The wind whipped around his turban, slamming against the protection of his thick cloak and clothing. "Damn Gaulish weather." Mozenrath griped to himself and, not for the first time, wished he'd brought Xerxes along for the ride. The little eel wasn't much help, but at least he could have tied a rope over head to make the climbing easier.

Also, not for the first time, he swore to kill whoever had come up with the annoying (if brilliant) idea of creating a boundary that forbade the use of magic around this mountain. His gauntlet was little more than a scrap of leather on his fist, which meant, that he had to do everything, ironically, by hand.

But even without his glove, he could feel it's presence above. It would not be visible to human eyes, but a light like the sun itself shone several hundred feet above him. Calling…no screaming with intense magical power. It lashed over him with a fire brand, a power more cataclysmic than any he'd ever encountered. If he could just reach it.

It had taken Mozenrath years to discover its hidden location. Years and lives to find this source of ancient power. Local legend held that it was once the property of the Tuatha De Danann, the old race of the Otherworld, who had inhabited the island before the invasion of the Milesians. They had used four object of great power to fight against their invaders, but eventually, retreated into the Sidhe. Many spoke of seeing these strange and ethereal creature, with eyes that captivated the soul and fogged the mind, on nights when the moon was full and the grass wet with dew.

Stories to frighten children. Mozenrath convinced himself. After all, if such a race of near god-like creatures had existed, how could they allow mere mortals to defeat them? Mozenrath reached for the next hand hold and hauled himself up the mountain side. Peasants were a stupid lot, easily coerced into superstitions and folk lore. But then again, that just made them easier to control.

It took him several hours to reach the spot where the mana flowed like the ocean around him. He staggered to his feet, to eager to allow weakness to control him now. "Yes…" Mozenrath whispered as he looked into the cave before him. Torches, long unused and unlit stood along the walls, leading the way into a darkness that opened wide like a mouth. He tried his gauntlet, attempting to bring enough light to see by. The fire there was snuffed automatically and Mozenrath grimaced. "All right. Play it your way for now."

He took a torch from the wall and searched around till he found a piece of flint. It took several tries and a great deal of cursing before the torch caught and illuminated the halls around him. If the sight was forbidding before, it was now entrancing.

Carved into the walls was a tale unlike any he had ever seen. People, standing tall and proud were chiseled into the rock and stone with patters that could make one go cross eyes if he stared too long. They found on hoarse back and foot, battling naked with great swords erect and plunging into enemies hearts. The colors painted onto the figures had not paled, though it was obvious that the carvings were centuries old.

Mozenrath tore himself away from the sight with some difficulty. He was not here to admire the native art work. But as he pushed his way through the tunnels he could not help but to look around himself at the majesty of it. It was comparable with the art work of the Pharaoh's tombs in his mother's home land. Not in the initial design, but rather in the pride of a peoples history and legends. He could admire that.

As he traveled deeper into the hills, Mozenrath came upon a great pool of water. He lifted to torch higher, and was surprised to find it expanded across the breadth of the cave. A lake, a lake inside of a mountain? This high up? Was that even possible? He gingerly touched the surface of the water and watched as it ripples outward in little half circles. Was there a way to get across? He looked along the shore line. No boat. He could try swimming, but he would have to drop the torch and that would mean loosing his light. And he doubted the item was unguarded. He was not afraid of the dark, but he did not relish fighting in it with no magic.

But there had to be a way across. Even if there was a trap, one had to be lured into it. He put the torch into a holder on the wall and paced back and forth to think. There was a trick to this. He just had to figure it out. Picking up pebbles, Mozenrath began to toss them casually at the surface. With a firm plop the first stone sank. He curved his throw and watched for the pebble to skip across the pond. To his dismay, Mozenrath saw what should have been a perfect skip skin down just as quickly as the first stone.

So it's meant to pull you under once your in. He tapped his chin, growling at the surprise complication. He growled angrily and looked around again, searching for a clue. Finally, something caught his eyes. He didn't see how he had failed to notice it before but, sitting just outside of the torch light was a harp. Just a simple lap harp like the kind a minstrel might carry around. He pulled it into the light, examining the instrument carefully. It was of expert quality, curved and beautiful to the gaze. He slipped a finger around the string and plucked it experimentally. No sound emerged from the harp itself, but a beautiful, resonate note came from the lake behind him, and Mozenrath turned. Mozenrath smiled, a dark look coming over his face as he picked up the harp and strode back to the shore. Without pausing, he played a string of notes, his fingers slipping professionally across the harp. Not only did the water follow his combination, but it stirred, little concentric circles spreading from the placid surface as his fingers plucked out the notes.

Right, so the harp is the key. He sat down against the shore line, and played out an old tune he remembered from his mothers exhausting music lessons. Once again, the music came from the liquid, and the circles stretched as his flicked the strings. But nothing else occurred. He was missing some key element. He began to pluck through the cords of a song absently, watching the pool as if waiting for a response. Before he knew it, Mozenrath had begun to humm, and that's when it happened.

As he hummed in time with the song, the water backed away from him. He stood, keeping in time with the song and hummed a minor cord, excitement filling him as the liquid balked away from his foot steps. Music. He had to sing as well as play for the lake to obey him. Simple, but one must admire the effectiveness. No doubt if a person was not capable of playing, or of singing sufficiently, the water would forbid admittance.

Mozenrath took a deep breath into his lungs and positioned his fingers against the cords. He would not be able to carry the torch with him, but he suspected he would be led in the right direction some other way. Another few deep breaths, and Mozenrath walked towards the waters edge, playing the little harp and singing.

Oh, the summer time is coming,
And the trees are blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather.

Will you go, lassie, will you go?
And we'll all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will you go, lassie, go?

I will build my love a bower
By yon clear and crystal fountain,
And all around the bower,
I'll pile flowers from the mountain.

If my true love, she won't have me,
I will surely find another
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather.

It was as if a path had suddenly been cut through the lake. It spread before him till the bottom of the pond, showing shiny rocks and stones that gave off a strange, ethereal blue light. Grinning to himself, Mozenrath continued singing as he walked, following where the paths led him.

He had to go through nearly seven songs before a new shore line came to his eyes. He sped up, almost out of songs to sing. The moment his feet touched the ground again, a loud crash erupted from behind him and the walls of the pond slammed back against one another. He watched as the water settled within seconds, going back to its calm, placid state as if nothing had changed. Mozenrath plucked the harp string gingerly and was satisfied to see the water resonate. This would undoubted provide him a way back.

To his delight, the way was now lit for him, the same artistic drawings on the cave walls illuminated brilliantly. A holder for the harp was against the drawings and Mozenrath set the instrument down, confident it would be there when he returned.

It didn't take long to travel the well lit path, and Mozenrath began to feel he was coming close to his goal. In fact he was sure of it. Where the painted drawings had been as clear as if done yesterday, they were beginning to look pealed and faded away. A sure sign of strong magic working away at the fixative. As he turned a corner, he had to crane his neck to take in the full sight.

A pair of massive doors stood before him, taller than seven men and made of bronze and gold. A woman with wild hair stood behind a great cauldron, her arms spread around the lip as she gazed into it. This was it…he had found the resting place.

Mozenrath approached, barely daring to draw a breath. The magic here was so consuming he could almost call it a consciousness all its own. He lifted his hand once, and was disgusted to see himself shaking. He jerked away, forcing himself to regain composure. Once again, Mozenrath lifted his gauntleted hand out to open the door…