From "Blades Of The Moritati" by Durand J. Compton

She is no aged crone but the days of her youth are long past. Her hair is pale as last summers straw, her face lined with a thousand fine wrinkles. She is draped in a volume of raw silk, girt with a belt of black pearls. She paces the length of a simple chamber and pauses before the organic flue set in the centre of this hallowed space. Pale green fire dances above the vent. She passes a long-fingered hand through the flame.

‘So, My Prince, you grace me one last time. Do you recall our last meeting, Sir?’

‘Aye, My Lady, I do recall, though many long centuries lay between. I had just committed the Thirty-third Sin of Admittance and being elevated to my formal seat, a Prince of the Realm, I left the Bastion of Power and journeyed here, to seek your wisdom ere I took that final step to Witchdom.’

‘And did I give you false counsel?’

‘No, My Lady, you spoke the truth, devious though your words were. I have gained a certain eminence among my peers, my schemes have drawn wealth and power beneath my hands.’ He strides with pensive grace about the oracle. ’And I have come to bear a certain doubt.’