"The globe, Riddler. Abarsis. The globe. Break the globe!"

Its fingers splayed backwards, seeming to have no bone within them; its necksnapped from side to side with force enough to make the wooden slats jump.Tempus rushed to weave his hands through Niko's slate-gray hair, cushioning theother-world tortures with his own flesh.

"Do something for him!" he bellowed as the spasms rocked Niko's body and bloodbegan to seep from his nose and lips.

"Do something for him!"

The demon's mocking echo erupted from somewhere in Niko's gut. Sparks sizzledalong Tempus's forearm, paralyzing him. Niko's arms, no longer trembling,strained purposefully against the leather straps.

"It's going to transfer!" Randal screamed, leaping up from his chair. Hegestured with bum-twisted fingers. His will called forth fire but his ruinedflesh could not support it. Groaning, he sank to his knees.

"Poor little mageling," the familiar voice issuing from a shimmering blue globechuckled with strychnine sweetness. "Let me fix that for you." A tongue ofindigo flame licked out from the globe; Randal, like Tempus, was motionless.

Jihan took a deep breath that formed ice in the salt-water buckets an arm'slength away. She had been patient with these mortals, abiding by theirconstraints, accepting their wisdom even when it contradicted everything herinstincts demanded, and now that they were finally helpless she was going to dothings her way.

Niko turned endless, empty eyes toward the blue sphere, asking a silentquestion.

"Stormbringer's Froth," Roxane replied, with the malice and disdain reserved bywomen for lesser women.

A frigid wind swirled through the once-warm room. No one, especially a Nisiwitch or a nameless demon, spoke that way about Jihan and survived. No matterthat Stormbringer had created his parthenogenic offspring from an arctic seastorm, Jihan knew an insult when she felt one. She pelted the sphere with athick glaze of ice, then she leaned her palms on Niko's chest.

"I'm here!" she announced, bringing a howl of cold air into Niko's rest-place."I'm here, damn you."

She rode her anger across the once-beautiful landscape of a moat-endowed mind.The dark crystal stream roiled and froze in agonized shapes. Charred treessnapped and crashed to the ground under the burden of the ice that came in herwake. She reached the meadow where the pure light of Janni guarded the gate.

"I'm going in," she told him, though she had no communion with such spirits andcould not hear nor understand his reply.

The heavy door with its man-thick iron bars loomed before her. Leaving a patternof rime on the metal, she passed beyond it to confront an eternity as vast andempty as the demon-Niko's eyes had been.

"Coward!" the Froth Daughter shrieked as nothingness, which was the essence ofall demonkind, leeched her substance away. She lashed out blindly, stupidlyexpending herself against an enemy whose chief attribute was its absence. "Cowar-"

She retreated, a ragged wisp streaming back to the frost-bound doorway, andcollapsed in the meadow, her fury and her confidence equally diminished. Demoniclaughter using her own stolen voice compounded her shame. In her impotence Jihangathered shards of ice and hurled them at the gate.

"I'll be back," she told it as the ice melted into the thawing crystal stream."You'll see."

She sniffled and wiped her eyes on a damp forearm. The ground was slick withmelting ice; she slipped more than once. Pain and cold became part of her mortalvocabulary as she made her way home, never once looking back to see that themeadow was brighter or the crystal stream rushing fast and clear.

"I thought we'd lost her," Tempus admitted as he watched the Froth Daughter pickher way slowly across the hillside.

We? Do we care? Stormbringer inquired in a dangerously friendly tone.

Tempus didn't bother to turn around. He wouldn't be wherever he suddenly waswithout some god or another's interference; and he was no longer awed byinterference. "I care- isn't that obvious? She damn near annihilated herself forme."

Your care is not enough. She is mortal now and requires something less abstract.If love is beyond you, surely you remember rape? The Father-of-Weathermanifested himself before Tempus: all blood-red eyes and pans that did notbecome a single whole.

The man who had been Vashanka's minion shrugged his nonexistent shoulders andgave the god a critical glance. "It is an option / retain," he said defiantly.

You are a nasty little man-but I have need of you-

"No."

She is a goddess.

"No."

I'll attend to this abomination.

"You'll do that regardless-for what it did to her. The answer's still no."

I'll turn my daughter's eyes toward another.

"It's a deal."

The Stormchildren lay in state on a velvet-covered dais in the vault-ceilingedroom known as the Ilsig Bedchamber. Musicians gathered in an alcove, playing thereedy, discordant melodies beloved by the Beysib and guaranteed to set MolinTorchholder's neck hairs on end. He pressed his forefingers against the bridgeof his nose and sought a pleasant thought, any pleasant thought, that might makethe waiting easier.

Shupansea, in a curtained alcove opposite the musicians, was equally anxious buthad not the luxury of isolation. Her waiting-women swarmed around her fussingwith her hair, her jewels, and the splendor of her cosa. She was the Beysa thisevening-as she had not been since her cousin's execution in the summer. Herbreasts had been dusted with luminous powders and gilt with gold and silver; hernormally slender hips were augmented by the swaying brocade-jeweled panniers inwhich her personal vipers were accustomed to ride. Her thigh-length fair hairhad been supported and wired until it hung about her like a cloak and condemnedher to look neither up nor down, nor side to side, but only straight ahead. Itwas a costume she had worn since childhood but now, after a season in the modestattire of the Rankan nobility, she felt awkward and feared for the outcome ofthe rites they were about to perform.

"You must not sweat," her aunt chided her, reminding her of the physicaldiscipline demanded of Mother Bey's avatar.

She steeled herself and the offending perspiration ceased.

Footsteps came through the tiny doorway behind her. "You're nervous," a welcomevoice consoled her as the prince reached out to take her hand.

"Our priests would have us wait until the fifth decoction has been made but wedare not. Not after this afternoon. We have countermanded the priests; it is thefirst time we have done so. They are anxious but we think the waiting is moredangerous than success or failure."

"Mother Bey guides you," Kadakithis assured her, squeezing the be-ringed fingersever so gently.

Shupansea lifted her shoulders a fraction. "She says only that I must not bealone afterwards."

The prince, who had finally edged his way through her women to stand where shecould see him, made a wry face. "You are never alone, Shu-sea."

She smiled and gave him a stare which proved Beysib eyes could be erotic andunsettling at the same time. "I will be alone tonight-with you."

The music changed abruptly. Before the golden-haired prince could express hissurprise or pleasure he was politely, but firmly, shoved to one side.

"It is time."

The Beysa came forward onto a cloth-of-gold carpet laid between the alcove andthe altar. Her first steps were tentative; she tottered between the outstretchedarms of her waiting-women. Her glazed eyes held no power, only simple terror ofthe ancient bald priest who waited for her with a delicate glass' vial and aknife of razor-sharp obsidian.