The city crouched fiercely in the shade of the great mountain, a small but welcome respite from the glaring heat of the desert. Deep in caves below basements and storehouses, cool springs bubbled forth, the lifeblood that had allowed the inhabitants to carve out an oasis here in this hostile environment. They fed ponds and fountains and parks and orchards. Down below, at the source, remnants persisted of a city older still. Older than street and stone, older than hearth or history. Older even than the mountain above. This is the story of the city, and how it sank from memory and rose again. It is the story of the mountain, and how it came to be.