«Well,» I said when the dust had stopped pouring in, «you seem to have mastered the knack of magic fast enough.»

«My father's been helping me,» she answered. «He's, um, insistent I learn my lessons quickly.»

«He looked like the kind to be strict,» I agreed. «Where is he now?»

«Prowling the woods. He's impatient to get back to his own territory, but I wouldn't leave till I knew you were all right.»

«I appreciate that,» I assured her. «And what about my friends?»

«Mother Shekinester will test them in Her own time,» Zeerith said. «If they survive the flame, my uncles and aunts will carry them back here. My relatives may not like leggers, but if your friends pass the Mother's tests, my family will be honor-bound to provide that much help.»

«What happens,» I asked reluctantly, «if my friends don't pass Shekinester's tests?»

«They still enter the flame,» Zeerith replied. «They just don't come out. The fire… it burns the soul as well as the body; there's nothing left.»

«Does that happen often?»

«I don't know. I've asked my father a great many questions, but some he refuses to —»

«Zeerith!» shouted a voice from the forest. «It's time to go.»

«But, Father…»

«You wished to ensure the legger's safety. You have done so. I see no reason to waste further time in such a creature's presence.»

Zeerith gave me an apologetic look, but I simply smiled. «Fathers take some getting used to,» I said.

After they had gone, I took stock of myself. If the Arching Flame had «purified» me, I could detect no obvious difference. True, I felt superbly limber, free from the twinges and stiffness one gets from sleeping on the floor of an umbral hut; but why jump into a pillar of fire, when I could get the same relief from eight hours in a decent bed? At the moment I didn't feel hungry or thirsty either, although days might have passed since I last put something in my stomach… still, you'd expect that visiting a goddess might have more profound effects than a good meal. Perhaps the blaze had burned away intangible imperfections – the «plugs of butter congealing in my heart», as one dour Athar doctor warned me – but I had no way of perceiving such hidden cleansings. Suffice it to say, I felt good but not supernaturally blessed… which left me wondering what I should do next.

November had told us the chapel held a portal to Sigil, and its key was the image of a serpent. I could make such a picture easily enough – rip off bark from the nearest tree and use a sharp stone to scratch out a drawing – but did I want to run back to Sigil before my companions returned? The thought of leaving without them turned my stomach: Niles Cavendish's son did not abandon his friends. On the other hand, did I dare waste precious time waiting for them when Rivi might be running rampant in the streets of my home?

And how much time had I lost already? The nagas had kidnapped us at night, it had been daytime at the Court of Light, and now it was night again. That meant at least twenty-four hours… but it could have been much more, depending on how long the nagas had kept us paralyzed and how long I'd been unconscious after going through the flame.

As I debated the question, my gaze roamed around the dark clearing and lit on something that reflected the white of my clothes like a mirror. When I investigated, I found my father's sword thrust into the frozen earth, almost a foot of its tip dug into the soil. The nagas must have brought it with them as they carried me to this place; but I found it hard to imagine either of them gripping the hilt by mouth and plunging it into the ground so forcefully. Perhaps Shekinester herself had transported the rapier here: a hint from the goddess that it was time for me to do battle.

Wrapping my fingers around the sword's pommel, I pulled up tentatively, just to test how firmly the blade was implanted in the soil. It slid out of the ground as soft as a whisper, as if the weapon was pushing itself free and I was simply holding on. When I looked at the tip, there wasn't the slightest fleck of dirt on the metal, nor any of the nicks and notches you'd expect from ramming a honed length of steel into the frozen forest floor. Indeed, the sword gleamed sharper than I'd ever seen before; and it occurred to me that I'd been wearing the rapier when I jumped into the flame. Just as the fire had scorched away my little aches and pains, it must have refined any minute imperfections in the weapon, leaving it sharper, more lethal, more magical than ever.

I laughed softly, then lifted my head to the sky. «You think you had a great sword, Father… you should see mine.»

Five minutes later, I was putting the last touches onto a sketch scratched into a punky piece of oak bark. To make the image of a snake, I might have got away with a mere squiggly line – portals are seldom picky – but I had my pride. The picture showed a cobra ready to strike, its body raised, its hood flared, its fangs dripping venom… which is easier said than done, when your only drawing implement is a 4B wedge of limestone.

In the dim light I stared at the sketch, trying to decide if it needed something else or if adding more would clutter things up – the perennial dilemma of every artist – when I heard a rustling in the woods. Immediately I sprinted for the chapel, where I could hide in the blackness of the doorway… and where, if worst came to worst, I could use my drawing to flee through the portal to Sigil.

Silent moments passed, and I began to wonder if I'd been spooked by some porcupine, late for hibernation. Then, as hushed as an owl in flight, two nagas entered the clearing. The one in front, a huge female with fangs so white they glowed, carried her head warily; her tongue flicked in and out constantly, left, right, left, as if she were certain that trouble must be lurking close by. Behind her, the other naga was smaller, with the fresh-hatched face of a boy scarcely older than Zeerith. He showed none of the caution of the other – in fact, he sported a beaming grin, suggesting he was enjoying every second of this adventure away from home.

Clinging to his neck, like a child riding a pony, sat Wheezle. The gnome wore on over-long robe cut in Dustman style; but instead of a somber gray, this garment was as white as the face of a moon. Even in this starless night, the cloth shone and shimmered as if it had been peeled off an unusually generous ghost.

The front naga hissed sharply, and stared in my direction. Belatedly, I remembered that I too was dressed in purest white – not the best sartorial choice for someone hiding in shadows. «It's all right,» I called quickly. Stepping from the darkness, I said, «I'm a friend.»

«Honored Cavendish!» cried Wheezle with delight. He hopped from his perch on the young naga and ran forward, his arms wide. I was so astonished to see him on his feet again, I didn't react; so when he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my knees and squeezed in warm embrace.

«You can walk again!» I marveled.

«He has passed through the flame,» the older naga said. «Why should you doubt that it healed him? Do you think the sacred fire is weak?»

«No, no,» I answered quickly. «I've been through the flame myself, you know.»

The naga blinked once, then she grudgingly nodded her head. «You are to be congratulated for passing Our Mother's test.»

«And you passed too, Wheezle.» I squatted and returned the little gnome's hug. «Your legs are really all right?»

«Better than that, honored Cavendish. My memory has returned.»

The boy-naga made a scoffing sound. «Why not? Shekinester's stronger than the stupid old Styx.»

«And look,» said Wheezle. «Look at this.»

He held up his wrinkled old hand and made a circling gesture with his thumb. A ring of blue light flared into existence where the tip of his thumbnail traced through the air, then sprang up a few inches and dropped like a hoop around his index finger. With a small rattling noise, it disappeared again.