========
This is the last issue of Dance of the Daemon.  After the story,
there's a short section that explains a bit further.  But for now, on
with the story....

===================================================


TEL AVIV-JAFA, ISRAEL

   Damien looked at the newspaper with an odd expression on his face.
Had he but known, a tragedy could have been avoided.   But for
whatever reason, the Book of Thoth had not revealed the truth until
now.  
    Over the centuries, Netrigan had cast his dark magicks over
various subcultures.  He'd cursed pirates, soldiers, and kings.  And
once, only once, he'd dabbled in religion.
    It is written that fanatics often lose sight of their goals, and
this weakness was easy for Netrigan to exploit.  During what
eventually became known as the Crusades, he put his most subtle curse
of all into a simple iron ring.   Like many of his other enchantments,
the Ring of Jericho, as it became known, enhanced various qualities of
it's wearer.
    Specifically, the Ring fostered self-righteousness, missionary
zeal, and unfortunately, violent tendencies.  Thus, whoever bore the
Ring found himself [or rarely herself] compelled to go out and "smite
the heathens".  Any heathens.  No matter how old, infirm, or innocent.
    Even if the "heathen" is the leader of the government.  After a
long and bloody history, the Ring had returned to the land of its
creation, and encompassed the fate of Yitzhak Rabin. Damien had
located the last object in his quest, but delayed by circumstances
beyond his control, had arrived too late.
    Murmuring the Rune of Taddylf, Damien walked between shadows,
headed for his final goal.  
   
Dance of the Daemon #8.  "Closure"

   Mossad, one of the most subtle, yet dangerous intelligence services
in the world, had naturally taken charge of the investigation.
However, the question of guilt was soon resolved, and the matter
forgotten, at least from a criminological standpoint.
   Therefore, when Damien re-emeged near the headquarters of Mossad,
he did not expect much in the way of resistance.  A few moment's
speaking to the man in charge of the archives soon proved him wrong.
   "I'm sorry, Mr. ...Cross, yes?" the balding man replied in a thick
East European accent, "The personal effects of the assasin were not
kept.  I believe many of them were purchased by foriegn collectors."
   "Collectors?"
   "Religious fanatics, mavens of crime, and so forth..  Could you
describe the item?"
   "A ring, made of iron, very old..."
   "I do recall something of that description, let me see..." the
archivist riffled through several papers.  As he searched, he asked
his patiently waiting guest, "If I may ask, why are you interested in
a rusty old relic?"
   "It's a...family heirloom.  I feel it's my duty to track it down."
   "Ah, I understand...oh, here it is...I remember this fellow..."
   "Yes?"
   "He was acting for someone...he wouldn't say..."
   "Oy." Damien murmured, "Can you tell me something about him?
Anything?"
   "He was a rough looking fellow...I remember he had a lot of
tattoos.  All around his neck and arms...looked like it covered his
whole body."
   "Well," Damien sighed, "That will have to do.  Thank you for all
your help."
  "It was nothing...I hope you find it." his host replied.
   "So do I..."  Damien thought to himself.

   Outside, in a nearby park, Damien extracted his Powerbook of Thoth
from it's mystical sub-dimension, hoping to get a fix on the Ring's
location.   The symbols rippled back and forth under his gaze, not
settling down to any one image.
   "Of all the bloody times..." Damien cursed, thumping it with the
heel of his hand.
   "You look like you could use a hand" a voice replied.
   Damien looked up, momentarily dazzled by a ray of sunshine.  When
his vision cleared, he found himself facing a blond young man of about
18, clad in a white t-shirt and bicycle shorts.  The starnger smiled
down at him,.
   "I don't think you can help me, boy."
   "Hey, don't call me boy, Mister..You ain't that older than I am.
Call me Malachi, or Mal."
   "You'd be surprised how much I've seen..uh, Mal." Damien replied,
closing the PB.
  "Oh, I don't think so...I've been a lot of places, running errands
for my father."
   "Oh?  What does he do?" Damien asked politely, wishing there was an
easier way to get rid of this bozo.
   "A little of everything," Mal replied, "but he doesn't get
personally involved in business anymore.  To be honest, I spend most
of my time lying around playing my harp."
  "Harp?" Damien queried.
  "Yeah..." Mal reached into the small bag slung around his waist,
extracting a golden harmonica.  "My brothers and I are a pretty
musical bunch."
   Damien stood, Powerbook tucked under one arm, "Well, its been a
nice chat, but I have to get going.  Nice meeting you, Mal."
   "Pearson Samuels, Istanbul, Turkey."
   "What?" Damien stammered, nearly dropping his laptop.
   "That is the man you seek, Damien Cross.  We wish you well in your
endeavour."  With that, Mal grinned one more time, and vanished in a
flash of light.
   "Holy..." Damien murmured.
   "Bingo.." a voice whispered on the wind.

