Candles lit the Hall. There were many. Flame upon flame and sconce upon sconce.

     A shelf of rock, as wide as a man is tall, ringed the empty space and connected the wall to the floor. The candles had been placed upon it. Each misshapen shaft standing silent guard -- Their circle of flickering lights reflecting off the rough brown stone of the ancient walls.

     The hall itself was old -- at least as old as humanity, perhaps as old as time. The massive stone blocks of the walls stood in no pattern, with no order to their form. The floor was different, built of five interlocking slabs, each as large as a house. They were ill fitted, and the gaps between the blocks were as wide as a man's hand at points; but as the light of the candles poured across the well worn slabs, a pattern revealed itself... As if a velvet shadow had been painted on uncut rock; a Trigram, a triangle within a circle, with each of the three points touching the outer ring. It was huge, as wide as a courtyard. Even in the light of the candles about its edge, its center was lost in shadows.

     The shadows... It was hidden there, crouching in the center. It could not be seen, save on the edge of vision. A Thing not so much observed as felt -- Its existence proven only because it blocked the distant lights of the candles on the Trigram's opposite edge... Yet it was silent, unmoving. The only two sounds in the entire chamber were the wind whistling through the unseen reaches overhead, and the barely perceptible scratching of a knife against wood.

     Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the circle, a young man, perhaps no more then twenty, was carving patterns into a gnarled length of wood. Even though the knife he used was small, and obviously was not meant for the task, his slow methodical workings were revealing patterns from within the wood. The silence of the room was heavy, and the youth listened calmly to the noiselessness, until it was broken by the echo of a single footfall against the stone.
     "Who's there?" he asked, looking up. But no reply came. He was about to stand when the darkness shifted. A pair of eyes opened from the depths of the shadows, and peered out like the embers of a dying flame.
     "How long have you been sitting there?" The shadow asked. Its voice was flat and deep, a whisper, but amplified and stripped of reverberation.
     The young man turned his attention to the Trigram, as if noticing the darkness for the first time. Quickly, he checked a nearby candle, judging its length. "In this room, you mean? ‘Bout two days now, and you?"
     There was a chuckle from the darkness, completely cold and devoid of emotion. "When will you grow tired of asking me questions about the past?"
     The young man shrugged. "When you grow tired of evading the answers," he replied in a simple, matter-of-fact tone.
     There was a pause. At last the darkness replied, "He's dying you know."
     The young man nodded.
     "Not that I'll miss him. As a sheer matter of policy, I will have to laugh at him in his hour of passing. Still, of all the Humans I have known, I have hated him the least," the Thing sighed. "And of course, you will assume his place as Keeper?"
     The young man turned his attention back to his work, ignoring the shadow's question.
     "Quite frankly, I'm surprised he's lasted this long," the darkness added absentmindedly.
     "Two thousand years? Ha! I'm surprised you even noticed the time pass," replied a voice from just beyond the ring of candles. It was thick with age and cynicism. There was a moment of silence as the man advanced through the single archway and into the candlelight. His features were thin, his body bent with age. But behind his eyes there glowed a diamond-hard, razor-sharp intellect, a warning of hidden power lurking just beneath the surface.  He was leaning heavily on a plain wooden cane. With his other hand he absentmindedly fingered a lengthy necklace, made of interlocking gold circles that caught the light, revealing intricate patterns and etchings.
     "How... How long have you been standing there?" The youth stopped his work, surprised.
     "I only just walked in." Said the older man, surrprised himself by the youth's reaction7. "I wanted to check on my fellow prisoner," he added turning towards the Thing in the dark, and then staring across the edge of the circle to the younger man.
     "So tell me, boy, been keeping company with Demons?" (The young man nodded.) "Hmm, seems to have affected your mind," the old man smiled. "At least you seem to have made progress on your Foci. Here now, show it to me."
     The young man stood, smoothing his dark green pants and readjusting the collar of his shirt. He folded his knife as he advanced, taking care to remain away from the edge of the circle. At last arriving beside the older man, he tentatively displayed the staff. The hardwood was deep red, with highlights of polished white, the carvings were like a history, crude at the bottom and becoming more intricate towards the top. All but the final foot of it had been carved, and there, the simple beginnings of new patterns were showing themselves.
     "Not bad, boy, not bad at all." Said the old man approvingly.
     "His name is Peter, you old fool. Have some care for the elder laws," the Demon cut in reproachfully.
     The old man shook his head, his expression that of friendly debate. "I suppose you'll want him to call me by my given name too? What's the use of names in a place like this?" he asked, spreading his arms wide. "‘Tis hard to remember them when dealing with the likes of you."
     "You should spend more time in that library of yours," the darkness retorted. "You'd remember that all your power comes from names. I respect very little, but that's at the top of my list."
     "Respect?" he asked. "You have spent too long on this side of reality. Respect is a thing of this world. It is your given place to destroy reality. How can you respect what you destroy?"
     "Listen to the old codger, Peter. He's getting senile. Can't a warrior respect his enemy?"
          The elder man shook his head. "Will you offer no peace to a soul in its twilight?"
     "Will you offer no freedom to the Demon of the Dark?" the Thing replied.

