"The heroes have breached the inner courtyard!"

Malvaksikon slammed his fists on the windowsill. He'd just had the flagstones cleaned and the potholes fixed, too. "Damn it. What happened to Elite Squad Number Forty-Three?"

The hovering view-orb showed one of his lieutenants-he didn't remember their names, given how fast he went through them-staring back in panic. "Um, decimated, my liege. There was this dwarven siege engine-"

"Never mind." Malvaksikon sighed. It figured. He was never hiring second-hand mercenaries again. "All right. Pull back and-"

Malvaksikon stopped as the lieutenant's eyes rolled back in his head. The soldier collapsed. A dwarf with a greasy beard squinted up at the view-orb and waved his club.

The view-orb went dark when Malvaksikon snapped his fingers. He wasn't in the mood to listen to obtuse war shouts or threats of his impending doom at the hands of the heroes. Really. Did they ever consider how trite they all sounded?

He swept away from the tower window and headed for the back door. His shimmering black cloak, trimmed in a green scale pattern, trailed dramatically behind him. Top notch effects. He made a note to up his tailor's pay grade.

The front of his tower exploded inward. The shock wave buffeted Malvaksikon and whipped his hair into disorder. He spun and almost tripped on his cloak. Gods, what he endured in the name of fashion. Bits of doorframe and the bronze knocker littered the carpet.

He folded his arms and scowled. Typical of a hero. They never had the decency to let him retreat uninterrupted.

Standing in the ruins of the entrance was a tow-headed youth with both hands raised. In one he gripped the hilt of some random magic sword. The other hand clutched a glowing purple amulet. The overall effect was tacky.

"Your time is at an end, evil one," said the boy.

Malvaksikon rolled his eyes. "So it seems."

The boy stomped into the circular room. Door debris crunched under his boots. Behind him, his companions slunk into the chamber: a dwarf with a bandaged head, a prissy elf woman with not a hair out of place, and a haggard ranger. Right out of a textbook.

Malvaksikon wished he'd had time to finish his research on hero tactics. No matter how many thousands of troops he sent out, the core band led by the Chosen One always made it through. It defied all the laws of war, physics, and logic. His men never seemed to single-handedly take out the enemy.

"Surrender now," the boy said. "And we'll have mercy on you, even though you deserve none."

Malvaksikon hid an exaggerated yawn to cover the first flicker of unease. "Right."

The dwarf growled and hefted his ax.

"Even for all your evil," the boy said, his tone sanctimonious, "I will give you one chance to mend your ways."

"Fool."

Malvaksikon studied the brat. No, it didn't look like one of his offspring. Good thing, too. He didn't need any more scandals or gossip about his numerous affairs. His wife would kill him if she found out he had yet another heroic bastard. The damned things kept showing up. Most of them, he suspected, were faking it to get attention.

"I am the Dark Lord Malvaksikon," he said, debating which of his speeches to give this time. What the hell, he wasn't in the mood. "And I have a lunch appointment with a demon ambassador, so if you'll excuse me."

The heroes blinked. So easily caught off guard! Malvaksikon suppressed a smirk. How they survived as long as they did, he had no idea.

Malvaksikon turned back to the door leading down to the summoning chamber.

"Stop!" the boy yelled. "You will pay for everything you've done!"

Malvaksikon looked over his shoulder. "If you have a complaint about your village being wiped out, lodge it with the seneschal on your way out."

"But-" The youth stopped and scrunched his face into a mask of concentration.

Malvaksikon glanced sidelong at the wall supporting his various evil weapons: swords that ripped out souls, maces that summoned demons, and even a feather duster that spat columns of flame and brimstone.

The heroes wouldn't leave without a fight. They never did, despite all their propaganda about peace and non-violent solutions.

A bowstring twanged. Three arrows thudded into his back and bounced off. His cloak, as well as being fashionable, was warded to protect him. It still hurt.

He swirled his cloak away from his feet and rounded on the heroes. Fine, if they wanted to play, he'd play.

The heroes charged him.

Malvaksikon spread his hands and called on his magic, dark matter pulled from other planes. Oily clouds of anti-energy-anti-life-boiled between his hands. Malvaksikon thrust his palms out and let the magic crash over the heroes.

The boy threw his arm up and his amulet flared purplish white. The dark matter splattered against the shield and diffused in all directions. Smoke billowed. Excitement at the wanton destruction clashed with annoyance in Malvaksikon. It was his property being destroyed and that always ticked him off. Smoldering holes appeared in the walls, floor, and ceiling. The maids would have fits.

When the acrid smoke from burned stone cleared, Malvaksikon squinted. The heroes stood unscathed. Blast it all.

He retreated, cloak slung over one arm, and gestured at the weapons rack. A soul-sucking sword ought to do it. Another flare of the amulet intercepted his telekinesis. The Chosen One closed in on him, blade raised.

Malvaksikon began to worry.

