Guards close around me as we march out into the corridor of black stone. Maybe I should feel some kind of happiness on being let back out of my chamber, but I am too ill with worry. For so long I'd been dreaming of being let into the magma sea, to bask in the heat and breath the fumes, and attain a better understanding of it for my script. Yet now that I am finally to face it, and not only face it, but oppose it, I worry that my dreams are going to turn to black nightmares.

Though, my armor, for all its arrogance, does give me some confidence. Some of the hotness of my blood has returned. My strides are confident. The air seems to give way to this armor, as if it is unwilling to be run down by me. It reminds me a little of how my last armor felt, my cold titanium that drove me on toward the dragon.

And like that armor also, my ruby seems to respond vigorously to this latest creation. It's warm against my chest like a drop of hot blood. It understands—gems are alive, surely they are—that I am on my way to do battle. To continue the story writ upon it.

I need to remake it. I really need to. Yet how can I improve upon a craft that restarted my heart? I examined the runes once before, when I first came here, and could see no solution. And I still cannot.

We come to the barracks. The doors are shut, unlike last time, and there are heavy locks on them. I wonder if this is meant to prevent the entrance of errant demons. Could it be that there have been further infiltrations?

When we enter the main hall, I notice that security has been increased here also. No one is changing their armor, or drinking beer, or talking with their friends. All present are ready for combat—no one here is not in armor, or a foilsuit in the case of non-runeknights.

There are a lot less dwarves in here too. When I first went down, however many hundreds of long-hours ago that was, this pillared hall was thick with figures, and stank of sweat and life. Now there must be less than fifty here, and the smell is mostly of sulfur.

“Over here,” orders Nazak.

He leads us to the far end of the hall where a dozen elite runeknights are gathered. One is in familiar armor—I flinch. It's Halax, though his helmet is a new design. Gone is his open faceplate: in its place is a solid plate with small eyeholes and, more interestingly, a blank visor studded with long rods, a ruby mounted on the end of each. It's open right now though, and his eyes meet mine.

“Greetings after a long time, Zathar Runeforger,” he says.

“Greetings, honored runeknight Halax.”

He turns to Nazak. “Is it truly wise to take him down here so early, with no heat-mask yet of his own?”

“He must experience one in use before making one for himself. And he should make his after he extends his script further.”

“Nevertheless, he will not see accurately.”

“Neither would he with an inferior craft. This way is safer. The miners are equipped with them also, are they not?”

“You believe him lower than a miner.”

“My feelings do not come into this. I am simply obeying our Runethane.”

“Well, if our Runethane should wish it, I am not one to disagree. Come, Zathar Runeforger. You must be equipped.”

I approach cautiously. The other dwarves around him part—I start in surprise. There's another set of armor I recognize here, well-made tungsten embedded with ruby tears. Hayhek is with us. He nods in acknowledgment, and I nod too, though only by the barest amount. I do not want Vanerak's elites' eyes on him any more than necessary.

Two runeknights open a large chest. Tungsten glints red and orange within. Halax withdraws a mask somewhat like his own, a narrow, curved plate fitted with tungsten rods.

“It has been shaped exactly,” he says. “Equip it.”

“Who made it?” I ask. “Forgive my reluctance—”

“Put it on!” Nazak snaps. “There are times when taboos must be broken. And besides—it is your runes that are upon it.”

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This is true, I realize. I quickly read over them: grafted in platinum is a masterful poem describing the many forms heat can take. It's as well composed as anything I could make, and power hums gently from the runes.

It is still not my craft, even if the runes are. Yet as Nazak says, sometimes taboos must be broken, however uncomfortable this makes me feel. I fit it to my helm and it locks in snugly—measurements must have been taken of my armor.

Blackness covers my vision.

“Can you see anything?” Halax asks.

“Nothing, honored runeknight Halax.”

“That means all is well. It cannot be used unless exposed to extreme heat. We usually keep them up, however, until the moment before we sink down. I suggest you do the same.”

I push it up—it takes quite a bit of strength, even with my arms enhanced by runes. They won't be knocked aside by any errant blow, however I can't help but think they ought to be welded on, or better yet, built into the helmet from the first. Some of the others here have made their visors as such.

“You must also equip this,” says Halax. “It is to allow you to breath.”

