Abigail Wyeth was alone. Terribly, horribly alone. Her friends lay dead. Her new life was destroyed; nothing more than a smoldering crater in the Sahara. She herself lay on the desert sands, seriously wounded and bleeding, utterly alone. Alone with her thoughts. The thoughts of a dozen false personas. Six and half centuries of despair, her mind controlled, programmed, used, by others. Thoughts no longer hers. Thoughts that were destroying her mind, racing her toward an inevitable, agonizing death. Yet there still remained in Abigail a burning hope that fueled her. An indomitable will that refused to surrender. An absolute sense of justice that screamed its defiance to the inevitable. And a certainty of faith that reassured Abigail that she was not the sum of her thoughts but rather the totality of her soul, and would not always be alone.

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