ISTANBUL, TURKEY
   In an office building, not far from the Ministry of Antiquities,
Damien yelled at Samuel's secretary, "I must speak to him
immediately!"
   "Shouting will do you no good, Mr. Cross."  the secreatry replied
coldly.  Unlike the last secretary he'd dealt with, this particualr
model, dressed in a sober suit, and sporting a tightly wound gray bun,
did not seem to be all that attractive.  Damien sighed, wishing he
could shift to Netrigan, a skill not allowed on this quest.
   Anyway, even the draconic daemon probably wouldn't faze this old
dragon.  Tirning on all of his charm, and not a little bit of mystic
energy, Damien smiled winningly at her.
   "Could you at least tell me where I might find him?  Perhaps I can
do business over lunch..."
  She peered at him over her horn-rims, "That is not forbidden.  He is
taking a day trip to see the ruins of Troy."
  "Really?  How..curious."  Absently thanking his tormentor, Damien
left, meditatiing upon the magicks of coincidence.
  The secretary watched him go, a dark smile growing on her lips.


TROY, OR AT LEAST, WHERE IT USED TO BE.

   At precisely noon, local time, Damien stepped out of subreality to
return to the ruins of the city Plato thought of as Atlantis.  He
scanned the crowd, hoping against hope...
   One pair of figures caught his eye.  The first was a brutish fellow
who's skin art was clearly visible, even from this distance.  He was
clearly subservient to the other, a slender, olive-skinned fellow in a
tailored Italian suit.  They seemed to be waiting for something.
  Raising up a glamour of persuasiveness, Damien strode forward.  "Mr.
Samuels?  Mr. Pearson Samuels?"
   "Yes?" the second figure replied, "May I help you?"
   "I wish to purchase an item from your collection." Damien replied,
not noticing Samuel's gaze slowly scanning him.
   "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.  I assume you wish to
purchase the Ring of Jericho?" he murmured.
  "Ah.  So you recognized it..you are in the Art?"
  "After a fashion..." Samuels smiled thinly, "That's a very nice
coat..."
   "It's custom made.  One of a kind." Damien replied smoothly.
   "Here's my offer...the Ring, for your coat."
   "Um."  Damien ummed.
   "Oh, I understand...it is part of your vestments?"
   "After a fashion." Damien rallied.  The afternoon sun beat down
upon the trio, as the other tourists trickled away.
   "Very well...here is another offer...your coat, or your life, Mr.
Cross..."  Samuels stared at him, eyes glowing.  A wave of darkness
swept about them, sewaling away all others.
   "Bloody Hell."  was Damien's reaction.
   Both his opponents shifted form.  Samuels, for his part, merely
became swarthier and more foreboding, yet somehow familiar.  His
factotum swelled to impressine proportions, revealing the ornate
designs inscribed over his entire body
   "Lothos...take Mr. Cross's coat...he will be here a while."
   The bestial Lothos moved forward, tattoos writhing over his skin.
   Damien cast a bolt of power at his attacker, only to see it absorb
into Lothos's decorated skin.  Again and again, he focused spiritual,
magickal, and psychic energy at the lumbering form, only to see it
join into the design.
   "You have done well, Damien" Samuels murmured bemusedly, "You
walked Lucifer's Halo, and now that power will be mine.  You have
fulfilled the destiny Fate has given you..."
   "Wh-what do you mean.." Cross stammered.
   "You mean you don't know?" Samuels laughed. "That's rich,  It never
occured to you what your name means?"
   Damien shook his head, backing away from Lothos. 
   "Damien Cross...demon cross...a soul half good and half evil.  The
only person who could walk the left-hand path of Lucifer's Halo, from
