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He stepped into darkness during the mid seventh century AD. A shaman of his clan, his body became possessed by a mischeivious Djinn. However, a ritual of the clan, a binding of loyalty, was performed which served to entrap the devious spirit whilst retaining the concious process for the shaman's mind.

But the spirit was vengeful. And with the passing of the years, the shaman grew weak and wished to utilise the power of the djinn to extend his life, to bring back the strength of youth. But the djinn refused to speak to the now wisened Cheif. So the old tribesman took to a quest, for the remains of the creature from which the spirit was formed, so that he may institute blackmail against it. The djinn knew the potential of the plan and so when, after a dozen years of searching, they reached past the dark deserts of the near east, through a burned and desolate Persia, to the mountains of modern day Iran, it was here that the malificient spirit bargained for its existence.

Its offer was thus: leave my remains undisturbed and I will grant you this favour, your wish, but there will be a price. To this, the old man eagerly cajoled the djinn to tell him, to grant him his wish that for so long had been his only reason for living at all...now in his fifties, he knew that life grew short. And so, it was with little consideration or condition that the bargain was struck- simply one drop of your blood upon a dusty pile within a deep cave not far from where they stood.

And so they did travel and came upon the place where the old man climbed down through an unassuming crack where the ground had split asunder, as though torn by the mighty hands of a giant. Wet and narrow, the passage through was difficult and hours turned to days. At times a crawl, others a languid stroll, the path appeared worn, yet deep with dust.

When the old man was close to exhaustion, the passage widened and he came upon a cave, where a single magnificent archway stood at the opposite end of this cave, with intricate spirals snaking a path upwards, seeming to draw the eye slowly along the entire thirty feet or more of the peak of the arch, held in place by a keystone depicting what could only be the carved releif of a monsterous dragons head, its jaws extended as if to bite, the huge length of its tongue lolling, its features a rictus of sneering malicious intent, with great brows that stretch backwards to form scarred and jagged ears, its entire visage a glossy black in the torchlight, the flickering of the flame dancing eerily and placing an assumed sense of life upon the stone.

Great trepidation infected the mans mind then, driving his legs to step backward more than a few feet before a loose rock and a stumble to a clattering fall. Slowly, not moving for several seconds before thorough realisation set in that this beast was not of the living, but as a tool to manipulate fear in those who would trespass and it was not without doubt that the man beleived that he heard a loud peal of laughter from within himself.

Carefully, this old shaman brought back his wits to himself and made to continue through and onward into the syrupy blackness beneath that gate. A few short minutes of travel brought the first walls, collapsed and barely recognisable, but for the regular shape of the stones, clearly cut by hand and not formed of nature.

More of these low structures began to emerge from the earth as though they were tiny mountains racing each other for the most collapsed and natural appearance. Patterns to the layout of the heaps began to become apparent and larger, more obvious walls began to define what could only be streets. A gaze of wonderment began to move its way upon the face of the old man, as buildings still standing became more regular and with each passing street, more magnificent, for his tribe had only a single stone building, situated at the very heart of the community, serving as a town gathering hall, a food store, a temple and a fort, places such as this were many miles and days travel distant and they were dark and dangerous places, disease, theft and murder were commonplace in such environments, which only served to raise the feeling of terror that had overcome the old man.

Slowly, stumbling and spinning through widening avenues and past statues of huge men, all with a sense of grandeur, but with features worn and distorted, the man walked for hours, before approaching a plaza, a huge area where the darkness seemed to extend forever, only hard slabs under the feet in a mazy, intricate pattern enabled any sense of direction. Following this pre-defined course, the man made his way accross the vast expanse to a stairway, seemingly hewn from the wall of the building itself.

Each step was a foot high and upwards went the man, one tired step after another, pausing to rest every ten steps of the way, it took hours to reach the final, narrowest ledge, that, once abreast, held another, much smaller plaza, with but a single obvious structure at centre. And so it was to this place that the old shaman made his aching way, the shadows talking to him all the way, yet undeterred, a determined stride to the prize which had eluded him for so long.

The great doors of the building were ajar, so easy to gain entry with...but once inside, the dark seemed to infiltrate and threaten to snuff the torch, its light flickering and fluttering as though caught in a gust of wind, yet the dust remained still. Several times, the old man stumbled upon mounds of dirt and dust and each time he did so, his torch would seem to grow yet dimmer.

Carefully, he made his way within, moving between wide columns of intricate pattern and drawings of strange beasts. Until, at last, he came upon an open area of no more than ten feet accross, into which he stepped to see more clearly the large stone object in the centre of this almost circular room. And as he approached, a single quiet step at a time, he thought that he could hear someone speak to him.