     "I envy you," his master said, breaking the silence. "With my back, I can no longer gawk at the sky like that." The old man chuckled slightly, a sound not unlike the laughter of the Demon. Peter snapped his mouth shut. It had been too long since he had had the time to stargaze.

     The garden was small, perhaps half the size of the hall itself. The light of the stars lent a truly alien quality to the plants. Not that they needed much help. Many of the things growing in these high walls had become completely extinct hundreds of years before. Some of the plants were called that only because they had roots. (Peter had once had a philosophical debate with one such creature about its classification.)
     In the center of the garden, equidistant from all four of the high brick walls, stood the massive clanking form of the astrolabe. It had been named as such by its creator, although it bore only a passing resemblance to the small, nonmagical devices used by the Renaissance scholars of old England. Peter had always admired the design. Being the only piece of machinery in the entire complex, it served as a time piece, a star-chart, and a gateway. After so many years of visits to the Hall, Peter no longer needed to look at the ornate controls on the astrolabe's base. A mere glance at the slowly turning device revealed the date.
     January 6th 1999.
     "Has it been that long?" Peter said to himself. "I haven't seen earth in nearly three weeks."
     "And I imagine you miss it already," the old man said, without looking up from the device's controls. Peter started, trying to hide the reaction as the old man smiled again. "Don't worry, the planets are right, I can open a gate for you soon." He fiddled with some of the controls. "Odd, it seems as though the gate has just been used." He shrugged. "I thought I had left it to charge. Any idea why the gate might have been active?"
     Peter shrugged as he turned to look at the leaves of a nearby plant sway in a nonexistent breeze. It always made him nervous to consider what the plants might be saying behind his back.
     "Suppose they can tell us?" the old man asked, in a distracted way. A wry smile on his face, as he worked at the controls of the ornate machine, trying to correct the lack of charge.
     "Come again?" peter asked, turning his attention back to the old man.
     "You seem a tad distracted."
     "I was just thinking about how ironic it is, watching you ponder over that thing."
     The old man shrugged. "I learned the controls to humor a friend. He built it for me as a gift. I remember him, though I imagine he was before your time. He visited here often, and in the end I offered him the apprenticeship that you now have. He declined, believing his place to be on earth. A pity, old Albert was a genius of Time Magik. He would have made a fine Keeper." The old man paused, then added quickly, "not that you won't Peter. It's just that no one understood time like he did. But he could not bear to leave earth behind, not even for the lure of Magikal power. He was determined to help humanity understand reality. Had I heard his speeches sooner, I might have learned Time Magik myself." The old master shrugged. "As for you, you should spend some more time studying Time." He smiled. "You need a better grasp of those spells if you hope to take my place." Somewhere in the astrolabe, a bell chimed.
     "Speaking of time, it's time for you to return home." With that, the old man waved, and turned a single dial on the astrolabe. There was a slight flicker of light, and then Peter was gone.

