"I accept." With those two words, Raziel had secured the loyalty and the might of the legendary seraphim, who were now bound by word and bond to follow him once he had dispatched his elusive brother Turel. A shout of acclaim went up from the massed Host, and Raziel basked in the heady sensation of restored power. Once the last echoes of the Host’s acceptance had died away, the Archon turned as if to leave her dais and retire. Yahriel’s voice, tired but strong, broke through the silence to add yet another boon to the bargain – a boon that Raziel had nearly forgotten.

    "There is yet another matter to discuss," she said, rising from the floor. "I promised two things to Lord Raziel for the rescue of my brother. First, his wings; and second, his body. I know the consequences and I am prepared to do what is necessary to fulfill my part."

    The Archon lifted an eyebrow, surprised. "You have offered to rebuild his flesh and bone? This will require some portion of anima, and it is doubtful that anyone here in the Host will offer it willingly. I can only assume that you mean to part with a portion of yours. You know the costs, and the costs to Raziel?"

    "I do."

    "You also know that a working of this magnitude will require a channel, since it will drain you of all your resources?"

    Yahriel’s face remained set. "I do. That is why I came back here, to the center of our power. This is not possible anywhere else."

    The Archon stood immobile, though Raziel could swear that he saw a twitch of humor pull at her mouth. "And who will stand for you as a channel, Yahriel?"

    "One had hoped that you would."

    "Indeed." The Archon shook her head, exasperated. "As you say, one hopes that one will learn from making promises that involve the capitulation of others. Very well, then. I am not the one who will need to recover from this. Raziel, what say you?"

    Raziel looked down at the ruined flesh that served him as a body. It served the purpose of transporting his will from one place to another, but he had not forgotten the disgrace of awakening to his new existence in the Elder’s chamber. This process of restoration did not sound pleasant for his benefactor – if she were so foolish as to offer it, far be it from him to refuse. As for consequences – well. Great though the powers of the seraphim were, Raziel doubted that they could undo the work of the Elder God.

    "As you will, so is my wish." He steeled himself, remembering the touch of Yahriel’s magic.

    The Archon lifted her hands, and they began to shine with energy. "This will not be pleasant for you either, Raziel. I am sorry, but there is no helping it." She gestured towards him, and he was suffused with light. He tried to move away, and found himself held fast to the floor, completely helpless. The diffuse light grew into a blaze, and if Raziel had been disturbed by the invasive touch of Yahriel’s magic alone, he was altogether laid bare before the Archon. He looked helplessly over to Yahriel, who was held fast in the same flux of energy that held him.

    As he watched, she was lifted from the floor, bathed in light. A misty silver glow rose from her body and hung before her, coruscating. A tiny piece of the silver light separated itself from the main mass, and Yahriel screamed, throwing her head back as if in mortal agony. At once, the major portion of silver glow reverted back to her, and she collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap of wings and armor. The small sphere of silver that remained stayed balanced in the air, shedding sparks. Under the Archon’s command, it streaked across the floor and stopped before him. Raziel’s eyes widened, but he could do nothing. The Archon lifted him from the floor, and the sphere of light spread itself out into a mist and wove itself into his remaining flesh and bone.

    At first, he felt nothing. The network of nerves that the Abyss had left him only acted to move his limbs, not to register great amounts of sensation. Raziel relaxed; perhaps the Archon’s warning applied to living creatures, not undead ones. He glanced down at his claws, fascinated; tiny gray threads were winding through his flesh like worms.

    The first wave of pain caught Raziel completely unawares. He looked at his claws again and saw the muscle tissue begin to revivify. The color of his flesh began to change from blue to red, and he could swear that the layers of muscle were getting thicker. His unease grew as memories of burning in the Abyss stirred. Another wave of pain rocked him, and he steeled himself and tried not to scream.

    Very soon, all the resolve in the world could not keep him from writhing in agony. The Archon’s magic was working on him with a vengeance now, and as his new body built itself in layers, so did the pain of her working redouble in on itself. Visions of the torture of the Abyss racked Raziel’s brain, and he was no longer certain what was real and what were the ghosts of his past. Dimly, he was aware that he was still screaming, and that he had lungs to scream with. The torture was unbearable, and hallucinations of his execution crazed him – Kain ripping his wings from his back, then the unspeakable pain that followed. As the working reached a crescendo, Raziel slipped into delirium. It was a mercy, for madness was very close.

    The light suddenly released him, and he dropped to the ground. The tattered clan-drape hung from shoulders that were healed and perfect. Through a fevered haze, Raziel felt himself lifted from the floor and wrapped in a warming cloth. He tried to struggle, but it was a feeble effort. His last awareness was of being carried through the halls of the Aerie before darkness finally claimed him and he slept.

***

    How long Raziel lay in fevered dreaming, he would never know. In time, the nightmares of burning in the Abyss gave way to a deep and restful blackness. He had vague memories of seraphim tending him as he recovered, but Yahriel was not one of them.

    Full consciousness returned, and Raziel woke to a dim room somewhere in the Aerie. He sat up slowly, blinking. The sensation of being restored to flesh was alien after his time at the bottom of the Lake of the Dead and his subsequent resurrection. Raziel untangled his arms from the bed linens that covered him and held them out in front of him, turning them up and down to inspect the new skin and bone. Someone had removed what remained of his gauntlets, and the yellowed color of his claws stood in light contrast to the dead-pale skin.

