«And what is she like?» he demanded. «Is she… never mind!»

Without waiting for me to speak, he ran to the nearest window and vaulted over the sill. He struck the ground heavily, crumpling to his knees in the thin layer of snow; but he quickly regained his feet and staggered out across the garden. His breath steamed away from him, and the snow clogged around the edges of his boots. He ran stiffly, as if he hadn't moved at speed for a long time.

As if he had grown old.

I realized, of course, that he must have an idea where Yasmin was being held… that he was going to her, or going to appeal to someone on her behalf. It didn't matter – I couldn't bring myself to follow him, although I could easily catch up with his clumsy old running. Some part of me felt pleased I'd finally pierced him; another part felt burning shame.

In about a minute, he disappeared behind a cedar hedge. Then he was gone.

His footprints began to fill with unhurried snow.

After a while, I started walking again – if I had stayed in one place, watching the snow fall so somberly, I might have crumbled into tears. There is always something sad about the first snowfall; I told myself that was all I was feeling.

With every step along the marble floor, I replayed the conversation with my father… our first talk since he'd disappeared twelve years ago, or maybe the first talk in our lives. A hundred things I should have said rose unbidden in my mind: resentments that refused to solidify into rational phrases. I knew I was right – he'd been a bad father to me, a worse husband to my mother – but every time I put my reasons into words, they sounded childish and petty. That must be his fault too; his oh-so-noble attitude reduced me to a whining adolescent.

And still the snow fell. Still the hall continued unchanging in front of me: white floor, white wall, white ceiling. Suddenly, my anger at my father veered off into fury at the bland surroundings, and I cried, «Enough is enough! Where's the door out?»

The only answer was silence, all echoes of my voice soaked up by the snow outside.

Should I take the easy exit: hop through an open window into the garden? If this boring sameness was a test from Shekinester, leaving by the obvious route wasn't a clever answer. Perhaps there was a hidden way out, some concealed door I was supposed to find… or perhaps this featureless hall was simply an illusion I could break with sufficient willpower.

«All right,» I said to the air. «You do understand, you're dealing with a Sensate?»

Shekinester must know my faction; I wasn't sure how deeply a god could see into my soul, but it didn't take omniscience to notice the signet ring on my finger. Had she designed this test to see how true I was to the Sensate ideal? Or had she set things up specifically to deceive the Sensate mind?

I'd soon find out.

Step one: marking the territory. I jumped into the garden, and cleared away enough snow to dig up two handfuls of loose earth. Clambering back inside was accompanied by a certain amount of soil spillage, leaving dirty smears down the front of my pants; but I managed the trick at last and deposited one hand's worth of loam on the immaculate marble floor.

«Starting point,» I said to no one in particular.

Keeping my eye on the dirt, I paced up the hall – about a hundred and fifty yards, until the brown clot of soil was getting hard to see against the white background. Looking the other direction along the hall, I didn't see any such clump. That was comforting: you never knew when a tricky magical effect might turn a seemingly straight corridor into an endless loop. The possibility still existed, of course, if the length of the loop was longer than three hundred yards; but I had a hunch that I wouldn't have to stray so far afield to find a way out. Stooping again, I placed my other handful of dirt to mark out the end of the region I'd search.

For the next hour or so, I scanned the walls, floor and ceiling between my two markers: looking for tiny irregularities, tapping each tile, pressing and probing to see if any marble square had even the ghost of a wobble. No such ghosts materialized – whether Shekinester built this palace herself or allowed her worshippers to build it for her, someone had achieved a flawless feat of construction.

When my search reached the original marker, I turned around and started up the hall again, this time examining the window sills and the benches beneath them. The benches, made from solid slabs of marble, were too heavy to move without risking a hernia; I decided I wouldn't try to budge one unless I had good reason. That meant minute investigation of each bench and the floor where it stood, hoping to detect evidence of jiggery-pokery… but again, I found nothing but the most solid construction, not the tiniest scratch or blemish. By the time I reached the other marker, I knew I had to take a different approach.

Think – Shekinester, queen of the nagas. What did I know about nagas? Snake-people: no arms, no legs. They could all cast magic spells… but I couldn't, so if the way out required sorcery, I had no chance of success. Gods have never been noted for playing fair with mortals, but I didn't think Shekinester would set me a test that was completely impossible. It wouldn't have enough entertainment value.

Nagas… snakes… slithering along the ground, flicking their forked tongues…

Hmmm.

I lay down on my stomach and stuck out my own tongue. As I told Zeerith, I knew a few Sensate nagas in Sigil, and they were forever bragging about the acuteness of their taste buds. They could taste things on the air the way a bloodhound smells odors… and the forks of their tongues even let them track directions – if a taste was stronger on the left fork than the right, they knew where to turn to hunt out the source.

Could I taste anything now? Just a hint of bitterness. I sniffed about, and soon realized I was sensing the heap of dirt I'd placed as a marker in front of me. Crawling away from the soil, I felt rather pleased that I could detect anything at all. In a few yards, the taste/smell of the dirt faded and I got down to the serious business of examining the world, serpent-style.

Slither on my stomach. Stick out my tongue. Sniff for any odors beyond my own sweat. I must have looked ridiculous, but I regarded that as a positive thing – if Shekinester disdained «leggers» like the naga we'd met at the chapel, she'd be delighted by my clumsy performance. It would confirm her sense of superiority.

Mind you, she was a goddess. She was superior.

For the first few yards, I kept my tongue out continuously, thinking that the more exposure, the more chance I had of tasting something worthy of note. After a minute, however, the air left my tongue as dry as an autumn leaf, its surface as numb as leather. Changing tactics, I began to flick out my tongue for a few seconds, then pull it back into my mouth where I could contemplate any flavors that might have been procured… like a wine taster, swishing around the latest vintage in search of fruity aftertones.

Surprisingly, I found something.

Was it a testament to my refined Sensate perceptions? Or did Shekinester amplify the taste to give my dim «legger» senses a fighting chance? It didn't matter. After a mere five minutes of dragging around on my belly, I caught a distinct flavor of oranges wafting on the air. Sniff, sniff… there was no smell, just the taste. That had to be a good sign: it smacked of magic.

I wriggled forward a few more feet, and tried the air again. The orange flavor had weakened. Were my taste buds becoming jaded? Oh, for a quick sorbet to refresh the palate! But I backtracked and found the flavor as strong as ever in my original position. All right: I was on to something.