Fiddler's Ridge-dark, brooding, its ancient forest rarely disturbed by trespassers-was a dangerous place for fools. Young mill worker, Billy Paul Haferty was about to learn why. He was only looking for a bit of entertainment, he told himself as he climbed the ridge one evening. There was no harm in it, the well-beaten path he followed indicated that plenty of people had been here before him. When he reached his destination, a lonely cabin deep in the forest, he felt ridiculous explaining the purpose of his visit to the cold-eyed woman who lived there. She asked if he knew the cost of what he was seeking, and scoffed at the wad of bills he pulled from his pocket. "That paper don't have nothin' to do with you," she said. "Might as well toss it to the wind for all the value it's got to him who will help you." It was a warning, but he shrugged it off. Weeks later, as he lay in the woods waiting to die, he told himself he should have known better. A Being capable of giving him his heart's desire wasn't going to be satisfied with a boosted load of lumber or a case of shine as payment. He should have known it would cost him his soul.