The god did not, nor did Hanse. Sparks were struck by a blow parried, and feet shifted and Vashanka was past and Hanse turning, unharmed.

The god came in with the arrogant precipi-tousness of a god set to slay a snotty little mortal. In rushed his dark sword, to be caught and turned by a round shield so that he was jarred by the impact and the snotty human's return stroke nearly bit his leg. Still Vashanka did not leam, could not respect this wiry little foeman in its untested mail, and again he struck, his shield still down from protecting his leg, and this time Hanse jerked his shield on impact so that the god's blade was directed aside, drawing Vas-hanka's arm and thus his body that way, and only the projections of his unorthodox, twisted body-armor saved his neck from Hanse's edge. The god grunted as he was struck but un-wounded, and Hanse showed him teeth, sidestepping, back-stepping, feinting with sword and then with buckler and showing a preparedness that turned another godly attack into a feint.

Vashanka had been taught respect.

They circled, each with his shield-side to the other, each staring above the arcing rim of the shield. Pacing, watching. Each a moving target and moving menace. Arms slightly amove so that neither blade was still in that dead air.

Somewhere the moon moved in the sky and hourglasses were turned, while those two circled and stared, paced and glared, paced and feinted as fighting men with respect each for the other. Now and again steel hissed and sang and steel rang or wood boomed under the impact of swordblade on reinforced shield. Now and again a man grunted, or a god. One swift awful flurry of strokes traded left each bruised under armor still intact.

How could Hanse knew that they fought so for an hour? Staying alive meant staying alert; being alert meant having no time to think of time or of tiring. It was guard and parry, strike and cover, and pace to seek another opportunity. Silver twinkled as the sword-bitten winding on Hanse's sheath came loose and dangled.

How long was it, ere Vashanka was there no more but become a rock-leopard that snarled and sprang with awful talons extended-

-to be met by Hanse become bear; a big bear that caught the huge cat and squeezed it in mid-leap, staggering back, feeling its claws as he shook it and hurled it from him to hit the ground, hard, and roll, snarling with a whining note, twisting, becoming a cobra.

Both were blooded now, and blood marked the hissing serpent that reared, striking-

It struck neither man nor bear, for neither was there, but a small ferocious collection of teeth and fur and boneless speed that avoided the strike and pounced to clamp its teeth on a hated enemy-

But as soon as the mongoose had the cobra, the serpent swelled huge and then huger so that its tiny antagonist fell away. That still-growing cobra was blooded again, however, and when it became horse with Vashanka atop or part of it, it turned to canter away. And away, prancing easily over ugly shapes of stone . . . only to wheel and come back at the gallop. Charging, hooves pounding, striking sparks off stone, bounding over twisted rock-formations at the small shape who seemed gone all fearful, scurrying back and forth in its path, then whirling and racing away, fleeing on a straight line easily overtaken ...

The legs of that racing horse rushed into the long strip of leather Hanse had just bound in place for it, and it stumbled with a scream and flew through the air so that. Hanse, swerving, heard its mighty impact behuyd him. Then he whirled and rushed back, shiald ready and sword up and back, gathering velocity for the stroke to carry all.

He was forced to slow. A man-shape stood there waiting, a god in armor and helm beaked in imitation of a bird of prey, shield up and ready, sword a dark silver of death ready in his fist. Shield took blow and shield took blow, but its bottom edge was banged in to impact Hanse's body at the waist so that he groaned and half-doubled and staggered back, trying not to fall, but falling, sprawling backward, a grounded target ready for the death-stroke of a god he never should have fought. His elbow banged into a snake-shape of ochreous rock and the sword leaped from it as if eager to flee.

Hanse had the ridiculous thought I knew I should never have done this as he tried to writhe and wriggle and watched death rushing at him with upraised sword. Mignureal saved him, leaping in from the side with a screech. Hanse, flailing and groaning, trying to will himself onto his feet and yet despairing utterly, saw the vicious black-bladed stroke that cut her nearly in two almost precisely at the waist.

Now it was a god's turn to show his teeth in feral smile worthy of the lowest beast, and after spinning completely around from the exertion of destroying that poor pale-clad body, he came bounding again, sword rising for the second death blow in seconds, and the absolutely desperate Hanse reverted: he thrust his left hand up his tunic sleeve, half-rolling as he did to free his arm all the way, and hurled the long flat knife.

He watched its rush as he had never tracked a cast before, none of his thousands and thousands of practice casts. The leaf of shining metal seemed to take minutes, floating through eternity to reach the rushing oncoming god who, though racing toward Hanse, took as long to near. Lightning sundered the sky and thunder followed, but it was the voice of enraged, triumphant Vashanka, at the charge.

"I CANNOT BE SLAIN BY WEAPONS OF YOUR PLANE, IDIOT, LITTLE THIEF, POOR DEMI MORTAL, INCONSEQUENTIAL INSEC-"

And then his charge met the knife's. The knife struck, beautifully and perfectly point-first, just under the adam's apple. Vashanka shrieked and the shriek burbled. That impossible plane of infinity came alive with blinding and coruscating light.

... down in Sanctuary those up at dawn saw the late-rising moon vanish as the sky was hurled alight by heat lightning bright as day...

that surrounded Vashanka utterly, that was Vashanka, as his bellow of rage and pain was thunder and lightning. Pierced, he went flying backward as if by smashing impact, and the wind of his passage was as the gale of a storm booming in off the sea. And on he went, until he was so distant to the staring, squinting Hanse that he was tiny, and then that tiny Vashanka vanished.

Us appeared before Hanse then, radiant. His face was that of the statue in the destroyed temple.

At that, Hanse wondered; he saw the radiance and yet dimly. Why was it darker; why was his god not all triumphant in pure lambence?

Why can't I move my damned head, damn it? "m the end," Ils said, "he was right and yet not wise enough. He said true in that he cannot be slain by weapons of this plane. But the knife flew true, the mortal knife off its proper plane here on the Plane of Infinity, and it struck him a killing blow, so that he began to die. But that was not possible. Thus a paradox existed. That is against the nature of things, Hanse, for the God of Gods who created all existence-aye, and who created Me-that god is Reality. Since my cousin's son Vashanka could not be slain by weapons of your plane, this dimension, he could not die in this chamber of the House of Infinity that is the domain of Lord Reality."

Of course Hanse said, "I don't understand."

"Hmp! I am sure you don't! It's heady stuff for a god! Explanations for all this won't be discovered by your kind for thousands of years, Son of Shadow. Suffice it to say that Vashanka is gone from here, and that meaning of 'here' is a broad one, indeed and in deed! Vashanka is gone from here because he cannot exist here, in this universe. He has been blown backward through a wormhole in space, which is no easier for you to understand, eh? Accept this truth, Hanse: Vashanka is ElseWhere. And though there is an infinity of possibilities, of dimensions or chambers, one is closed to him forever; used up. That one-yours-is impossible to him and does not exist for him.