He offers me a long length of chain. I examine it, a little confused, until I realize that it's not chain at all, but a cable with enruned tungsten segments enclosed around it every centimeter or so. It's rather thin, and the mouthpiece, which I unwrap from the chains, looks flimsy. It's unruned foil.

“For this design, you wrap the foil around your helm so that the end of the cable goes over your breathing holes,” says Halax. “Do this now and become used to it. Breathing is not so simple with it on.”

I wrap the foil around my helm. It sticks well to it, almost magnetically. If it's not enruned, it must be composed of a very strange alloy indeed.

One attempted breath later, and I am not thinking of alloys and runes. The air seems caught somewhere. I try to choke, and cannot. I grasp for the foil around my helm but cannot tear it off. It's too thin, and my fingertips cannot catch.

I fumble at my helmet, trying to twist and pull the whole thing off. Nazak grabs my hands roughly and wrenches them apart from my neck.

“Stay calm!” he orders. “It takes a while for the air to come.”

Red and black are swirling around the edges of my vision. They encroach—then retreat when sweet air finally floods my lungs. I gasp it in, more of it in, then splutter and cough.

“Breath out slowly too,” Nazak says.

I control myself and do as he tells me. Once I feel the airless sensation again, I breath in slowly. Warm air comes into me again.

“The runes around the hollow cable serve two purposes,” says Halax. “First, to reinforce the cable against heat, pressure, and violent blows. Second, to accelerate the flow of air in and out. Be careful around the float section. The air exhaled can cut, if you are not in armor.”

I examine the float section for myself, at the other end of the cable. It's a wide circle of tungsten, thin but well-enruned, shaped like an inverse buckler, with a small hole in its center where the cable joins. The poem on it describes movement up from the magma sea in abstract terms, yet for all its lack of solid metaphors, the language is so precise as to be beautiful—albeit in an austere, mathematical way.

“I thank you for the explanations and warning, honored runeknights,” I say, but they do not seem to hear. My voice echoes inside my helmet.

“Are you trying to say something, traitor?” asks Nazak, after a second.

I nod then bow.

“Then remove your helm. We cannot talk with air-cables equipped. We use signs only.”

After a short struggle, I manage to twist away my helmet. I take some deep gasps of air—breathing with the cable equipped may take some time to master.

“I thank you for the explanations, honored runeknights,” I say after I get my breath back. “What signals are we to use? Are they very complex?”

“Not in the slightest,” says Halax. “We point where you must go. We hold up a hand to say halt. We make a dagger with our thumbs to say danger, and point with two fingers to say there is a shard.”

“Thank you. And we can see all this with these heat-masks on?”

“In a way,” says Nazak. “You will understand when you enter the seas. These crafts are advanced—they alter things in ways you cannot understand at your level.”

“They are of a different character to your runic ears,” says Halax. “Those develop your sense of hearing, yes? Yet the gems and runes on the heat-masks give you a new sense entirely. This is the reason why we must break the taboo to equip enough runeknights. Lower degrees are not capable of work so skillful. They just harm themselves.”

“I see, honored runeknight.”

“You must experience the heat-sight for yourself before attempting your own. You must gain a complete understanding of it.”

“Yes, honored runeknight. I will strive to.”

“There have been permanent injuries,” adds Nazak. “Badly made heat-masks are deadly. Our Runethane does not want to see the front of your mind boiled from inside.”

“I am very grateful for that. If I may ask, however, who made this one I wear now?”

“I did,” says Halax. “It is one of the first I perfected, though it is still strong.”

I bow. “I am honored.”

“No, the honor is mine. It is your runes that allowed me to create a craft so exquisite. I hope that on your own attempt, you will be able to surpass me.”

Nazak gives him a disgusted look. “Let's get going.” A guard hands him his own heat-mask, and he replaces his mirror-visor with it. Compared to Halax's, it looks somehow crude. I notice quickly that the rubies are all of different cuts.

“Wait,” he says. “You had another question before, traitor. What was it?”

I'd forgotten. “It was about the demons, honored runeknight Nazak.”

“What about them?”

“Why do they come for us?”

“Why? Why not? They hate us.”

“Yes, but why?”

“They're demons. Why should they need a reason? Hate is what they are.”

I detect a note of his own hatred in his tone, and decide it would be wise not to push the issue any further.

“Thank you, honored runeknight Nazak. I understand now.”

We make our way toward the sealed doors.