     The shadows...     Peter shuddered at the memory of the Demon's voice. He reminded himself that he should be working and turned back to the desk, unlocking a small drawer by his foot. He produced a carefully rolled piece of parchment and spread it out in front of him. Weighing the corners with ink pots and stones from the desk's other drawers, Peter beamed with pride. The silver ink of his spell gleamed in the light of the sun, and the intricate patterns of mathematical symbols danced as he tried to focus on them. There were still a few gaps in the poster sized diagram, but a with rune here, the trigger phrase, a couple of other pieces, and the spell would be complete. Hours of work passed, and night fell as Peter studied under the light of the bare bulb above the desk. The pile of books moved slowly from one side of his chair to the other, as each in turn was placed in the new stack after being read. Eventually, only his most recent acquisition remained.

     Turning to the ancient volume, Peter hefted it gently onto the desk and ran a hand over the dusty green leather. Slowly, he opened it to its title page. "The Book of the Lore" it proudly proclaimed in the old tongue. He shook his head, the old lectures flooding back. "It is here that you will find all the history of our Art," the old man had told him, "given to us directly from the Creator. It speaks of the hidden secrets of Spellcasting. It is here that you can find the first written instance of our prophesy -- the three things required of a Keeper before he can assume the place of his master...

     "The Finest Foci, for the Keeper yet to be
       The First Spell, to prove his worth to me
       The Final Gift, to set his master free...
       A Demon bound, a Keeper found, in the Trigram it will stay,
       Neither are free, and so it must be, until the judgement day."

     Peter smiled. He had learned that passage by heart. The three things he needed before the old man could transfer the powers of a Keeper over to him. He reached over and absently fingered the carvings of his staff, admiring the most recent work. A dragon coiled around the knotted wood, as if around the bark of a tree. Turning back to the desk, he copied the poem down, word for word in the elder script, in a space at the center of his spell. It was now his keyphrase, the next time he spoke those words, his spell would trigger. That is, provided the spell was complete. Peter had checked it many times to ensure the logic of his work, but he could not be certain that the spell was ready.
     "If this doesn't work," he said to the empty room, "then I will have to start all over."
     Peter leaned close to the parchment, drawing a long, nervous breath. "Vitae," he whispered. There was a flash, and the ink of the Keyphrase faded from its mundane black to a shimmering silver. Breathing a sigh of relief, Peter watched the new spell coalesce on the page, the pieces linking together and the ink taking on a life of its own.
     "All that is left now is the gift..." he mumbled. He hadn't expected a reply.
     "Yes," said the voice, "you're almost through."
     Instantly Peter was standing, facing the empty apartment with staff in hand.
     "Who goes there? What purpose brings you?"
     "I? I am but a mere servant, one who rests in the angles betwixt time. I serve the ones who lie eternal in the frozen wastes of Leng. I have seen the passing of the great Kadath, and have howled the names of my masters to the stars. I go where they bid, and they bade me here. I believe you know my name already. Who am I?"
     Stone cold fear gripped Peter's heart. Yes he knew its name. A minion of the very demon whom his master guards. But he would not show fear to this, this Thing. Instead, he chuckled, the kind of calculated laugh meant to set an opponent on edge.
     "You think me such a fool as to speak your name to you? To invite you to my world? I have been trained against such tactics. No Forbidden One, leave. You are not welcome here." Peter cleaved the air, cutting through the shadows where the voice had been.
     "I am not so easily banished as that," said the writhing voice, now from a shadow beneath Peter's desk.
     Peter hid his surprise as he turned to face the demon's new location. "Impressive. It must have taken much power for your masters to send you through. A demon of such strength as to avoid a banishing? And one that I cannot see. But I know your kind. You won't stay long. None of you can."
     "I will remain," the voice said, now from a different shadow. "Your master is dying. As he weakens, Yog-Slothoth will grow stronger. I draw my strength from that."
     Peter smiled. "You lie. You can't draw from him, he is bound. You must use energy that you stored before arrival. How long did it take? For you to even last this long must mean an  astronomical use of power." Peter reached out with his mind, silently cursing his inability to see the abomination. "And concentration," he added, "to stay hidden for so long."
     "I have enough power to stay for years. My masters spent much of their holdings to send  me on this journey. You cannot stay here forever. Even if you do, you will lose when you master dies without you at his side. Eventually, you will have to return to the Hall, and I will follow you in. As for concentration, I have been well trained, I can do much while staying invisible to you. I will dance through your thoughts. I will whisper through every shadow on this side of reality until you tell me."
     "Tell you what?" Peter asked, already knowing the answer. He was preoccupied. This demon was faster then he had guessed, but already the formulas were turning in his mind.
     "Where is he? Where do you hold ‘he who is the gate?' Where is the prison? The lock on our doorway to this world?"
     "Oh, that," Peter smiled a slow, measured smile. "It was getting old, so I threw it out and upgraded to a newer model."
     "W-what?" the darkness replied, bewildered.
     That had him, the total illogic of the statement had caught the Thing off guard. Peter could see the demon now as it writhed through the shadows of the wall to his right.
     "So much for your training," he whispered calmly.

