Though still a child, Salvia understood that her mother used other means to find magic. It was something she had explained to them, as she had with most of the ways of power. Plants could open doorways, and while she swallowed her key tentatively, she knew it had to be so. Without it, she would never touch the unknown. This could not be allowed. She was the daughter of a priestess and a man chosen by a god. She had to be something more.
Her mother touched her and Salvia stared at her motions as Eris’ shape began to change. The white fur seemed to grow, to melt, to blend and meld into the skull of the great bear. Salvia’s eyes widened. In the firelight her mother—the Great Bear—gleamed the shade of the fire, of shadow, of the hues between. Yellow-green eyes burned from within the skull, but they were not familiar, not anymore. She would not have recognized her own eyes; they had dilated to the point that only the faintest ring of green surrounded them. For night being as deep as it was, Salvia suddenly saw everything.
Behind the Great Bear the fire grew, and from this, she saw snakes. Great serpents bloomed from the flame, writhing, turning to rivers and to snakes again. She saw serpents consume shadow-lizards, saw the sacred spiral from where it burned against the Great Bear’s chest and she reeled. Her breath came in short gasps, her striped fur stood on end. She began to sway, but it was slight, steady. Beneath her the earth was turning, pushing, pulling. Salvia could not close her eyes.
A new form grew from the shadow of the Great Bear, a massive beast made of darkness and starlight. She opened her mouth to call to him but saw the eyes change from silver to red and gasped. Tak, the Great Destroyer, Eater of Worlds. Tak, rising to a massive height, cutting his arms in marks like those of her father, marks that glowed as red as his eyes and the coals of the fire behind them. Then another came, growing from the white pelt of the Great Bear, a wolf whose body was pure and holy and gleaming. The white wolf turned on her brother and came for him, and Salvia watched in horror as Tak—Pandemic—was slaughtered with the ease of the rabbit.
“NO!” She howled, but her voice had become mighty, become strange. A bellowing roar escaped the girl as she reared up onto her hind legs, claws extending, body twisting as it changed. Muscles grew from under a lithe frame, amassing as they never had before. Those stripes continued to grow, to warp, and they became a part of her. Whiskers flared back as she bared her teeth, no longer a two-legged thing, no longer a wolf. A long tail lashed behind her as she dug her claws into the earth. Wretch. Ankh would destroy Tak. This could not be allowed. The tiger that had been a girl bellowed again and lowered her head, flattening dark ears against a crown of black and red-striped fur.
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