The rain finally stopped. It would be days before the streets dried-if theydried at all before the next storm swept through. Molin tucked the scarf in apouch and threw a cloak over his shoulder. There wouldn't be a better time tofind Tempus. He didn't have to go far, just a sidelong glance out the window.The Riddler, followed closely by an exceptionally grim looking Critias, wascoming to pay him a visit.

"That picture," the nearly immortal mercenary snarled, pointing above Molin'shead as the heavy wood door slammed against the wall.

Pointedly ignoring the priest, Crit walked around to examine the pictureclosely. After touching it with his fingers he used his knife to scrape off abit of the background-and got plaster-shavings for his efforts.

"It's not there, Critias," Molin warned.

"Get it," Crit ordered.

"You don't come in here giving me orders."

"Let him see it," Tempus asked wearily. "/'// make sure no harm comes to it."

Molin tried to concentrate. He'd been childishly pleased with himself when he'dhidden the actuality of the canvas while leaving its semblance plainly visibleon the wall. It was hard enough for an apprentice of his experience to tucksomething away in magic's shadows but now, with Tempus and Crit watching himimpatiently, it was proving impossible to find it again. He had almost locatedthe frayed edges when the door slammed open again and he lost them.

"You can't bum it," Randal said, the words coming between gasps for air. "No oneknows what will happen when you do."

"We bum the witch-bitch when we bum it-that's what happens." Critias touched hisknife to the facsimile ofRoxane's face as he spoke. "Find it," he added forMolin's benefit.

"We don't know what happens to Niko... or Tempus," Randal continued.

Critias fell silent and Molin, getting desperate, lucky, or both, closed hismind around the canvas and gave it a little tug. The image on the wall shimmeredbefore vanishing and, with an unpleasant sulphurous discharge, the rolled canvasdropped to the floor at Tempus's feet. He reached down and held it in his fist.

"No," the big man said simply.

"We can't destroy the globe," Critias said as Randal shuddered in agreement. "Wecan't kill the Stormchildren." Molin's knuckles went white. "And now you'retelling me we can't bum the picture. Commander, what can we do?"

Molin saw his opportunity open before him. Opening the pouch, he laid the scarfacross the worktable and waited for reaction. Randal stared, Crit lookednervous, and Tempus jerked upright.

"Mother of us all," he sighed, laying the canvas on the table, taking the scarfin its place. "Where did you get this?" His fingers read the uneven stitches ashe spoke.

"Stormbringer," Molin answered softly enough that only Tempus could see or hear.

"Why?"

"To convince you that you have to sleep; that you have to talk to ASkelonbecause Askelon's decided he'll only talk to you. And, more important, becauseStormbringer thinks Askelon's got a way to reach Roxane."

"Thinks? The god thinks? He doesn't know?" He closed his eyes a moment. "Do youknow what this is? Did he tell you?"

Molin shrugged. "He thought it would be sufficient to convince you to go whereI'd already told him you had no intention of going."

"Damn her," Tempus said, throwing the scarf on the table and taking the pictureagain. "Here," he threw it at Critias, who let it drop to the floor, "do whatyou damned well want with it."

I

The floor creaked to the slightest step, and Stilcho moved quietly as he couldacross to the old warehouse door, not trying escape, no, only that it was soeverlasting cold and he wanted the sun to warm his flesh, the sun that shonebright through a crack in the shutters. He wanted it, and he had thought a longtime about getting up from that board floor and venturing outside-

-he had thought about going further too, but the front step would be enough, thefront step was all he dared think of, because Haught sleeping back there hadways to know what he planned-

-so he thought, o gods large and small, gods of hell and gods of earth, only ofgetting out into that light where the sun would warm the stone step and thebricks and warm his dead flesh which right now had that lasting chill of rainand mud and misery. He could not abide the stink and the cold of mud, that madehim think all too much of being dead, in the ground, in the river cold-

I'm not running, I'm not going anywhere, just the sun.... That, for Haught'sbenefit, should he wake-with his hand on the door.

The hair stirred at Stilcho's nape. His flesh crawled. He stopped still andturned and looked, and saw Haught sitting up in the shadows, a bedraggled Haughtwith a bloody scrape on his face and the whites showing dangerously round hiseyes. Stilcho set his back against the door and gestured toward it with a shrug.

"Just going out to get the-"

Do you play games with me? With me, dead man?

No, he thought quickly, made that a torrent of no, letting nothing else through,and felt every hair on his body rise and his heart slow, time slow, the worldgrow fragile so that for a moment he knew the progress of Haught's mind, thesuspicion that his one failure had diminished the fear of him, that a certainpiece of walking meat needed a lesson, that this thing Ischade slept with (butnot with him) could be dealt with, shredded and sent to the deepest hell if itneeded to learn respect-

-Stilcho knew all that the way he suddenly knew Haught was running through histhoughts, knowing his doubt, his dread, his hate, everything that made himvulnerable.

"On your knees," Haught said, and Stilcho found himself going there, helplessly,the way every bone and sinew in him resonated to that voice. He stared at Haughtwith his living eye while the dead one held vision too, a vision of hell, of agateway a thing wanted to pass and could not. But if he was sent there now, tothat gate, to meet that thing-

"Say you beg my pardon," Haught said.

"I b-beg your pardon." Stilcho did not even hesitate. A fool would hesitate.There was no hope for a fool. Ischade would banish him down to hell to confrontthat thing if he went back to her now after what Haught had done, and Haughtwould tear his soul to slow shreds before he let it go to the same fate. Stilchoknelt on the bare boards and mouthed whatever words Haught wanted.

For now. (No, no, Haught, for always.)

Haught gathered himself to his feet and ran a hand through his disordered hair.His pale, elegant face had a gaunt look. The hair fell again to stream about it.The smile on his face was fevered.

He's crazy, Stilcho thought, having seen that look in hospital and inSanctuary's own street lunatics. And then: 0, no, no, no, not Haught! No!

The prickling of his skin grew painful and ceased. Haught came closer to him,came up to him and squatted down and put his hand on Stilcho's cheek, on theblind side. Chill followed that touch, and a deep pain in his missing eye, butStilcho dared not move, dared not look anywhere but into Haught's face.

"You're still useful," Haught said. "You mustn't think of leaving."

"I don't."

"Don't lie to me." Silken-soft. And the pain stabbed deep. "What can I give youto make you stay?"

"L-life. F-for that."

"No gold. No money. No woman. None of that."

"To b-be alive-"

"That's still our bargain. Isn't it? They know about us. They took care enoughto set a trap for us. You think then that She doesn't know? You think then thatwe have infinite time? I've covered us thus far. They might not know who we are.But careful as 1 am, dead man, Stralon came close to us. He probably knew us. Heprobably passed that on. And that damnable priest and that damnable mage mayknow who they're looking for now. They might have thought it was Her. Now theymay go to Her and tell Her our business. And that won't be good for us at all,will it, dead man?"