here, north to Europe, West to your country, South to the islands. and
back East.  And now you have closed the circle, and my victory is
complete."
   For his part, Damien ignored the gloating, pouring all of his
strength into a defensive shield.  However, as Lothos approached it,
it too faded into his skin.  Helplessly, Damien fell back, as Lothos
reached out toward him.
   What followed was as artistic as it was unfortunate.  The symbols
inscribed on his coat were drawn, inexorably, to the similar designs
on Lothos.  Damien sagged as the powers he'd acquired on his quest
left him.
   Lothos stood, and walked toward his Master, as damien curled into a
fetal position.
   "It is time..." Samuels commanded.  Lothos bowed in submission, as
Samuels stretched his hand over him.  Ebon lightning crackled forth,
and with a howl of pure agony, Lothos was converted into pure energy,
and drawn into Samuels body.
   Eyes aglo, Samuels cried..."And *now*, the Angel of Venom  shall
have Dominion!"
   "THOU ART WRONG, SAMAEL!!!!" a new voice thundered.
   Two robed forms extruded from Damiens fallen form. One in red, the
other in gold.
   "Netrigan and Netatron!" Samael stammered, "But how is this
possible?  I sealed this dimension completely!"
  "Your plan was not full.
   We did not leave our servant.
   We slept within him."
Netatron replied, in a perfect haiku.
   "And since you closed us
    Off from Earth.
    You may now witness,
    Net-Amon's REBIRTH!!!!"
   Netrigan reached out to his brother, who took his hand.   Once
again they merged, and a red and gold striped headress , plus a
black-starlit kilt, became their/his attire.
   "I am Net-Amon.  Shall we grapple?"
  Samael attempted to flee, nlack-pinioned wings sprouting from his
shoulders.  The dark barrier fell, revealing a chaotic realm of
seething energy.   Net-Amon merely reached out, and grasped him.  Dark
energies battled with light in a mystic stalemate.
   "We are evenly matched, you and I": Samael said through gritted
teeth. 
   "Be that as it may.  I will not release you.  Not until time itself
has ceased."
   "And what of your host?  Can you spare the power to release him?
Already, we have drifted far from the realms of Man."
   "His fate is his own...he sleeps within the primal Chaos.   But
now, I proclaim...all my power is dedicated to imprisoning you."
   "You couldn't..you wouldn't" Samael  stared in horror.
   "I have."  There was a sudden flash, and the pair were swallowed by
a newly-opened portal.  With a gleam of power, the portal closed.
   And Damien slept on.

EPILOGUE, AN INDETERMINATE TIME LATER.

   A shining spirit, with wings of gold, and the face of Mal,
appeared beside the coiled figure of the one called Damien 
Cross, placed a crystal globe in his hand, and vanished.
   And Damien awoke...

*******************************************************************************

Well, that's that.  It's over. There are a few stories I didn't get to
tell, but for various reasons, I don't feel comfortable writing them
here.   

In fact, I won't be writing for racc at all.  Over the short time I've
written here, the feel of the group has changed, and so have I.
With only two exceptions, one of which may very well  explain the
Epilogue, I'll be writing exclusively on Superguy. [The other
exception is a book I'm worjking on.]

I leave the NTB in the capable hands of Chris Gumprich, however I must
forbid the use of Netrigan, Netatron, Net-Amon, or Damien himself.
The dance is over.  The circle is indeed closed.  

Mario Di Giacomo, formerly of the NTB.

  

 *** Mario Di Giacomo E-mail: bookwyrm@cris.com ***
 *** Home page: http://www.jurai.net/~bookwyrm/ *** 
 *** "Niente senza ragione: Nothing w/o reason" ***