    Raziel flexed his claws, testing. His new body felt as strong as his former one had, yet it did not sit quite right – almost as if he were wearing it like clothing. Curious, he dragged one claw across the inner skin of his wrist to open a fine cut, and a thin trickle of blood ran from it before the wound closed without a trace. His vampiric ability to self-heal seemed to have reasserted itself. But was he still a reaver of souls?

    The remade vampire was startled from his thoughts by a knock at the door. Raziel bared his teeth and mantled his wings, but before he could snarl at the unknown visitor to leave, his door opened and Yahriel stepped inside, carrying a large bundle. She recoiled slightly before his show of anger, but stood her ground.

    "A fearsome sight, you are," she said, laying her package on a chair. Raziel regarded her through narrowed eyes, noting the subtle mark of aging in her face. The gift of her anima had not left her untouched. "Are you feeling better?"

    "Well enough." Raziel’s reply was terse, cross. Some sense of politeness moved him to add, "And you?"

    "I fear that I was no better off than you were for a time, but here at the heart of the Host’s power, my recovery was steady." A small, ironic smile twisted a corner of her mouth. "Thank you for your concern. Are you well enough to get up and walk?"

    He didn’t know. Raziel swung one foot to the floor and tested his weight. As he moved, the bedcovers slid away from him, leaving more exposed than he had intended. He snatched the linens and pulled them around himself, cursing. Once he had composed himself, Raziel glared up at Yahriel, who was studying the tips of her toes as if they were the most interesting things in the world.

    Not wishing to prolong his embarrassment, Yahriel spoke quickly. "The Archon asks for your presence as soon as you can join her. I have left some things of yours here for you. One hopes they will be to your liking." A faint blush stained her cheeks as she turned to leave.

    Once the door was shut securely, Raziel loosened his grip on the sheets and stood up. He looked around his new quarters, getting his bearings. Aside from the large, comfortable bed, there was a small dresser, a table and chairs, and a mirror. A door near the dresser opened into a closet, where various pieces of clothing hung. Bemused; Raziel pulled out a shirt, which was cunningly designed to fit around a pair of wings. He put the shirt back in place and started looking through the dresser. The drawers were empty, but a coffer on top of the dresser contained a sparkling array of jewels. He had no need for such fripperies, but the gems inside would have done a royal family proud. One spectacular ruby ring, sized for a large finger, caught his eye for a moment, but in the end he closed the lid and took nothing.

    Next to his bed, an alcove was shrouded in drapes. Raziel walked over to the drapes and pulled them away to reveal a pair of barred doors leading to a balcony. The stained glass set into the wood felt like it had been witched, and he wondered why. He put one hand up against the doors, and felt them shudder slightly as they held against the mountain winds. Ordinary glass would not have lasted long up here.

    He slid the latch back and opened the steel-reinforced door. The wind screamed outside, but it did not ruffle the drapes. Odd. Raziel stepped out onto the little balcony, lifting his wings. Once across the threshold, the wind hit him like a blast, and he quickly ducked back inside. There was some kind of barrier protecting the walls of the Aerie, which made sense – easy access to the air without having to worry about the weather. Raziel closed the doors and slid the bars back into place.

    Another door was cut into the wall across from his bed, and this one opened into a small bathing pool. A small array of unguents was laid out for him, consisting of soaps and the like. Raziel folded his arms and gave a snort of derision. Imagine, having to bathe. In his former embodied existence, bathing was unnecessary. Since the touch of water was anathema, Kain had come up with a spell that repelled dirt, and every vampire used it as soon as their magical abilities manifested. Raziel remembered his former master glowering over having to create a spell so mundane, but even Kain didn’t like being covered in muck. Out of curiosity, he poked through the assortment of toiletries to find a brush and a few thin leather ties, and those he picked up.

    His exploration of his new quarters concluded, Raziel turned his attention to the bundle Yahriel had brought him. He laid the package on his bed and untied the wrappings. Inside, neatly folded, were exact replicas of the clan garb he and his brothers had worn. Interesting that the seraphim should be so well-informed about what Kain’s lieutenants wore. Raziel lifted out a new pair of gauntlets and metal-armored boots and laid them on the floor. Beneath them was a set of leathers, deep black and beautifully tanned. Pleased, Raziel donned his new pants and shoulder-armor before some other angel could walk in on him. The gauntlets and boots fit precisely, squeaking a bit with newness.

    There was one more item at the bottom of the bundle. Raziel reached inside and pulled out the bright red cloth of his old clan-drape. It was the same one he had always worn, but it had been mended with great care and cleaned. He fit the drape to the catches on his shoulder-armor, and it unfurled to his waist just as it had always done. Raziel arranged the fabric so it lay between his wing and his back, not wanting it to interfere with flight

    He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – how had the humans come up with that silly myth about reflections, anyway – and snarled, just for effect. His reflection snarled back at him, a terrifying sight. Satisfied, Raziel neatly bound his hair back. Even an angel of death yields to sartorial comforts sometimes, and for the moment his vengeance could wait.

    Enough, then. Raziel flexed his claws and threw his shoulders back. Time was wasting, and the Archon was waiting.