"The Cabal!" Ixidor startled awake, clutching his chest.

Someone was there beside the bed.

Ixidor yanked back the silken veils.

A figure stood there, dark against the nighttime wall. It was no one, an unman. Panting, Ixidor tore back the rest of the curtains. Six unmen stared at him, their heads bent in worry.

Ixidor hurled off the covers and stood. He tried to shove away the unmen, but they shadowed him. Flinging open the glass doors, Ixidor strode out onto the balcony and stopped at its balustrade.

The midnight sky held only a handful of tepid stars, which gave off a sickly glow. Ixidor peered beyond the shimmering waters and the dark tangle of Greenglades. He could not see the edge of the wood let alone the desert's first dunes or the caravan waiting there.

"How could I have been so stupid?" Ixidor growled. He whistled loudly between his ringers. The shrill sound leaped away across the waters. "They promised a show. Who promises a show but the Cabal."

In the deep distance, a shadow struggled free of the palm fronds. It stroked huge wings once, twice, and soared on the wind toward Locus.

"They'll come for more than wagons and wares. They'll come for revenge."

The shadow shot out over the lake and shrieked, its eagle beak gaping above a leonine body. The griffon fought through clouds, pulled up above the rail, and lighted there beside its creator. In the tepid light, its pallid coat seemed deep blue.

Ixidor climbed onto the beast, grabbed a fistful of mane, and dug in his heels. With a squawk, the creature launched itself from the balustrade. Its wings caught hold of the air, and a second and third surge lifted it away from the stony bulk of Locus. Amid whirling vortices, Ixidor sensed a stripping of power. He glanced back to see his unmen, stranded on the balcony. He had made them out of his own shadow, and so they could not ride on clear air.

It felt liberating at last to be without them. Not until that moment did he realize how much he hated the unmen.

Powerful wings stroked above the pitching treetops. Beneath the wan stars, palms moved like monstrous heads. The griffon's wings stripped back the forest. In merciless minutes, it neared the desert's edge. Five box wagons waited there, lined up across the sands.

"What kind of show would the Cabal bring to the middle of the desert?"

Spreading its wings to glide, the griffon passed over the last the trees. It slid slowly down to touch ground at a run. Padding up beside the caravan, the bird-lion sat. Ixidor dismounted.

The sand was cold. He walked quietly toward the first wagon, wishing the stars were brighter. He wished many things- -that his unmen were here, that he had brought a weapon, that he wore armor.

The wagon was ornately painted, with large-spoked wheels and many doors. Panels were meant to slide back or fold out into various bits of scenery. It was a moving theater, and the now-dead folk had been its troop. Even despite the dimness of the stars, Ixidor could easily read the inscription: "THE GRANDE COLISEUM ROAD SHOW."

Ixidor blinked stupidly. He grasped the hasp of one of the scene pieces and drew it slowly out. It showed a minotaur gladiator, striped with wounds. Ixidor positioned it on the sand and one by one pulled out the rest.

To the right opened a wide panel, within which was painted a gray set of stands filled with cheering folk. A similar panel opened to the left. The wagon's awning, when laid down across the door, completed the picture of the inside of a great coliseum.

"Why?" Ixidor wondered aloud.

A voice came from within, a weary voice at the edge of survival. "For the amusement… of Phage."

Ixidor took a step back. "What?"

"For the glory of the Cabal… and the amusement of Phage."

"Who are you! What are you doing here?"

"I'm dying… Without food or water…"

"No, what are you doing in my lands?"

"The taskmasters… promote the coliseum. We fight… an exhibition."

Ixidor's eyes narrowed as he approached the wagon. He discerned bars in the windows. "You are slaves?"

"Gladiators, or I am… My partner is dead."

Gritting his teeth, Ixidor said, "All for the amusement of Phage." He patted his pockets, hoping to find something he might use on the lock. "Don't worry. I'll get you out. I have a score to settle with Phage."

From behind the wagon came a terrible shriek-the griffon. Its wings thrashed, and its claws raked the sand. A sudden silence followed.

Ixidor rushed around the wagon.

Phage stood there, blacker than the black night. She clutched the griffon in a headlock. The thing's flesh rotted away, just as Nivea had. Phage hoisted the skeletal griffon and waggled its ribs, so that the great feathery wings seemed to sprout from her own shoulders.

"I knew I would find you," she said. "I killed Nivea, and now I kill you."

Ixidor did not know what to say. How could he fight her with no tools, no weapons, not even a paint brush?

Virulence ate through the griffon's skeleton, and bones tumbled like white sticks from Phage's fingers. She advanced.

Ixidor took a step back, keeping the distance between them. He would not run. He would bluff and bargain until he had reached Greenglades, where his own beasts could rise to protect him. "Why do you hunt me?"

Phage crept forward, keeping eyes locked on her prey.

"For sheer spite?" Ixidor asked, nearing the edge of the wood.

"Yes," Phage replied in a hiss.

Ixidor shook his head. "Vengeful beast." He hurled himself up a tree bole, scrabbling to climb aloft.

With a shriek of animal rage, Phage leaped after him. Her hand swiped just behind his retreating foot. Instead of climbing, Phage merely wrapped her arms around the tree. Bark split and peeled; quick blackened and sloughed; heartwood burned right through. With a sudden lurch, the tree and its occupant began to fall.

Ixidor flung himself across the emptiness, toward a high crotch nearby. His hands snagged the bark, but it ripped away. He fell. Fronds slapped his back as he tumbled. He struggled to get his feet under him but could not. Vines snared his legs, and he crashed down on his back amid undergrowth. There he lay, beneath a thin layer of flapping leaves. He could not breathe, the air knocked from his lungs.

Phage loped froward through the forest, looking for him.

"You cannot hide, Ixidor. Darkness is no ally of yours. I am darkness," Phage said quietly. All around her, undergrowth rotted, and soon, Ixidor's cover would be gone.

He stared up beseechingly toward the branch of a tree, where a pair of red eyes watched.

"There you are," Phage said. Even in the gloom, her teeth glinted. "Don't make me walk on you. I would rather wrap you in my arms and cradle you to death as I did to Nivea. Rise."

Fall.

The black panther plunged from the branch.

Phage glanced up too late.

All teeth and claws, the cat impacted her. Its jaws clamped down, crushing her face. Fore claws ripped open her throat and hind claws her belly. Next moment, the cat was slain by rot, but its corpse smashed Phage to the ground. Rots and putrid meat pinned her.

Ixidor gasped a breath, struggled free of the vines, and cracked a branch from a nearby tree. The broken end came away in a long spike, just as he had wished. He charged, holding the bough lance-like, and rammed it into Phage. He felt the jagged point pierce her chest, punch through muscle, and crack bone. He thought he even sensed the spongy lung beneath. Yanking the branch out, he plunged it into another spot.

Already, the sharp point was gone from the branch. It struck this time like a blunt pole. Worse, as the last of the panther fell away, Ixidor could see that the claw marks down her belly were knitting closed, and her throat had ceased bleeding. Phage shuddered, throwing off the remains of the panther's skull. Even her face had healed.