Why was he sitting here, playing an unbeatable opponent at a game he had no hope of winning?

‘I had no choice,’ he said at last. ‘Nothing that lives does.’

‘You had a choice,’ said Death. ‘You least of all can claim you were forced into this. You started the game when you created the board, wizard.’

Caledor reclaimed another part of his memory. The board was, at least in part, a representation of the vast spell he had woven over six thousand years ago and which had trapped him in this limbo. They were in the place where he had died, at the exact centre of the Vortex.

Contained within that truth was another one, a truth he was not yet prepared to face. It was still too terrible for him to contemplate.

Caledor picked up one of his pieces, the other one that resembled Aenarion. It was made of moon-silver. Teclis, this one was called. He blazed with power, power almost as great as that Caledor had wielded himself once, even though this one had been born into a world of far less magic. Teclis was Tyrion’s twin, although physically they were nothing alike.

As he touched the piece he recalled other things. He had spoken to this Teclis before, had reached out to him through the Vortex and through other things. He had spoken to him of magic, the fate of the world, and of secrets long hidden and now become important once more.

He knew then how he could influence events and where. He could sense those who were close to the Vortex and close to the things he had once created. With this one, as with Morathi, there was something else. This one had studied Caledor’s work, had deciphered its patterns and held them in his mind. This had set up a resonance of sympathetic magic between them.

‘You have touched the piece, do you intend to move it?’ Death asked.

Indecisively, Caledor returned the piece to the board. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘Waste all the time you wish. The sands of time are running out.’

Caledor glanced again at Death and at the powers arrayed against him. A daemon, a dark lord and a would-be divinity. They had all grown stronger over the millennia and he had grown weaker. Even at his mightiest he would have been hard put to stand against any one of them. Now, in order to preserve what he had made, he needed to defeat them all.

It was not a matter of power, he told himself. It was a matter of intelligence and strategy and the ability to think ahead. Even there he was at a disadvantage. Who had ever out-thought Death? Malekith was one of the greatest generals in history. Morathi could see the future.

There was nothing to be gained by complaining. Some things simply had to be done. He gathered the tattered remnants of his once near-immeasurable strength to him and raised the piece that represented Tyrion from the board.

‘Come then, Ender of Worlds,’ Caledor said, placing Tyrion decisively in his new position.