«Only one of Her daughters,» the flaming serpent replied. «You have passed our Mother's tests. Be glad.»

«What about my friends?»

«They are being tested too. If they are weak, they shall fail.»

«I'd like to help them,» I said.

«You cannot. In this place, all souls stand alone.»

The naga's blazing face sizzled close to mine, too blindingly bright for me to make out any features. With the speed of a cobra striking, her head darted forward, directly at me; but instead of a bite, I felt the kiss of fiery lips on my cheek. Light flared from all directions… and abruptly, I was standing near the center of a large stone chamber, high-ceilinged and devoid of decoration.

There was only one source of illumination in all that great wide space – a pillar of snow-white flame, burning in the very heart of the room. I stood at the base of a flight of low stone steps, leading up to the fire like the ascent to a tabernacle.

Surrounding me, filling the chamber to the very walls, stood an army of the undead. Simple zombies, their skins hanging in loose and rotting sags… skeletons with bony faces in perpetual grins… a cloudy congregation of ghosts, specters, haunts, and wraiths, as thick as midnight fog… vampires, pallid and mesmerizing, standing shoulder to shoulder with lich sorcerers, their fleshless fingers a'glitter with heavy-jeweled rings… and of course, scattered throughout the dark company, the baleful bonfire eyes of wights.

From reflex, my hand dropped to my side. It touched my father's rapier, restored to me now that the testing was over; but I let my fingers relax, and did not draw.

«Okay,» I called to the assembled horde. «Hands up all those who feel as uncomfortable as I do right now.»

I thought I saw a zombie lift its arm, but it might just have been rigor mortis.

With a rattle of bones and armor, a death knight stepped from the front row of watchers. It wore chain mail, covered with a tabard that had once been pure white linen; but a fuzzy black smut had grown over the cloth, powdering out whatever emblem this knight had fought for in life. The creature's face was skeletal, with the orbit around one eye raggedly smashed away – probably a death blow from a mace, sending this once-noble warrior to an uneasy afterlife.

When the knight spoke, its voice had the chilling tone of a crumbling mortuary. «Now,» it said, «you must enter the Arching Flame.»

«The Arching Flame?» I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar of fire. «That flame?»

«You have passed the easy tests,» the creature said. «Now you must be purified.»

«If that involves incineration, I'd rather not.»

«The flame does not burn those who are true to themselves. It cleanses. It restores.» The knight turned its head toward the brightness. «I would enter it myself if I could.»

With a wave of my hand, I said, «Be my guest. I'll sign over my ticket.»

The knight's sword whipped out of its scabbard so fast the blade was a blur. Its tip pointed directly at my throat. «Take care,» the knight whispered. «Take care your flippant tongue does not start you down the road I have traveled. It is Shekinester's will that you enter the flame. If you defy the goddess… but I shall not let you do that. Damned though I am, I will not permit you to suffer such a curse.»

The creature stepped forward and I had to retreat, backing away hurriedly from that sword. The weapon's blade was fuzzed thickly with the same black smut that covered the knight's tabard – fungal rot from a corruption that should have returned to the soil long ago. I leapt toward a gap in the front row of monsters… but suddenly, a phantom flickered into existence to fill the space, milky and groaning.

«No escape, mortal,» the death knight said behind me. «Shekinester wishes you to enter the flame. Whatever we might have been in life, we are hers now. She has given us relief from the raging insanity that affects others of our kind. In thanks, we do her bidding within this chamber.»

I looked out at the decaying company. Their faces did not twist with rage or regret, the two great anguishes of most undead; I saw only resolve, a determination to fulfill their duty to Shekinester and her flame.

«All right,» I shrugged. «Into the fire I go.»

Tossing a rakish wave to the knight, I ran up the steps and did a half-gainer into the heart of the blaze.

If I could remember what happened within the Arching Flame, I'd try to describe it. Heaven knows, I could peel free drinks for the rest of my life, just telling the tale to Sensates who wanted to know what it felt like to stand within that withering blaze. All that remains in my mind, however, is a brief moment of light, sensed not just with my eyes but with my skin, as if every inch of my flesh could see the brilliance that pierced me to the bone. My clothes vaporized in an instant, every fiber bursting into dusty smoke…

…and then I lay naked under a night sky, the chill of snow beneath me. Clouds drifted across the darkness, but only a few: high wisps and tatters slipping along the starless black.

I sighed; and my breath turned to steam, drifting straight up on the calm air. For one brief moment, I was content to watch it mist away to nothingness… then the cold against my backside finally bit into my consciousness, and I dragged myself to my feet.

Before me stood the chapel to the nagas, the small stone building just outside of Plague-Mort. Snowflakes now dusted its roof, and nestled in the cracks of its crumbling masonry; but nothing else had changed. The surrounding forest had lost some of its dense foliage, the trees too disheartened to keep hold of their leaves now that the snow had come; and the rustle of small creatures scurrying through the darkness had grown quiet in the time we had been gone. Winter had descended, true winter… a time of peace and resignation, no matter how the cold shivered against my skin.

«Oh good,» said a pleasant female voice. «You're awake.»

A few yards away, Zeerith had coiled herself into the bole of an ancient elm, her tail draping down the tree's rough bark. It disconcerted me to stand unclothed in front of her cherubic teen-aged face; but she showed no sign of embarrassment herself. I suppose she must have looked upon me with the same indifference a human feels to see a dog naked. Then again… «Aren't you cold down there?» she asked from her perch. «I came up here to get away from the snow.»

«It would be nice to have some clothes,» I told her. «Something warm.»

Her brow furrowed for a moment, and she closed her eyes. The air filled with a barely audible buzzing, both a sound and a tangible prickling against my skin. I looked down and saw motes of white dust drifting out of the night, floating up to my body and settling down with the softness of feathers. More and more of the tiny specks swept from the darkness, until they began to clump together in downy swatches that quickly warmed with my body heat. Still the dust streamed in; it thickened into a matted layer as cozy as brushed felt, but lighter than the finest linen. Almost as an afterthought, the covering of dust partitioned itself into separate garments, pants, shirt, jacket, gloves, and all of an utterly pure white.

«Feet,» Zeerith said, still concentrating intensely. I lifted one foot, then the other, to give the inflooding stream a chance to coat me with dense white boots, lighter than my old ones but as tough as metal plate. When those were done, I thought the outfit was finished; but the flow of dust simply shifted to my head, fashioning itself into a warm cowl that covered my hair and the back of my neck. I had the suspicion that Zeerith had shaped it to resemble a cobra's hood: a young naga's attempt to make a «legger» look less like a pathetic monkey.