The passage began to circle, to twist around and around in ever narrowing spirals. Blade began to feel dizzy, a vertigo near overwhelmed him and he lay on the cold floor, pressing his face against it.

There was a jetting sound from all around him, high on the walls. A hissing as something was spurted into the passage. The foul odor vanished to be replaced by the sweetest smell he had ever known. It lulled him and soothed his senses. He felt the need of sleep. And he must breathe deep-he must.

Blade cursed and jabbed the swordpoint into his leg.

Again and yet again. The pain gave him strength to hurry on.

The corridor ceased to twist. It straightened and ran far into darkness. And ended. Stopped. Blade approached the edge and peered down into the darkness. Nothing to see. He thrust the torch into the void and shadows mocked him. He retreated from the edge and considered.

Ten feet beyond the pit the passage continued. For some thirty feet it ran, then ended in a short transverse corridor. Three doors opened off the corridor and over each gleamed a torch. The doors were high and narrow, of metal, with a ringbolt set into each. They seemed to wait, the doors, gleaming and reflecting the torchlight in their shiny surfaces.

Blade looked at the pit again. Ten feet. Easy enough. He drew back a little into the passage and did knee bends to limber his muscles. On second thought he went to the edge again and threw his torch across. It lay sparking and smoking on the far side. Blade went back and took a deep breath and ran.

As he began to run he saw the torch move. It lay on the far edge and it was moving! The ledge there was retreating.

Too late to stop. Blade ran and leaped with all his pent-up anger to lend him strength. The ledge slid away from him. He reached it with his toes, struggled desperately for balance and fell forward with a sobbing cry. Another inch or two and he would have failed the leap.

The door moved beneath him as the ledge slid back to its original position. Blade lay and caught his breath and considered that Casta had never needed Thane. He had master builders of his own. Or had Thane known of this? Had Thane built it? And, had he lived, would he have warned Blade of it, explained the perils and how to thwart them? Blade would never know.

He approached the three doors.

They were shiny and smooth and bore no inscripture. In these imperfect mirrors he saw himself and it gave him pause. This naked, brawny giant, scowling, with sword in hand and shield on arm, was not like any of the Blades he had ever known or had ever thought to become. This image was of a savage, a barbarian, a shrewd and cunning warrior no better than the men he sought to kill. He snarled at the man in the door and the man in the door snarled back.

Blade began to laugh. Loud, harsh laughter. He smote his sword on the shield and brayed with laughter. It echoed down the passage and from the abyss behind him.

The laughter ended. Blade approached the middle door. He put out a hand and touched the burnished surface. The door moved easily. Opened. Into nothing.

Blade looked down. Blood-colored fire burned far below, and there was no smoke and only a sound of weeping. No heat. These were cold fires. Zero fires. And the weeping, as he listened and knew, was the sound of centuries of grief and stupidity, of mistakes and cruelty, of death triumphant over life, of loss of hope, of desolation beyond desolation.

Tears blinded him and he rubbed them away and jerked his head to clear it. He closed the door. Illusions, yes, but how done and how skilled he could only marvel at and admit ignorance. And something else-he had been careful not to underestimate Casta, and yet he might have done so. He had not bargained for all this. Blade knew then, really knew, that this could be his death. He went to the left door and opened it.

Thunder blasted his ears and lightning forked livid over a far vista. Black rain sluiced down, and in the rain marched column after column of skeletons, wending their worm-like way through witch trees. There was a great mound of skulls. The black rain turned red. Blood. Blade set his jaw and pushed a little way into the room, holding his hand out to the scarlet rain. Nothing. His hand was dry, unstained. He retreated and closed the door. Illusion. But how? He was near ready to believe.

Now the door to the right. The moment he pushed it open he sensed that this was the door he was meant to enter.

A short passage led to a blank wall of stone. There was another door with a square peephole cut in it. Light glowed through the orifice. Blade advanced and peered through the opening. Yes. This he was meant to see.

There was a square room. In the center of the room a bed. On the bed, naked, lay the Princess Hirga. She lay with arms and legs flung wide, her taut peaked breasts rising and falling, her eyes closed. If she sensed his presence she made no sign.

As Blade watched she began to fondle her breasts, stroking and kneading. Her fingers toyed with her nipples. Her mouth fell open and he saw the moist tongue protrude and glisten and a worm of saliva rolled from her lips. She began to moan. «Come to me. Hurry-hurry-Come to me.»

A travesty of the words Janina had spoken to Blade in fantasy. And not meant for him. Blade watched, narrow-eyed, and his scalp twitched. Not meant for him. Hirga had raised herself and was glancing around the chamber, impatient, looking, waiting. For what? Who?

First the odor. The stench smote Blade like an unclean fist.

The smell of death and shit and something worse than either.

It came. Whether from the floor or the walls he could not see, but it filled space that had been empty. It was there.

It stood near the bed and regarded the naked Hirga with eyes set deep in a face that was both animal and human. Horns curled from its forehead and it sprouted scales instead of hair. Silvery platelike scales covered its body. It had the breasts of a woman and the phallus of a man. The legs were short and crooked and ended in hooves. Cloven. It stood and glared at Hirga and slowly moved toward the bed.

Hirga held out her arms in welcome. Blade, sweating from every pore, watched her face. He had never seen such terror writ on a human face, or such anticipation. Hirga groaned and her eyes rolled as she beckoned the creature to her. It was slow, advancing a step at a time, making no sound.

It came at last to the bedside and stopped. Hirga clasped her hands in supplication. Blade shuddered and tried to close his nostrils. The odor was obscene.

The phallus. It had been limp and dangled to the creature's knee. It was thick, a meaty sausage covered with tiny scales. It began to swell, to grow, to gain rigidity and strength until it jutted enormous and threatening. Blade understood then, knew why no mere man could satisfy Hirga. The High Priest sent this thing to her, controlled her by means of it, and Hirga was addicted, like an addict crying for heroin. As she was crying now, sobbing and writhing on the bed and, her face wild, reaching with both hands for the giant phallus.

The creature moved swiftly. It mounted Hirga and thrust in. She screamed. She lifted her knees high and clasped the foul thing to her and screamed. The creature made no sound, only thrust and thrust that gigantic phallus into her, deeper and deeper. Blade marveled that she was not torn apart.

Gradually her screams subsides into groans. Soft moans. The thing was fully ensconced in her now and moving with a rhythmic beat. On and on and on. Hirga's eyes were open and staring. She drooled. Her belly pulsated and her nates quivered. Where there had been terror, fear, anticipation, there was now a growing ecstasy. Her face reddened and tears ran from her staring eyes. Blade, Blade the voyeur, looked down at his own penis and saw it iron hard. He cursed himself.