From a distance, the blackened metal pyramid had appeared like an immense onyx gem glittering among the dunes. The eerie moonlight it reflected somehow seemed more foreboding than its immense shadow. It stood like the crown of this hostile place, announcing its authority with a simple, sinister beauty.

Now that Ivan stood at the base, looking up the stairs, that beauty was gone. Around the base, piled skeletons and long-dead corpses created a nearly impassable barrier. Near the foot of the steps, the remains hadn't been moved, simply trampled over year after year, decade after decade, and century after century, creating a path. 

Ivan eyed the dead, acknowledging what they were. The unworthy. His gaze drifted to the top of the pyramid, but even squinting, he couldn't see what he'd come for. 

He turned and stared into the desert behind him. He couldn't see them yet, but they were coming. He didn't have long. 

"Tonight I die," Ivan attempted to say, but only a rasp escaped his lips. He had no more songs in him. The desert had taken them. 

He had no more magic in him, either, and the last of his army had withered one by one on the journey, as his exhaustion had set in. Again, he eyed the dead around the pyramid. Soon enough, he'd have another army. 

But he didn't need any more songs. He didn't need his own magic. 

As his foot touched the first step, sickening power coursed its way through him. Eldritch magic. His mouth filled with the taste of rot and his nostrils with the scent of burning metal. By the fifth step, Ivan stopped and emptied his stomach. His head was spinning, and his body moved as if fighting through water. 

For a moment, he hesitated, but the sound of hoofs spurred him. His pursuers were near. 

Ivan quickened his pace, needing time to finish his task. 

When he'd reached halfway up, the stampede of horsemen arrived at the foot of the pyramid. Ivan stopped long enough to watch one rider dismount and approach the stairs. The figure was little more than a speck from Ivan's current height, but Ivan knew the man on instinct alone. Paladin Marlam. 

No longer able to spare even a moment, Ivan climbed with desperation. For what felt like an hour, Ivan pressed on without stop. His lungs were on fire, and his legs ached and trembled. Finally, he collapsed at the top, no longer able to hold himself upright. So, rolling to the edge he'd just cleared, Ivan peeked down on his enemy. 

Marlam seemed to be in no hurry at all and hadn't made nearly as much progress as Ivan had feared. Marlam knew what Ivan knew. No matter what happened here tonight, Ivan was going to die. 

Ivan looked around the top of the pyramid. It was the length of three men square and completely flat except for a single cylindrical slab jutting from the center. The top of the cylinder was slightly concave and far smoother than any other surface on the pyramid. It could have been either a small altar or a place to sit, but Ivan knew what it really was. It was both. It was a throne. 

A slightly decayed corpse lay slumped beside the throne.

Ivan forced himself upright and tugged at the corpse, pulling it to the edge of the stairs. When it was hanging halfway off the top, Ivan sat down and gave the corpse one final shove with his legs, sending the corpse tumbling down the stairs to rest with his long dead companions at the base. Ivan hoped that with a bit of luck, it may slow Marlam a bit.

Ivan quickly drew out his tools. With slow patience and precision, he could hardly spare, he got busy. With soapstone, Ivan made carefully measured lines across the hot iron atop the pyramid, circling the throne at the center. At the pinnacle of the pyramid, the Eldritch magic emanated from the surface of the iron. Faint, unearthly green fire danced across the surface, barely noticeable to the naked eye. 

As his work went on, his hands went numb. The surface of the iron felt blazing hot, yet searing cold writhed up his veins. Still, his hands continued with their purpose, shaping the circle that would bring death for Ivan. It was as if the pyramid willed it. 

When all the markings were finished, Ivan could no longer feel anything past his elbows. His fingertips were as black as the Void. 

'Just as well,' he thought, drawing his dagger. 

With a clumsy but committed motion, Ivan opened the vein on his wrist. Barely restraining his sense of urgency, Ivan carefully let his blood pour onto the soapstone markings. Using his other hand and a dexterity his black fingers should no longer have, he wielded a paintbrush to smooth the blood into perfect little trails. The spectral green flames thickened and clung hungrily to the blood. 

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

As Ivan closed the circle with a final line of his own blood, the runes blazed otherworldly Eldritch light, then faded to a glow. 

Ivan let out a sigh of relief. It was all but done. 

