, Er'ril found Greshym where he had left him -- still warming his backside by the fire.

Shorkan stalked into the room. "I'm surprised to find you still here, Greshym."

The older man stepped aside to allow room for Shorkan by the fire. "Where else would I be?" Greshym said. "You've boxed us into this valley. Trapped us."

"You've followed me this far, Greshym, on blind faith of my word. Trust me a little further."

"So you keep saying." The old man pointed with his chin. "Let's see your hand, Shorkan."

"If you must." He shoved his right hand toward the old man. It had a slight ruddy hue to it, like a fresh sunburn.

The old man shook his head. "Your Rose fades, Shorkan." Greshym eyed the boy who was sneaking closer to the warmth of the fire. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder once he was within reach. "So you found one of the students?" He reached down and lifted the sleeve of the man-sized overcoat to expose the child's right hand. It was pale and white as his frightened face. "What's this? You failed?"

Shorkan gently freed the boy from Greshym and placed an arm around the child's shoulders. He positioned the boy closer to the fire and patted him on the head. "He's left-handed." Shorkan scooted the left sleeve of the coat up to expose the child's other hand. It glowed bright red, as if the boy had dipped his hand, wrist-deep, into a pool of blood. Whorls and eddies of various red hues swam across his tiny palm and the back of his hand. "Being left-handed saved his life. One of the dog soldiers made the same mistake and let him slip through the initial slaughter. He hid in an apple barrel. The rest of the Academy is a slaughterhouse."

"So there are no others?" Greshym asked. "Of what use is one child's power against an army of the Gul'gotha? I was hoping you would have found a teacher still bloodied and fresh to the Rose. Someone with knowledge."

"None. Even the Headmaster fled."

"That sounds like Master Re'alto," Er'ril said sourly. "I never trusted the weasel."

Shorkan turned away from the fire. He nodded toward the window where the drums could still be heard. "It is of no matter. We will all be slaughtered by the morning."

"What?" Er'ril stepped up to his brother. "What of your vision?"

Greshym snorted. "What did I tell you . . ." he mumbled.

"Trust me, brother. Tonight doesn't concern our mere survival here. It concerns the fate of our future."

"What future?" Greshym said. "This child is probably the last full-bloodied mage in all the lands of Alasea."

"You speak the truth, Greshym. With this child ends the reign of Chi. The world is heading into a black age. A grim time where men will be forged in blood and tears. It was foretold by the sect of Hi'fai, those of the Order who trace the paths of the future."

"Doomsayers!" Er'ril said. "Heretics. They were cast out."

"Bad news was never well received. Least of all by those in power. But they spoke the truth." Shorkan pointed out the window. "The drums announce the clarity of their visions."

"But we are still a strong people," Er'ril said. "We can survive."

Shorkan smiled thinly at his older brother. "You also speak the truth, Er'ril. But Alasea will still fall, and her people will be subjugated by the Gul'gotha. It is the time of darkness for the land. Like the cycles of the sun and moon, night must follow day. But with our actions here, we may create a future sunrise. We will not see it, nor will our great grandchildren, but someday, a new sun has a chance of rising. To ignite that future dawn, a piece of this sunlight must be passed down to our descendants. From us."

"But how?" Er'ril said, eyeing the small child. "How?"

"The Hi'fai sect foretold a book."

Greshym retreated to the lone bed in the room. "The book? Shorkan, you are a fool. Is this why you brought me along?"

"They were your words, Greshym. When you once belonged to the Hi'fai."

Er'ril paled and took a step away from the old man.

"It was a long time ago," Greshym said. "When I was still new to the Gifts. I dismissed the sect ages ago."

"Yet I am sure you still remember the prophecy. Others in later years confirmed your visions."

"It is madness."

"It is the truth. What were your words?"

"I don't remember. Foolish words."

"What were they?"

Greshym covered his eyes with his one good hand. His voice seemed to come from far away.

"'Three will come.
One injured,
One whole,
One new to the blood.
There,
Forged in the blood of an innocent
At midnight in the Valley of the Moon, The book will be made.
Three will become one
And the book will be bound.' "

Shorkan sat on the bed next to Greshym. "We have studied your words. Now is the time."

Greshym groaned. "There's much you don't know. You're young to the blood. I have studied other scrolls. Texts since burned when the Hi'fai were cast out. Not all was committed to parchment."

Shorkan gripped the old mage's shoulder. "Speak, Greshym. Free your tongue. Time runs short."

