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and hated for too long； in bygone lives； and still I live。 I must take you with me where…ever I go； but it will not be easy for you because I shall fight you all the way。 The black powers may have an enemy within my camp now； but I also have one within theirs。 And maybe one day I shall destroy you totally。'
This time there was no answering jibe； just a silence that was disturbed by the rattle of crockery somewhere down below as the hotel kitchen prepared for the start of another day。
Shoulders slumped； eyes already beginning to close with fatigue； Sabat lurched towards the bed which stood in the centre of the pentagram。 His dragging feet caught the chalice； and sent it rolling until it struck the skirting board with a metallic clang。 Fully dressed he flung himself on to the bed； felt sleep swamping him like an ining tide； the relentless rollers sweeping him along。
And he dreamed； a dream in which his astral body went forth with Quentin at his side。 Not the Quentin he had fought in that clearing； a revolting specimen of senility； but a young and handsome man who bore his own looks。 A desert landscape in which nothing grew except sparse cacti and even they were wilting in the terrible heat。 Water that loomed up ahead and then vanished as they approached ；it。 But Quentin seemed unperturbed striding along as though he felt no disfort； Mark struggling along beside him and trying to hide the agony of his roasting flesh。
And in the hottest part of the day （did the temperature ever vary and was there such a thing as nightfall？） they came upon the battleground； multilated bloody bodies lying in the sand； huge black vultures devouring the human carrion； seemingly undisturbed by the intrusion of living men。
Mark Sabat stared and felt the horror eating his stomach like a quick…growing cancer。 Two races were intermingled with the carnage； light…skinned；…fair…haired warriors lying prone with the heavier…built； dark…skinned ones； the latter's faces brooding scowls even in death。 No victors； no losers； just a stalemate deathlock in the eternal battle of Good versus Evil； Light versus Dark。
And only two remained alive in this desert hell； himself and Quentin。 The last ambassadors。 The armies were destroyed and now the oute depended upon this final duel to the death between the two of them。
Sabat awoke； his clothes clinging damply to his skin； his face wet with sweat。 Waning sunlight flooded the room and he was aware that it was late afternoon。 Within minutes he was shivering as the perspiration began to cool on his body； his thoughts going back to that terrible parched desertland of death。 He smiled faintly to himself； that had been the first test； his astral alone with Quentin's in that burning hell； but he had been strong enough to return to his own physical body even though his brother had e back with him。 Neither could destroy the other in the final battle so both must share the same body。
But the real battle was only just beginning。
CHAPTER ONE
THE CEMETERY had long been untended。 A quarter of a century ago it had been the pride of the small village。 Neat rows of white； marbled tombstones； bedecked regularly with fresh flowers according to the season； the grass trimmed so that it resembled strips of lush green lawn。 Now the worst side of nature had taken over。 Brambles which had hitherto been kept in check relishing the freedom to stretch their thorny tentacles； moss and dandelions obtaining a stranglehold on the grass and stifling it so that it grew long and brown and went to seed。 The elements whipped the gravestones mercilessly； obliterating the lettering so that names and dates were indecipherable； and the dead passed into oblivion。
The small church； too； standing amid the tall scots pines had fallen into a state of disrepair。 Slates had blown from the roof； smashed on the weed…covered path from the lichgate and had not been replaced； guttering rusted and overflowed during heavy rainfall because starlings regularly nested and roosted there； the big double doors fast conceding to the depredations of woodworm。
One weekly service on Sunday mornings was a last reminder that religion still clung to this decaying edifice； conducted by an ageing curate who was long past retirement。 And when his time came； it was rumoured in the village； the Church missioners would concede defeat and allow yet another of their remote outposts to fall。 Because nobody wanted the church； that much was apparent by the dwindling congregation which had now fallen below half…a…dozen； while the ranks of the godless were swelling。
The bishop； writing in his diocesan magazine； had referred to the possible closure of this once beautiful church。 A word had been sprayed on the entrance doors with aerosol paint （he conveniently abstained from quoting the word or even mentioning that it had four letters）； and a couple of graves had been 'interfered with'。 That worthy man chose to remonstrate liberally in print with anonymous vandals although he blamed the villagers for this apparent lack of pride in their church。 He did not mention what had bee of the proceeds of a long…established Church Restoration Fund； much of which had been on deposit account at the bank for many years。 Nor was it clear whether the Diocese had totally financed a hideously modern place of worship which was in the last stages of construction in one of the city suburbs。 Bishop Wentnor wasn't one to go into scrupulous detail where church finances were concerned。
Only on moonlit nights was any of the former elegance of St Adrian's Church restored。 The ethereal silvery glow accentuated the architecture while obscuring the missing slates and crumbling stonework in shadow。 Even the churchyard took on some degree of respectability。 And it was during these periods of a full moon that worshippers came in numbers。 But not as Bishop Wentnor would have wished。
It was well after midnight before the full group was assembled in the old cemetery。 They had arrived mostly in twos or singly； creeping stealthily through the straggling hedgerow which bordered a wood at the rear； talking only in whispers； then falling into a humble respectful silence when the tall man in flowing black robes； his face concealed by the dark shadows of a cowl； had arrived。 Now they stood about awkwardly； teenagers who still remembered school discipline； shuffling plimsolled feet and discreetly extinguishing cigarettes which they had shielded in cupped hands。
The tall man addressed them in manding tones； a long arm extended to single out a grave only yards away。 This one had no headstone； just a wooden marker。 A recent burial； the flowers barely starting to wilt。 The aura of sadness which it had engendered by day had turned to a sinister atmosphere by night。
Two youths produced a spade and a pickaxe which they had brought with them。 They received an approving nod from the man whose authority none disputed。 There was no need for instructions and without further delay they began to dig。
The spadework was easy； fresh soil made soft by the recent grave d