As he made himself stand, Ivan heard a familiar voice behind him. 

"It ends, Ivan," Marlam boomed. 

Ivan tried to retort, but only a dry croak came out. 

"Gods, you sound like shit. Never thought I'd see the day the little songbird lost his voice." Marlam snickered, reaching for the waterskin at his belt, then tossing the skin to Ivan. "Drink up, songbird. I want to hear you sing one last time."

Ivan caught the waterskin and drank deeply. This would be the last drink he ever took, and he'd make it count. After he'd had a few long swigs from the skin, Ivan finally responded. His voice was still dry and came out barely louder than a whisper, but it was still surprisingly beautiful even to his own ears. Dry as it was, it reminded him of electricity echoing through a large banquet hall. 

"What did you say?" Marlam asked. 

Stepping inside the circle, Ivan repeated himself, "I said, 'Go impale yourself.'"

Marlam's face went red, and he lunged at Ivan. Just before impact, bright green light flared, as the magic circle's protective barrier repelled Marlam, flinging him back to the edge. He caught himself with a groan and glared at Ivan. 

"What do you think is going to happen, Ivan? You sit on the Demon Throne and win? You're stupid enough to think it will accept you? No, Ivan, you'll just be another corpse at the bottom.

Or you can stay inside your circle and bleed to death.

No matter what, you will die tonight."

"I'm counting on it," Ivan hissed. 

Understanding suddenly flashed in Marlam's eyes, and he began frantically inspecting the runes. Ivan sluggishly stepped closer to the throne, mindful not to smear his work and ruin the spell. Over his shoulder, Marlam began crying out to Ivan.

"Ivan, don't do this. This is perverse. Please, Ivan, please," Marlam pleaded, "Ivan, you can't! The world should never see such evil!"

Ivan stopped listening to Marlam's panicked screams and made his final steps to the throne. As he turned to sit, Ivan's ears began to ring. Pressure was building in his face, and his vision was filling with red. 

"We gave the Empire everything, Marlam." Ivan's head felt as if it would explode. "Everything!" Ivan was screaming now. "We should have been heroes. Instead, you killed them all... because you feared us?" Ivan turned his head to give the throne one last look, then turned back to meet Marlam's gaze. 

Terror painted Marlam's face. His mouth moved, but Ivan couldn't hear what he was saying. 

"Well, now you have something to fear." Ivan declared and sat on the Demon Throne. 

The immense, horrific power of the throne flooded into Ivan. Bright green light and searing pain were all that Ivan knew for a single, terrible moment. Then, the Demon Throne determined Ivan unworthy.

In an instant, the Demon Throne poured Eldritch magic through Ivan, taking his life and fueling the spell that Ivan had carefully constructed. With the full might of its power, the Demon Throne remade Ivan. 

Ivan was no longer among the living, and in his place stood Ivan the undying, Ivan the lich. 

Ivan's vision faded from bright green light to blackness, and he realized he was still clenching his eyes shut. He kept them closed for a moment and reached out through his new power. The Eldritch magic coursed through the great iron pyramid, and now through him. And it was all Ivan's now. He could feel it reaching into the surrounding desert. It was as if he was swimming in an ocean of power, and as if he was that ocean of power. 

Ivan opened his eyes to Marlam's horrified but resigned expression.

"What have you done?" Marlam whispered. 

"What have I done?" Ivan's voice sang out clear and musical. The iron beneath Ivan's feet rumbled like thunder in agreement with his every word. "What does it look like I have done?" Ivan raised his arms out to his sides. "Do you not like my phylactery, Marlam?"

"No, no, no." Marlam whispered. 

"Marlam, my friend," Ivan's voice grew ice-cold. "Did you not want to hear me sing one more time? Now, you can hear my songs for all eternity, good Paladin," Ivan hissed. "What song shall I sing for you?"

Sound no longer passed Marlam's lips, but still he mouthed the word no, over and over again. 

"I don't like that song, paladin. How about I sing you something more appropriate for the occasion?"

Ivan reached into the deep well of unholy energy that was now his own to wield. He sought out every soul the Demon Throne had ever taken and had ever touched.  

Across the desert, Ivan's voice raged like a storm as the Black Bard began to sing. 

"RISE... RISE... RISE..."