To enter the Garden of Azoth was to die.

It was known, and the few foolhardy souls who’d tested the validity of that old wisdom over the centuries had found it was no mere peasant superstition. A mage had created it, or so the stories went, a witch of terrible, immense power who’d sought to create an unassailable refuge from which she could work her dark sorceries without fear of attack. Strange, dangerous flora from distant lands served as its foundation, dangerous enough thanks to their plentiful thorns and invasive nature, but warped into something truly terrible by her blood magic, the sacrifice of virgin blood to the first seedlings giving them a ravenous appetite for human flesh. More and more magical power was infused into their creation, until every last stem and vine and thorn reflected the witch’s malice. To hear the bards speak, this region of the Empire had once been a land of farmers, hard-working men and women tilling the rich earth for plentiful rewards. A week after the Garden was first planted, and it had become a nightmare of creeping vines and poisonous blossoms, draining the life from the soil, choking out forests and fields of crops, and tearing to pieces any man or beast unfortunate enough to fall into its grasp.

What fate had befallen its creator, none could say, but in the two centuries since, the Garden sat undisturbed, an impenetrable jungle five square miles in size that had resisted all attempts at destruction. No axe, however keen, could chop through a vine or branch, assuming the woodsman who tried could even survive the Garden’s swift retaliation. Fire would not touch the Garden, nor had it ever lost so much as a leaf from frost, drought or one of the great summer storms that frequently rolled in from off the eastern coast. Even attempts by the Emperor’s own Warcasters, battle-mages of considerable wisdom and power, to destroy the Garden had proven futile, whatever damage they inflicted regrown in a fortnight. To enter the Garden of Azoth was to die, and for miles around, travellers and merchants and questing knights and errant mages did everything in their power to avoid it, lest they become its next victims.

Until the day the sorceress made her way towards the Garden’s edge, travelling along one of the old roads that had once linked the farming communities to the rest of the Empire, weeds poking out from between the pieces of slate hammered down to form its surface. Everything about her was dark and beautiful and terrible. A black leather riding dress, the skirt slit at the sides for easier movement, flapped on the night winds, while a black leather corset squeezed her waist and accentuated her voluptuous figure. Tall black leather boots reaching up to her thighs carried her at a steady clip, her pace never faltering despite their stiletto heels, and long fingers traced magical sigils at her sides within gloves of black lambskin. A long black cloak flowed out behind her, covering her bare shoulders, while beneath its hood, dark eyes peered out past an aquiline nose, blood red lips pursing thoughtfully. Five paces from the wall of tangled vines and branches, she came to a halt. “I am Lilith Skraekin, sorceress and student of the dark arts. I demand entrance into the Garden, for I would have the knowledge within for my own.”

Only silence answered her, the night going still as if the very land itself was holding its breath. Stripping off her right glove, Lilith drew the dagger belted at her waist, and without a sound, slashed her palm, letting the blood drip onto the ground before the nearest plant. “I am alone, I am betrayed, and I have nothing left in me but the need for vengeance. Name your price, and I will pay it. Grant me your power or kill me now, but do not waste my time.”

For a heartbeat, Lilith wondered if this had been the right choice after all.

And then the Garden began to move, the rattle of branches and the hissing of leaves on the wind becoming words, soft and sibilant and meant for her ears alone. “You seek power.”

“Yes.”

From the barrier of foliage, a pair of vines coiled outwards, smooth and sleek as serpents, and Lilith did not resist they wrapped tightly around each wrist. “What will you do to obtain it?”

“Anything.”

More vines came, holding her ankles and thighs fast, another still encircling her narrow waist so tightly the sorceress felt her breath hitch in her throat. Yet another reached through the folds of her dress and slid along her inner thigh, and the first stirrings of fear crossed her beautiful features. “Are you prepared to suffer? To weep?” A final vine reached out, wrapping itself around her throat, and instinctively, she knew that to give the wrong answer now would see it squeeze the very life from her. “To beg?”

“…yes.”

And for the first time since its creation, the Garden of Azoth let the wall of foliage come down, and Lilith caught a glimpse of all the secrets it had kept hidden for so very long, the dread power that had slept within for over two hundred years.

And that small peek into what she had bargained for was enough to shatter her resolve like a cheap clay pot, the tranquility of the night violated by her terrified screams. “No… please, no! Oh, Gods, someone help me! Hel—mmmppggghhh!” Cobra-quick, a vine plunged into her open mouth, reducing her cries to pathetic grunts, yet the sorceress barely noticed, thrashing and bucking against her living bonds, mind reduced to a feral thing by terror. “MMMMPPPPGGGHHHH!”

“Yes, you will serve nicely,” said the Garden, drawing her in towards its heart, her struggles doing as much to deter it as a fly caught in a spider’s web. “You will suffer and weep and beg, and when you are ready, the world will know fear once again…”