He bumped into the wall several yards from the door. The amulet was blocking his external magic-and he didn't have any physical weapons on his person. He should have known better than to rely on his magic. His father had made him read history for a reason.

The Chosen One strutted closer. The tip of the boy's magic blade hovered over Malvaksikon's chest now. He raised his hands and thought fast. Across the room, sunlight from a hole in the ceiling spiked down and glinted off the onyx statue shaped as a rearing cobra with golden fangs.

His thoughts took a decidedly wrong turn.

No. It was absurd. His father had always told him turning into a snake never helped. Malvaksikon had only done it once in a fit of teenage rebellion.

"I gave you a chance," the Chosen One said, eyes gleaming with self-righteous fervor. Or a high fever.

Malvaksikon licked his lips and remembered to sneer. "You cannot defeat me." Stalling tactics were always advised in such situations.

But a snake? Really?

He eyed the statue. The boy was waiting for the rest of his monologue, but he had no interest in indulging in eviler-than-thou repartee. Besides, his thoughts were preoccupied.

Even his cloak would wear out eventually, and he didn't pay his minions enough to come to his rescue. What else was there?

"This," the brat said, pulling his arm back for a powerful thrust, "is for my family!"

"Oh, what the hell," Malvaksikon said.

He made up his mind and yanked his focus inward. He touched the tattoo on his chest, the magicked dye burning under his touch. Muscles rippled and reformed and bones crunched inward into new shapes as his body morphed into a giant cobra. His nose itched.

Malvaksikon hissed in pain and reared his head back. His pants ripped apart-he never bothered with shirts. The cloak slid down his powerful serpent body and a delicious sense of freedom being nude filled him. He flicked his tongue out and tasted the burned air.

The Chosen One hesitated, blinking. The elf readied another arrow and the dwarf hefted his ax again.

The ranger rolled his eyes.

Malvaksikon flexed his muscles, flared his hood, and lifted his thick neck and upper body above the boy, eyeing him. It took a moment to adjust to snakish senses.

"Yaaah!" The Chosen One swung his sword.

Malvaksikon flicked his head to the side. He whipped his coils forward in a blur and sank his venomous fangs into the startled ranger's chest.

Steel licked his side as the boy hacked at him again. He twisted. The elf woman sprang back and fired. An arrow whizzed past his eye. Malvaksikon curled his body and with one muscled coil, crushed the elf and dwarf against one wall. He slid his tail around them and squeezed. They made nice popping sounds as their faces went red, then blue.

The Chosen One's eyes bulged. "Crap! This isn't how it's supposed to work."

The light of his amulet shimmered off Malvaksikon's iridescent emerald and ebony scales.

Malvaksikon wished his snake form could smirk. He really felt like smirking.

The boy turned and ran.

Discarding the crushed elf and dwarf, Malvaksikon shot after the kid and bit him in the shoulder. The Chosen One yelled in pain, then spun. Malvaksikon whipped his tail around and slapped the amulet out of the boy's hand.

A sudden, burning pain raced down Malvaksikon's spine. He hissed, jerked in reflex, and twisted. Blood splashed down his scales before a sharp wrenching sensation ripped through his body.

Damn, it hurt.

The ranger pulled his hunting knife back for a second stab. One hand clutched at his shirt, now soaked with blood. Malvaksikon glared. Blast these heroes who took forever to die from chest wounds.

The Chosen One staggered up with a moan.

Malvaksikon cursed, which was most ineffective in his current form. Why hadn't his venom taken effect? The glands mustn't have formed right. Clearly he needed more practice.

He dodged the Chosen One's sword swipe. His back spasmed and fresh blood gushed down his scales.

The ranger and Chosen One lunged at him at the same time, blades leading. Malvaksikon dropped flat. A meaty thud sounded over him and two pairs of boots jabbed him in the sides. He swished his coils around the pair of heroes, crushing them together.

Movement sent a fresh flare of agony up his vertebrae. Malvaksikon squeezed harder, forcing himself to ignore the throbbing pain until the ranger and the boy stopped twitching.

At last he unwound and let the heroes drop with a thump to the floor. Malvaksikon looked down at his back. Little more than a deep flesh wound-one that hurt like an oversized paper cut. He'd live.

Outside, the sounds of combat took a turn for the better-his minions rallied as the forces of good fled in dismay. It must have been an instinctual thing that let them know when their Chosen One was dead. The Dark Hordes would mop up any stragglers.

Malvaksikon turned in a lazy circle and smiled inwardly. Why the hell hadn't he done this earlier?

He slithered toward the back door, ignoring the twinges of pain in his back. He'd find a new set of clothes, get his spine bandaged, change into his dark lord form, and he might still be in time for the meeting. This would make a great anecdote to share with the demon ambassador.

He glanced back at the tower room once more. The golden fangs in the cobra statue glittered and its ruby eyes winked at him in the sunlight.

Malvaksikon hissed in laughter. He would remember it the next time the heroes stormed his castle.