     Peter had been fingering the carvings of his staff, winding his knowledge through the wood. Wordlessly, he stepped forward, cutting the space around him into a carefully measured pattern. Before the demon could react, it became paralyzed in the trap. The shadow it occupied became bent and distorted as the light of the room began to curve. Mumbling the final phrases of his spell, Peter watched, as in a very unimpressive manner, the shadows of the room vanished, pulling the demon away, taking it back to where it came from.
     For several minutes, Peter stood motionless. Gasping for breath despite the ample air in the room. Though he stood completely still, his mind was on the run. Banishing is among the most difficult spells to fulfill, and Peter had to struggle for his sanity as he worked to strengthen the borders between his four dimensions and the ones from which the Thing had come. He shook his head, at last sitting down and pulling some aspirin from a drawer of the worktable.
     "A bold move," he mumbled to the now empty room. "Must have taken years to work up that kind of power." Slowly, calmly, Peter pulled out his knife. Reaching for his staff, he began to carve...

     The garden hadn't changed, forever protected by the high walls of clay and brick. They shield it from the winds ravaging the surface of the tiny moon. Peter looked up at the morning dawn, Jupiter filling the horizon with its brilliant light, Europa in crescent, and Io, a tiny red disk in the distance. Every space in between was completely filled with stars. The garden itself added to the strange beauty. Many plants that were already soaking in the seasonal light, alien flowers that flourish only under the lights of Jupiter and it's moons had begun to bloom. The two walked slowly, taking no particular direction as they picked their way among the winding paths.