He lowered his head and mumbled quietly,

" 'Blood will call her. Book will bind her.
Bound in blood,
She will rise.
Heart of stone.
Heart of spirit.
She will rise again.' "

Silence blanketed the room. Only the crackling of the fire intruded.

Er'ril's hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. "I thought her myth."

"Sisa'kofa," Shorkan said, releasing his grip on Greshym's shoulder, his eyes narrow with worry. "The Wit'ch of Spirit and Stone."

Er'ril began pacing the threadbare rug. "Legend has her destroyed by Chi. Damning her for daring to wield the blood magic. Cursing all women to bleed with each moon as punishment for her atrocities. How could this abomination rise again?"

Greshym shrugged. "That's why we held our tongue. Not all visions surrounding the book are bright."

"A grim vision indeed," Shorkan said. "Maybe with time, we could discern other prophetic visions to shed some light on your words. But midnight closes in on us. It must be now, or we will lose the chance forever."

Greshym sighed. "Yet dare we risk it?"

"Even with visions, the future is blind to us." Shorkan stood up from the bed, the wood of the frame creaking in protest. "We must work with the tools at hand. Our Order is at its end. By creating this book, a small piece of our magic can be preserved. I say we still proceed."

"I'll follow your lead, Shorkan . . . what else can I do?" the old man said, exposing his stump.

"Come then." Shorkan helped Greshym on his feet. "By the fire."

Er'ril watched as his brother gathered the boy to him, and the three mages set up a warding circle of candle drippings before the fire. Strong warding for strong magic. Er'ril stepped back.

Shorkan twisted his neck to acknowledge Er'ril. "You, too, will play a role in this venture, brother. A vital role. When we are finished, a bright flash of white light will burst forth, and wild magicks will still be loose in the room. You must quickly close the book to end the spell."

"I will not fail you," he said, frowning, a sick emptiness worming into his chest. "But magick is your heart, brother. Why not close the book yourself?"

"You know why, brother. Or at least suspect it. I can see it in your eyes." Shorkan glanced from his brother. "The forging of this text will destroy the three of us. We must become the book."

Er'ril tensed, his suspicions realized. "But -- "

"Midnight fast approaches, brother."

"I know the night is late! Answer me this, brother. What of this child?" Er'ril nodded toward the boy. "You will sacrifice him. Does not he have a say?"

"I was born to this, armsman," the boy said, speaking for the first time, his words calm and sure. Er'ril realized he still did not know the boy's name, though his accent suggested he was raised in one of the coastal townships. "Chi guided me to the apple barrel to hide when the Dreadlords attacked. This is meant to be."

"The boy and I have already spoken of such matters," Shorkan said, stepping from the circle and putting his arms around Er'ril. He squeezed him tight. "Fear not, big brother. It must be done."

Er'ril tightened his own arms around his brother. And remained silent, afraid his voice would betray the depth of his despair.

After too short a time, Greshym cleared his throat, placing his spent candle on the mantle. Er'ril released his brother after a final firm hug.

"What will act as the totem for the book?" Greshym asked, wiping wax from his fingers on his robe. Er'ril noticed the old man stood taller, less stooped -- almost his old self. It had been many months since the old man had wielded magick. "The totem, too, must be warded by the heart of a forger."

Shorkan pulled out a battered book from a pocket of his riding vest. Er'ril recognized the rose etched in golden burgundy on its cover, the edges of the paint flecking away in places from age and tired use. It was Shorkan's diary. "I have carried this at my breast for three years."

He rested the book in the center of the circle and reached to his waist and removed a gilt-edged dagger, a sculpted rose prominent on the butt of the hilt. Greshym slipped a matching dagger from a fold in his robe. Then the older mages looked to the boy.

"I don't have mine," he answered their stares, eyes wide. "It's back at the school."

"It's of no matter," Shorkan consoled. "Any knife will do. These fancy blades are just ceremonial."

"Still it would be prudent to maintain proper form," Greshym said. "This is a powerful spell we weave."

"We have no choice. The night wears thin." Shorkan turned to his brother and held out his hand. "I'll need your dagger, Er'ril. The one father gave you."

With an emptiness still aching in his chest, he snapped the buckling and freed his dagger. He laid the ironwood hilt in his brother's palm.

Shorkan gripped the knife, seeming to weigh its balance, then turned from his brother. "Er'ril, step three paces back from us. Do not approach, no matter what you see, until the burst of white light."

