Loki, the Trickster, God of Mischief, God of Lies, the fire, the entropy, opened his eyes. He was lying on hard stone, still chained and gagged. He hoisted himself up and looked around.

This was a stone hall, obviously underground. Dimly lit by torchlight, it had the atmosphere of a tomb. On one end stood two huge iron doors. On the other was a dais, upon which sat a fur-covered stone throne. Braziers rested on either side of the seat, and behind it, carved into the stone, was a crest. Loki's heart stopped. He knew that crest. It was the mark of… Amora.

A low chuckle echoed through the hall. From the shadows stepped a woman. Blond, thin, dressed in grass green, and wearing a silver headpiece bearing the crest on the wall, she appeared by no means dangerous. The glint in her eyes suggested otherwise.