Prologue

   Morgan Le Fay watched the magical reflection of King Arthur's final battle in the shimmering depths of a large black stone. She smiled as Camelot fell.
       Morgan was beautiful in her triumph. She stood, wrapped in a soft black velvet robe, twirling a golden necklace around her finger. At the end of the necklace hung a blood-red ruby encircled by a golden serpent with silver fangs. She stood in the centre of a gaping cavern: bony stalactites reached toward the ground; sparkling rivulets of water left glittering spider tracks on the rough walls. She stared into the dark glassy surface of the slab of polished obsidian beside her and watched as a king died and a sword was thrown back into a lake. The image rippled and vanished. Morgan smiled: satisfied. Her revenge was complete. She had killed Arthur -- son of Uther Pendragon -- son of the man who had killed her father. She lifted the amulet to her lips and kissed it. She looked up at Merlin and said, "I win."
    The old magician blinked himself awake. He looked tired. His long gray beard was tangled, and his blue and gold robe was faded and torn. He felt funny, dizzy. Startled, he realized that he was looking down at Morgan from a great height. He tried to move. He couldn't. He was trapped in something soft, something sticky, something warm.
    Morgan watched Merlin squirm. It had taken her years of watching, listening, learning and waiting to master enough magic to trap him. There was no way that he could break the cocoon of magic that held him. Morgan smiled a spider's smile and prepared to suck the last of Merlin's power, the last of Merlin's life, from his frail old body. She opened her arms wide.
    A warning bell went off in Merlin's head. Quickly, he blurted out, "No, Morgan, you lose!"
    Morgan opened her eyes. "Arthur is dead!" she shot at him. "And not even you, Merlin, can change that."