He did as instructed, stumbling back as the three knelt within the protective circle of wax. Shorkan passed the rose-handled knife to the boy, keeping his father's dagger for himself.

"Let us prepare." Shorkan said.

Er'ril watched his brother slice a thin bloody line across his right palm. Greshym did the same to his left palm, holding the hilt in his teeth. Only the boy held his dagger still poised, un-bloodied.

Shorkan noticed his hesitation. "The knife is honed fine. Cut fast and only the smallest sting will be felt."

The boy still held the dagger frozen.

Greshym spat his own knife from between his teeth into his bleeding palm. "This must be done by your own will, boy. We can not take this burden from you."

"I know. This is my first time."

"Quick and clean," Shorkan said.

The boy squeezed his eyes tight, face tensed in a wince, and drew the blade across his palm. Blood welled into his cupped palm. Eyes bright with moisture, the boy turned to Shorkan.

He nodded. "Good. Now let it begin."

All three reached and placed bloodied palms upon the book, fingers touching each other, entwined like tentative lovers. Shorkan intoned, "As our blood mingles, so do our powers. Let the three become one."

Er'ril watched as the intense redness of the boy's hand spread to the other two mages, until all hands glowed a deep rose. A slight breeze began swirling through the room, stirring a few strands of Er'ril's blond hair. At first, Er'ril thought it simply a wind from the open window. But this breeze was warm, like a whisper of spring.

All three mages had heads lowered in prayer, lips moving silently. As they prayed, the breeze began whirling faster and faster, hotter and hotter. And as the wind swept through the room, it drained color from the circle, drawing substance from the wax ring. Er'ril could now see the sweeping wind buffeting him, swirls of hues mixing and gyrating. As the wind gained a richness of texture, the contents of the wax circle become duller, bled of their substance.

In the fading ring, only the book itself remained substantial, still crisp with color as it rested in the center of the circle. Even the mages, crouching by the book, had become crystalline statues, translucent and vague.

The wind grew fiercer. His eyes stinging, Er'ril had trouble standing before the gale as its hot breath attacked him in swirls of color. He leaned into the storm.

Suddenly Er'ril saw his brother, still only a translucent figure, burst to his feet within the circle.

"No!" Shorkan screamed at the ceiling. With his brother's yell, the diary flew open, and a blinding light fountained upward from the pages, bright as a sun for a heartbeat, then collapsing back to nothing, swallowed back into the pages of the book.

Er'ril rubbed away the after-images of the burning light from his eyes.

The boy, who like others was just a translucent outline, scrabbled away from the book, backing toward Er'ril.

Shorkan spotted him. "Halt!" he yelled.

The boy ignored him and continued, pushing to the edge of the wax ring. There, he met resistance, having to lean and shove against an invisible barrier. But he was stronger than the barrier, and as he pushed past the wax ring boundary, parts of his body became substantial again.

But what was coming through wasn't human!

As the boy crossed the warding, his body transformed from a translucent figure of a boy to a hulking, shaggy-limbed beast.

Shorkan called to his brother, "Stop him, Er'ril. Before all is lost! We are deceived."

Before Er'ril could react, a fiery gale exploded from the circle, flipping him across the room and onto the bed. The room plunged into darkness as the candles and fire were snuffed out by the force of the wind.

After the burst, the storm instantly died away, as if someone had slammed a door shut on a winter's storm. Er'ril searched the room, still darkened by the damped fire. He was alone.

Suddenly the fireplace flamed back to life, a still-glowing ember re-igniting the blaze. Blinking in the sudden light, Er'ril spotted his brother's diary, open on the rug. No light emanated from its pages.

Where was the beast? Where was his brother? Er'ril scrambled up from the bed and cautiously surveyed the wind-ravaged room, clothes and traveling bags flung to all corners, chairs overturned.

As he stepped from the edge of the bed toward the open book, something grabbed his ankle from behind and yanked, toppling him to the rug. Rolling onto his back, he blindly kicked at his assailant, a heel striking flesh with a satisfying thud. The grip weakened on his ankle, and Er'ril ripped his leg free. Leaping away from the hidden assailant, Er'ril rolled on his shoulder to face his opponent, pulling to a crouch as he swept out his sword.

From under the bed, it crawled free, pursuing him -- the beast that was once a boy. Amber eyes, slitted black, spat hate toward him as the were-creature hissed. Straightening from its lumbering crouch to its full shaggy height, it stood easily as tall as Er'ril, but massed at least twice what he did. Matts of black fur hung from it, like drapes of hoary moss. But its daggered claws and razor teeth drew most of Er'ril's attention. It lumbered toward him, its foul stench preceding it.