     "I thought you should know. I have finished my spell," he stated calmly, as they walked between the low-lying shrubs. "And I was visited by a Demon. One of the servants of... Him. I'm not sure, but I think its name was-"
     "Shh!" the old man said harshly. "Have you forgotten all you training!? NEVER speak the name of a demon while here. Do you want to call their attention to this place? What are the first three things I taught you!?"
     Peter looked down sheepishly, like a schoolchild chided for a misplaced comma. "Never cross the lines that designate the outside of the Trigram. Never let the candles around the edge of the Trigram falter and..."
     "And never speak the name of a Demon. To do so is to weaken reality, and to facilitate the crossing over of a being from one side to the other. We are Keepers, Peter, not travel agents for the great beyond." The mentor calmed at last. "Sorry, I guess my recent battles with that Thing have drained my patience."
     Peter had always admired the old man for that. His idle debate with the demon was a symbol of their battle on other levels. The conversation is the part you can hear, but the sheer clash of wills is the part you can feel.
     "No, you are right. It was my mistake. But I am not a Keeper, not yet. Not for several years."
     The old man laughed. "Open your eyes boy. I'm almost dead." (He waved his hand to warn off Peter...) "No, not yet. The time of my death will be tomorrow, at eventide, six o clock. You will have little time. But you already know all the spells, you only need the strength to use them. When you give the Final Gift you will have but moments to contain him, because as I weaken, he will prepare to escape."
     A question nagged at Peter's mind, but before he could voice it, his mentor spoke again.
     "You say that you have finished your spell. Is that it there?" he pointed to the scroll in Peter's hand. Peter smiled and opened the scroll, handing it to his mentor. After staring at it for a moment, the older man cursed.
     "Forgive me, but my eyes are not what they were. With time I could understand the whole thing," he smiled listlessly, "but time is one thing I do not have." He looked over the scroll again, "I can tell you that it's good, quite complex. Tell me though, what does it do?"
     Peter grinned. "Nothing, yet. It's a meta-spell, a spell to change spells, like a lens. It makes it easier for an amateur to cast the really big spells."
     The older man raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really? Does it work? Have you tested it?"
     Peter shook his head. "I've made it operate, but only in theory. There is no proof yet."
     Peter's mentor smiled. "I believe you will have a chance soon enough." The Keeper handed back the scroll  and glanced over approvingly. Upon seeing the staff he grinned. "And I see you have finished your Foci! Wonderful. Maybe I can transfer my post before I die after all."
Peter fingered the staff, hefting it slightly. It had taken much time to carve. Each scale was individually cut, and on each he had emblazoned a different symbol to aid in the working of spells.
     "Forgive me, but I have always wanted to know. I have seen your Foci." (Peter watched as the old man reflexively grabbed at the necklace.) "But what of the other two? What was your spell? and what of the gift?" Peter asked. "What can I give you before you depart?"
     The aged Keeper smiled. "My spell... was an interesting one. I built it many years before my Foci. It was a communication spell. It let me talk directly to the Creator."
     Peter's eyes widened. "Did it work? What did you use for a trigger?"
     The old man smiled with the memories of brighter days. "My trigger was silence. You put your hands together and listened quietly. Eventually, the Creator would speak."
     "What happened to your spell? Why have I not seen it in any of the tomes?" Peter asked, remembering his hours of study.
     "Because, as with all ‘First Spells' made by Keepers to be, when I became a Keeper, it became part of the fabric of the reality which I defend. When I left the earth behind, it just became a force of nature. The same will be true of yours. After you are Keeper, any who speak the rhyme will amplify their spells."
     "Did you have a chance to use it on earth? What did the Creator say?"
     The old man nodded. "I used it many times. The Creator said many things. I did a fair amount of preaching about it too. People even listened. It got to where I could finally use my other spells to help people without them running in fear. Funny, there's a close line between the work of Demons, and a miracle... Anyway, the state did not approve of people listening to me. So they caught me and ‘killed' me. I used another spell to ensure that I could stay on this side of reality. After all, the previous Keeper still needed someone to take his place. I did a last bit of preaching, and then I left for here. Haven't seen earth since."
     Peter sighed. Looking towards the distant, bright star of earth. "No wonder you miss it so... But one question remains. What of the gift. What can I give you?"
     The old man shrugged. "He's getting stronger, I can feel it, he is pushing at my barriers even as we speak, trying to find the weak points. Did you know that before you arrived it took him only minutes to awake? Why, less then two years ago it took him..."
     "Two days." Peter added helpfully.
     "Two days," the Keeper repeated, "It's because I'm dying. I grow weak, he grows strong..."
     "But what of the gift?" Peter asked. Only to be hushed by the elder man.
     "I am tired now, we can discuss the gift tomorrow, yes tomorrow. For now, I must rest." before Peter could argue, the matter was closed. His mentor shuffled away over the stones, and he was left in the garden, alone with the stars.

