The desert is not kind to the weak. This is a law that the people of the tribes had always known. Water is rare, food is scarce, and the marauders will raid without mercy.

Ishmael had never doubted these truths of life in the dunes. But, none were prepared for the true horror that the sorceress brought to the people who called the Desert of Desolation home.

Despite how little there was to go around, the nomadic peoples of the desert were numerous. Hundreds of tribes of varying sizes each made the fragile balance work. The migration paths were negotiated in councils. And, the people lived by the laws that were created.

Wars between tribes, though infrequent, still occurred. And, many fell for the scant resources. But, the dead stay dead. At least that was until the sorceress weaved her magic.

None knew where she came from or how she could command the dead to rise.

She started as rumor and superstition. A bogeyman that stole the unwary away in the middle of the cold night. But, rumors grew. And, the war began.

Entire tribes went missing. The men, the women, and the children. The terror it left in the hearts of those who found the empty camps rose to the councils. And, plans were made to ensure that no more were lost without reason.

These plans amounted to nothing. The sorceress grew beyond subtlety. She raised thousands of the fallen and sent them in the heat of the day to cull more of the people of the tribes.

When the immortal came to the heart of the desert, hope stirred. Maybe, this immortal would save the people from death itself.

But, he refused the call.

It didn't surprise the masses. Immortals were arrogant and selfish. Unconcerned for the terror that falls upon those who still retain their mortality. Yet, while it didn't surprise the many, others could not help but hope.

A year had passed while the immortal built his palace of glass. The opulence of the black crystal walls he used to keep them out stirred wonder and near reverence from the tribespeople. But, for all that opulence, the immortal only destroyed the palace he so meticulously constructed.

The first time it was witnessed, it brought terror to the people. Across the horizon, the immortal challenged the heavens. And screamed.

It was not the scream of fear and terror, but agony and power. The clouds spawned whirlwinds to crush the immortal in his palace. The air seemed to crack and rupture as the immortal's agony punctured the ears of those on the other side of the horizon.

In a night, the immortal's palace turned to dust. The hubris of one who thinks he can challenge the world only amounted to so much. And yet, the immortal began his task again.

The palace was made anew while the people of the desert continued to die. A decadence that no one save the immortal could understand. And then, it happened again.

And again. And again.

The immortal cried out to the heavens. And, with every time the palace was rebuilt, the heavens' fury grew. But, so too did the power that dripped from the immortal's screams.

Maybe, some thought, he was getting ready. Maybe the immortal is preparing to face the sorceress.

But, even after a year, all he did was darken the sand with shards of his black glass.

Everyone could feel it. The air had become alive around the immortal. The animals seemed to seek out the black sand the immortal had made. Only to flee on the rise of his screams.

The immortal was changing this place. But, the people were still dying.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ishmael had had enough of hearing the immortal's crying. The coward was just hiding.

One day, Ishmael screamed his challenge.

"Immortal!" he cried against the walls of the black palace.

His rage grew until, finally, the immortal came down from on high.

"What?" the immortal asked petulantly.

In his mind, so many words came to Ishmael. But, all he could do was call the immortal a coward and demand to be trained as a cultivator so that he might do what the immortal refused to.

"Sure," the immortal had said, more ominously than Ishmael expected. "I'll teach you."

Caught up in the air, the young man was brought into the palace of glass.

For more than a thousand feet, black glass gleamed under the baking sun. It was too hot, even for a desert dweller.

The immortal enjoyed Ishmael's suffering for a moment before embracing him with his aura.

They walked, as the young man wondered, to the center of the palace. Circles upon circles expanded in a grid that Ishmael could not comprehend. And, when they came to the center, the immortal told him to sit in the hollow circle that was the origin of all the rest.

Confident that he could learn, Ishmael took his place. His arrogance fell from his face as he felt the weight of the world fall upon him.

The immortal pointed to his own body and said words that Ishmael didn't understand before pointing to his belly and saying, "Focus on this."

As if he'd explained anything, the immortal turned and went off to make more glass for his palace.

Anger, resentment, and growing exhaustion consumed Ishmael. If this was what it took to become an immortal. If this was what it took to save the people of the desert. He would do it. All while the immortal prepared to break his palace once more.

The days were the most brutal of Ishmael's life. The weight of creation had chosen the empty circle he sat in as the place to rest. And, he had to bear it.

All the while, Ishmael did as he was told. He focused on his belly.

The meaning was not easy to understand. But, he came to realize that the weight that fell upon him seemed to gravitate to that one spot. And, through exhaustive effort, Ishmael began to fold energy. To shape a crystal in his abdomen.

Suddenly, the weight did not seem so heavy. It fell into the crystal and empowered it.

He realized that he had succeeded, all while the immortal played with sand.

"So," the immortal asked. "Are you ready to face the sorceress?"

Ishmael looked upon the immortal and was confused. An enormous whirlpool of swirling white energy. Was this what an immortal looked like to one of his fellow immortals?

The little immortal nodded.

"Thank you." He started to depart.

As he realized what the immortal had done for him, he begrudgingly said, "Master."

With that, Ishmael returned to his tribe. The mood was jubilant. One of their own had ascended into immortality. Finally, they had a true champion.

With little fanfare, Ishmael departed. Bounding across the dunes with a power beyond any he'd known before.

The smile on his face was exultant as he thought of crushing the sorceress' skull in his bare hands.

The heart of her territory was known and he entered it after days of travel.

Through his new vision, he could see the darkness that pervaded the world. He knew he'd found her residence.

There were no sounds, save the blowing of the wind. The dead did not charge him and Ishmael was not afraid.

With his power, the power of an immortal, he could crush a thousand men.

Finally, a sound rang out in the dead camp he had entered, the snapping of a pair of fingers.

In a moment, Ishmael stumbled. His limbs were leaden.

They still moved. But, it was as if they had partially petrified.

Alarm came over the man as he looked to the source of the snap.

"So," a beautiful woman with black hair said. "He sent a foot soldier. I suppose he's declaring war. That's good."

Ishmael felt himself swallow as he looked at the woman.

When he'd seen his master, he saw a whirlpool of white energy. But, as he looked at her, he saw a miasma of black. It seemed to drip from her form.

"Sorceress," he spat.

His fear was rising. But, he hated her more than he feared her.

As he watched her, the sand stirred. The bodies of the dead rose to surround him. Thousands of them.

Ishmael's eyes widened as he realized that he was not prepared to face a legion of the dead while he'd been ensorcelled by the sorceress.

He began to move his legs, wooden as they were.

"Do you really believe you can escape?"

He didn't have the time to look back. All he could do was run like a mortal.

The dead drew tight his noose and Ishmael had to strike out against them. But, their blood burned his soul like acid.

He swallowed dryly as he ran with all his might. One of the dead after another barring his path.

In his heart, Ishmael was prepared to die. But, he was reluctant.

"So, are you ready to face the sorceress?"

His master's mocking words brought anger back to his fearful heart. And, he refused to die.

So what if the coward immortal was right? Ishmael didn't have to respect him.

But then, the young immortal was the one running for his life.

Ishmael's frustration and anger pushed him through the pain and weakness and managed to escape into the open desert.

He couldn't see the look of anticipation on the woman of deathly beauty.

He'd invited catastrophe.