Er'ril backed, raising the tip of his sword. As if his motion was a signal, the creature leaped at him. Er'ril dodged to the right, under one of its sweeping arms, and dragged the edge of his long blade across the beast's flank as he passed.

Ignoring its howl, Er'ril leaped atop the bed, seeking a better position to attack. Whirling to face the monster, his sword readied to parry a second attack, Er'ril froze. No attack came. The beast lumbered away from him.

Toward the book!

No! Er'ril leaped toward it, sword aloft in both hands He used the force of his plummeting weight to plunge the sword deep through the center of its wide back, driving the sword through to the wooden planks beneath the creature. The beast spasmed, its neck snapped back and its mouth open in a silent scream. The creature collapsed forward, Er'ril landing on top of it.

Er'ril rolled off the foul creature and grabbed for his dagger. But his hand froze on the empty scabbard. He had given Shorkan his knife! But the beast remained limp on the floor, dead.

Breathing heavily, one eye on the monster, Er'ril crept around its limp bulk and stepped to the open diary. Shorkan had told him he needed to close the book to complete the spell. But after all that had occurred, had something gone wrong? Had the transformation failed?

Er'ril knelt by the diary. He saw that his brother's scrabbly handwriting filled the exposed pages. The book had not changed.

Er'ril felt fresh tears well up in is reddened eyes. Had his brother lost his life for nothing? Gently he reached down and touched the cover's edge. The only token of his lost brother, his lost family, his lost land. Closing his eyes, he flipped the book closed, completing his dead brother's wish.

As the book clapped shut, a cold shock jerked through Er'ril's body and sprawled him across the floor. Lights danced across his vision for several heartbeats, and the room spun and tilted cock-eyed. Finally, his vision focused again. The first sight was of the beast now transformed back into a boy. Er'ril's sword thrust up from the child's back as he lay spread in a widening pool of blood that reached to the diary itself.

My god, what have I done? Er'ril felt an icy claw around his heart. What trickery is this? Did I slay an innocent child?

He scanned the room for some insight, panicked that some foul magick had deceived him into murdering the boy.

His eyes settled upon the book. Maybe . . .

He reached, ever slowly, toward the diary. His finger hovered above the cover, then quickly tapped at it, as if teasing a snake. Nothing. No shock this time.

Biting his lip, this time he placed his entire palm down on the book. Still nothing.

With a single finger, he flipped the cover open. A blank white page stared back at him. He knew his brother had crammed the diary from cover to cover with his scribblings. Again with a single finger, Er'ril fanned through the rest of the book. Blank. All empty pages.

Er'ril picked up the book, the boy's blood dripping from its leather binding, and flipped to the first page.

As he stared at the white page, words coalesced on the paper, as if a ghost were scribbling across it in red ink. He recognized the handwriting. It was Shorkan's!

Er'ril spoke to the empty air, "Brother, do you hear me?"

The writing continued as if he had never spoken.

"Shorkan?"

Still no response.

Er'ril read the words, and his fists clenched at the book's pages:

 

" 'And so the book was forged, soaked in the blood of an innocent at midnight in the Valley of the Moon. He who would carry it read the first words and choked in tears for his lost brother . and his lost innocence. Neither would ever return.' "

 

Dropping the book to the floor, Er'ril stared at the boy's blood coating his palms and crashed to his knees in bitter tears.

Copyright © 1999 by James Clemens

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Excerpted from Wit'ch Fire by James Clemens. Copyright © 1999 by James Clemens. Excerpted by permission of James Clemens. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. 

James Clemens was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1961. With his three brothers and three sisters, he was raised in the Midwest and rural Canada. There, he explored cornfields, tadpoles, and frozen ponds, dreaming of worlds and adventures beyond the next bend in the creek.

Eventually, forced to grow up, he went to school at the University of Missouri, where he graduated with a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1985.

During one especially icy Midwestern winter, the lure of ocean, sun, and new horizons eventually drew him to the West Coast where he established his veterinary practice in Sacramento, California. Presently, he shares his home with two Dalmatians, a stray Shepherd, and a love-sick parrot named Igor.

He has been a spinner of tales since his childhood; Wit'ch Fire is his first novel.

Mr. Clemens may be reached by e-mail at JPCDVM@aol.com.