The voice seemed to instruct him, to whisper into his ear a surety of purpose, driving him forward with a comforting plea. And to the great block did he step and upon it were the scratch-like markings of unfamiliar language, but similar in making as their own runic inscriptions of home. Home...he could begin to hope that a return was possible...a shudder wracked the body as he began to sob, but without tears to shed, for days of drinking the meagre supplies on ration had left a parched and dry form of him.

After a time, his composure recovered, the man knew that he must open this great container and fulfil the bargain, otherwise, all was for naught. With a heave and slipping of the feet upon the dusty tiled floor of the chamber, the slab atop began to shift, the grind of the stone against stone echoed continually around the walls and high ceiling of the place. A gush of stinking air blew dust from around the gap that had now appeared, causing the man to gag heavily, but continuing to push with the little remaining strength, he forced the slab fully over the opposite edge, teetering and eventually, tipping to crash with a roar of thuderous impact upon the floor...the noise dropping the man to his knees and grasping for his ears as the though a great bell were tolling forever.

Eventually, the noise did subside and the man stood, placing a hand upon the rim, he leaned and peered into the blackness...to indeed see the pile of dusty remains, of the djinn, no doubt. So, reaching to his belt, he took from it a small skinning knife and reached his hand over the mound and moved his other hand with the knife to position it directly above.

A shiver made its way from the bottom of his spine and each time he tried to move to jab his finger with the blade, another would take him and his hands would shake uncontrollably. Patiently, he waited, he spoke to himself rituals of the clan and steadier his wrists together. It was then that he was able to make the incision that would drop the blood into the black casket below. Once done, the drop began its flight down through the air as though in slow motion, until it disappeared for vision and...nothing.

The man stared into the dark and waited...seconds passed and the doubt began to take hold, that this was a folly, a charade created by the djinn to waste his life in a vain search for immortality. But, it was then that the wracking pain hit the old man, as though an icy hand gripped his heart and threatened to tear it from his body. Both hands shot to lean on the edge of the stone and head bowed, rough old fingers locked in agony on the stone, a heaving, shuddering overtook his body and it seemed as though the dark turned to grey for a while and suddenly so very tired, the mans legs began to buckle...determination made him hang on to the side and lift himself to hang over the lip.

From the corner of his left eye, the man saw a greyness lighter than the rest, but as he turned to peer at it, the apparition which faced him gave him cause for fright that took away all thought from his mind, those terrible eyes drawing in his attention, helpless but to watch, the ghostly form leaned toward and moved aside, past his vision, releasing that awful gaze, but before a decision to act could be made, a sharpness was felt upon his neck and a gurgle had time to escape his dry lips before realisation of what was occurring finally set itself into his inconceiving mind.

As the moments passed, the shaman could feel his heartbeat grow weaker, could feel his hands grown dry and also could feel the wet lips against the flesh of his neck. Underneath his hands, he could feel movement as though he were grasping a sack full of snakes, writhing and growing with every second and each pulse of his heart.

Blackness began to cloud his vision once again and tired eyes closed and he felt himself being pulled downward and into the stone box by thin and boney arms, but with a touch so light, it may have been mistaken for a lovers soft embrace. But the bargain, what of it? Surely there was a deal to honour by this...creature...the thought brought anger welling inside of him and the first attempt to struggle to free himself met with some resistance, for he could now not move his legs, in fact, could not feel them at all. Panic worked its insidious way into his mind and he began to flail his arms, punching and grabbing at the thing now holding his body tight. It was a sickening crack as he leaned his right shoulder back, the thing being on his left, for it bit down hard and the snap of the bone brought bright blossoms before his eyes, even though closed were they. Then, with his free hand, the man plunged down into the body of the beast and smahed through the brittle structure of its ribs with little effort, reaching for its heart, he could feel the wet bag of pulsating mass at his fingers, so he grasped, a final surge of effort and it was his, clasped now, he pulled back his hand and tore it free from the emaciated form beneath him. With a wailing that cut through hearing and became more of a dull squeal in the back of the ear, the grip on his neck vanished and began to crumble. The heart held in his hand began to slow it's throb and become more dry. It was then that the old shaman remembered an old rite of the clan, not practiced in hundreds of years, where the shaman would eat the heart of the sheep during the Autumnal Equinox in order to ensure a plentiful spring birthing.

And so it was that with no little disgust, the shaman bit into that heart and sucked out of it all of the blood that had undoubtedly been his anyway. The taste was like nothing he had known, so awful and empty, yet so desirable and powerful, the first swallow bringing alertness and feeling back to his whole body and mind, the second brought an animal growl from his chest and raised him to his knees in this black coffin, the third brought light and sound and scent from out of the dark corners and so, he did drink three more times of that heart before it too crumbled to dust with the rest of this evil shade.