“They worship Atlas?” His voice seemed faint and small in this place.

“No.” The Greek laughed, looking aside at him. “That is

Chrosoes, King of Kings. He does not lack ambition, I will warrant.“

Below the figure of the godlike king, in the pit lined with black-faced obsidian, a fire roared. It was white-hot and radiant, yet it did not fill the great room with a terrible heat. Dwyrin stepped forward without thinking, to the edge of the top ring of seats. The Greek officer followed him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cavalry saber. The pillar of fire did not touch the floor of the pit; it was suspended a dozen feet above the floor. It leapt up, unquenched, fuelless, to roar in the cylindrical opening in the top of the domed room. Rings of mirrors filled the inside of the opening, reflecting the light of the eternal flame upward out of the temple. The clouds above roiled in the draft, glowing, a sight to be seen for miles and miles.

Dwyrin felt his perception peel away, and this time he did not resist. The flame filled his sight, his entire perception, everything in the universe. In his sight, it expanded to fill the room, then the world. He was suspended at the center of a whirling maelstrom of fire. A great oblate sphere filled his sight, seemingly far away. Long tendrils of fire lurched across its surface, some licking out in long, soaring arcs that sprang away from the surface of the sphere and then plunged back into the unguessably vast surface. The thing, this sphere, this universe of light, was alive. He could feel the incredibly complex pattern of forms and energies that boiled and smoked at the center of the light.

He rushed toward it. Where before he had been consumed by fear and had felt that he would be destroyed by the attenuation, by the dissolution in something so vastly greater than himself, now he accepted it. He entered the outer shell of the burning light, feeling some etheric wind rush past him. The surface of the sphere contorted, opening before him like an unfolding lotus blossom. Something bright was inside. He rushed closer.

He snapped awake, feeling a heavy hand shaking his shoulder. Dwyrin looked around, blinking dizzily. The face of the Greek officer was close to his. “Can you make this fire die?”

“What?” Dwyrin shook his head. It was hard to hear the man; he seemed far away, his voice echoing as if he stood at the bottom of a deep well. Dwyrin realized that his ears were ringing.

“You can call fire from dead stone-I know, I was at Tauris. Can you send it back as well?”

Dwyrin stared at the man, then back at the pillar of fire, then he looked around, seeing for the first time the grim-faced guardsmen and soldiers that loitering among the pillars. He did not see a single priest. The Greek shook his shoulder again, turning Dwyrin to face him squarely.

“Can you do this thing?” The brown eyes were intent and focused. “It must be done.”

Dwyrin felt a tightness in his chest. He could feel the will of the officer beating upon him, driving him to obey. At the same time, the beauty of the infinite flower called to him, singing in his mind. Here was a thing that he had long sought but had not realized he craved like water in a desert. He stared back af the officer, only peripherally aware that the German guards were edging closer, their faces bleak and terrible. The thought that such a thing as this could die, be put forth from the world, tore at his heart. What will happen to the light?

“Can you do this thing?” The officer had a hand on either shoulder now, his eyes fixed on Dwyrin’s. “Tell me, boy. It is incredibly important.”

“What will happen?” Dwyrin had trouble speaking, but he managed. “What will happen when the fire goes out?”

“Then,” the officer said, straightening up, “the will of the priests of Ahura will die with it. We are a long way from home, MacDonald, in a hostile land, surrounded by enemies. Their faith, their priests, give them the will and focus to resist us. If we show that our power, our gods, are stronger than theirs, then many will bow down before us.

Others will lose heart. The Emperors need every advantage that can be crushed from rock and stone. This is one. Can you kill this fire?“

No! cried part of Dwyrin’s mind, grappling for control of his tongue, his voice. This fire cannot die-must not die! Should it fail, darkness will creep across the land, unleashed from the chains that Zoroaster bound it with!

“Yes,” he said, though he blinked in surprise to hear it. Other powers crept through his mind. His left shoulder burned with a cold like rotten ice. He tried to force words, his own words, out, but they did not come. “I will kill this fire.”

The Greek officer smiled, taking his hands away. The guards drifted off, talking among themselves once more. Dwyrin turned, though inside his mind he scrabbled to find some control. There was nothing he could grab hold of. His body descended the stairs, one at a time, with steady, even steps. At the bottom of the steps, a broad ring of marble tiles surrounded the edge of the pit. They were cool and slippery under his feet. He walked to the edge and raised his arms.

Before him the pillar of fire hissed and roared, twisting within the confines of the cylinder. He looked down, seeing only the flinty bricks that made the cavity and the floor. There were no logs or charcoal. The fire sprang forth from the air, burning first a brilliant blue, then this tremendous white. He looked up again, seeing the far circle of night that hovered overhead. The clouds boiled and turned over the temple.

“Fire, come to me,” he said, crossing his hands on his chest. He closed his eyes.

In his self, there was a struggle. The cold surged across him, raising a chill and then a sweat on his face and arms. Another fire echoed the pillar, curling in his center, flickering at the base of his spine. Ice leached across it, killing the embers one by one. Finally there was only a pure burning point of flame settled just above his stomach.

Distantly the sound of men crying out in fear came to his ears. Wind blew against him, a fierce gust, and he felt a blow to his stomach. Dwyrin’s eyes flew open in alarm. Living flame had leapt from the side of the pillar, a streamer of white-hot fire that burrowed into his chest. He staggered back, but the current did- not let go. He began screaming in fear, but the fire did not consume him. The incandescent point in his diaphragm spun and whirled, drawing in the pillar. A molten stream of flame sizzled down into a great depth, all hidden in a single point. Ice raged around it, and Dwyrin lost sensation in his fingers and toes.

The pillar shrank suddenly, rushing with a great noise down into the pit. The room shook with a booming sensation and without warning there was complete darkness. Dwyrin collapsed on his hands and knees to the cold marble tiles. Frost had formed on his eyebrows and skin. He shivered uncontrollably. All through the great room, a light ashy snow fell out of the clear air. It was terribly cold. Above, on the deck at the top of the room, the Greek officer and his men clambered to their feet, stunned and horrified in the darkness.

Dwyrin curled into a ball, trying to warm his limbs. It was so cold. His body shuddered, filled with a bone-deep buzz of delight and pleasure. Dwyrin felt sick; he had never felt like this before. The snow continued to fall, carpeting the floor and the rows of seats with a pale-white coverlet. Flakes settled onto his face, dusting his long braids.

The bloom of late summer was gone now, the cold air that had been held back from the valleys curled along the stream bottoms. The Roman army marched southward in bitter cold fogs and intermittent rain. Dwyrin bent his head, feeling chilly rain patter on his straw hat. A woolen cloak hung over his shoulders, and over that a cape of raw fleece. His boots slipped in the muck of the road-the rains had begun to turn the tracks that wound south toward the Euphrates into muddy rivers. The weather reminded him of home, though he was sure that his mother was not waiting at the end of the day, in a warm firelit house with a big bowl of mutton stew thick with onions. Instead, it would be a cold camp by the side of the road and moldy bread with a bit of salt pork.