     It was nearly two hours before his master reopened his eyes. "... sorry, dozed off-f. What was I saying? Aah, yes, you must remember. Remember to search for a new apprentice, all time is loops you see. You must repeat the cycle. All the cycles... they bend and repeat... if only I had had an extra year or two... to see earth you know... before I die... to bad that you couldn't be Keeper back then... to have seen earth again... I wonder if any of my old acquaintances wrote about our times together... good old Judas... he's the one who killed me you know. But as the Creator always said... turn the other cheek..." The old man turned towards an empty corner, a single fevered bead of sweat dripping from his forehead. He smiled a psychotic, nerve-wracking smile. He regarded the dusty air as if someone was there, he was staring at empty space.
     "Oh Peter! So good of you to come. I was afraid that you wouldn't be here to receive your title before I died." The hairs on Peter's neck stood on end as he watched the old man address the blank wall.
     "Here now, hold my hand will you?" Peter stepped forward to oblige the old man, only to watch him grasp at the open space on the other side of the bed.
     "By the powers vested in me as the Keeper of the Demon, I hereby pass on my legacy to you." Peter felt his frustration rise. In his fever, the Keeper had tried to pass on his powers to the dusty air. Peter could feel it, even over his anger and frustration, the feeling received when a soul leaves a room. He turned and ran, even as the last breath of his master disturbed the still, dusty air. Scroll in one hand, staff in the other, he barreled down the corridors and up the stairways. Somewhere above him, its voice was booming, echoing the scream of a thousand souls. Somewhere above him, the Demon laughed.

     Even the Demon could see it now, the weaving of Magik as it spread across the carved wood, the subtle lines of force arcing off the unrolled parchment at his feet. There was a change in Peter's voice, like the old man's, it was diamond edged violence only barely controlled.
     "You are the one whose presence brings chaos. You are the one whose existence is a blasphemy to the nature of time." Peter spoke slowly, his words were leaden under the force of his  spell. "You are the one for whom the prophecy was written.

     The Finest Foci, for the Keeper yet to be,
     The First Spell, to prove his worth to me,
     The Final Gift, to set his master free.

     A Demon bound, a Keeper found, in the Trigram it will stay,
     Neither are free, and so it must be, until the judgment day."

     There was a flicker flash of lightning along the length of the staff, the smell of ozone as a spell neared completion. "I was never very good with time spells" Peter's voice sounded against the darkened stone. The power of Magik, like a lead weight, hung in the air. "But you, you are the one who waits in the strange times betwixt yesterday, today, and tomorrow. For you, Time is not linear. All those near you can feel it, all those near you can touch it. Your name has weakened the barrier. You are the Gate... through which I now reach..."
     Peter pushed his hand forward, feeling the cold chaos of the realm beyond as it coursed up his arm. Feeling the reality of beyond as it poured through the invisible barrier of the Trigram. He felt his spell, its total and perfect logic supplanting the insanity of what he was doing. He had no prayer of facing the Demon alone, but he wasn't trying to face it. It was the gate, the door to the other side. A door can swing in both directions. He only needed one part of the world from which the darkness had come. One law of nature to mix with the world on this side. In the place beyond, time isn't linear. He grabbed hold of that single thread of existence, and pulled. He felt it writhe backwards, up his arm and into his spell. He had never been very good at time spells... but this law, this was the one thing that he needed. The thing that could fulfill the prophecy. That could give his mentor a second chance to see the earth. That could give him the gift he deserved most. The gift of time...

     Now alone in the garden, Peter stood for a moment, trying to remember where he had been at this time. With a slight whistle, and a fingering of his staff, he activated a spell to hide himself. He then entered the complex, heading in the general direction of the Hall. He could feel the Demon already, drained, sleeping, but still probing at the old man's defenses. He hadn't been paying attention to where he was, so it caught him off guard when a single, tiny noise broke the silence...
     The barely perceptible sound of a knife, scratching against wood.
 
     He stopped and caught himself, but already a single footfall had echoed out through the barrier of his spell. He froze, breathing hard, concentrating on his invisibility.
     "Who's there." he heard his former self command, yet he did not reply, and the Peter sitting in the room beyond did not seem to see him.
     "Two years," he thought to himself, "this may be more difficult than I had guessed."
     The young man returned to his work. Taking a final moment to strengthen his concealment, Peter stepped out into the light of the massive room, and looked around...

     Candles lit the Hall. There were many. Flame upon flame and sconce upon sconce...