Why had she come here? Suddenly, she wasn't sure. She shook her head, on theground floor landing, and touched her brow with her palm. She owed Tempus noneof this-not so much. Tasfalen was dead, a minion to be summoned to the riverhouse. Why, then, had she risked the streets and come up here?

Why? She couldn't fathom it.

And then she did, when Haught's silken voice oozed down the stairs from a shadowat their head.

"Ah, Mistress, how kind of you to visit sickbeds with so much at stake."

She reached out for the ring he wore, but the apprentice was reaching on hisown: grown desperate, he was full of pain, and wanted to make her a gift of it.

Suddenly (more because she underestimated what lay behind him and what hidwithin him than because of Haught himself) she was dizzy, spinning in anotherplace, a place of blood and murky water-of ice and great gates whose bars wererent as if a giant shape had bent them out of its way.

Niko's rest-place! How had she come here?... not by Haught's strength.

And a laugh tinkled-a laugh with razor edges that cut her soul: Roxane.

Yes, Roxane-but something less and something more hobbled through that gate,misshapen and huge, and shrunk until Tasfalen's beauty masked it.

And then the thing... for it was part highborn, mortal lord, part witch, andpart Haught... held out its hand to take her arm as if to escort her to someformal fete.

She met its eyes and gripped her own ribs with both her hands: to touch it mightimprison her here. This was where Janni had lost the last shreds of self-concernthat made him act predictably in the interest of what life he still led.

The eyes that bored into hers were gold and slitted; deep behind them glowed apurple fire she knew wasn't right.

She forced her leaden limbs to work and backed a step, watching first her feetand then scanning the horizons, winding wards that worked in Sanctuary whichwere much weaker here.

Niko's star-shaped meadow, once ever-green and pastoral, the very essence ofspirit peace, was frostbitten, brown, and gray and riddled with ice like arrows.Where trees had spread rustling leaves, their boughs now held shards of fleshand writhing things resembling tiny men who cried like kittens being drowned.

And the stream which was his life's ebb and flow ran with swirls of red and blueand pink and gold: blood shed and to be shed; magic winding it round and chasingit; Niko's faith and the love of gods bringing up behind.

Tasfalen was cajoling: "Come, my love. My beauteous one. We'll feast." Heflicked a glance to the trees hung with anguished, living things. "The boughsare ripe for picking, the fruit is sweet."

And she knew the only salvation here, for her, was in the stream.

She didn't know the consequence if she should do what her wisdom told her: takea drink.

Before she could lose her nerve or be mesmerized, she whirled about and flungherself knee deep in running water.

And bent. And drank.

And saw Niko, when she raised her dripping lips, sitting on the stream's farside, his face calm, unravaged. His quick, canny smile came and went and shenoticed he wore his panoply: the enameled cuirass, sword and dirk forged by theen-telechy of dreams.

"It's a dream, then?" she said, feeling the icy water with its four distinct anddifferent tastes run down her chin and hearing a lumbering behind her muchlouder, and a rasping breath much deeper, than Tasfalen's form could make.

"Don't turn around," Niko advised as if he were training a student in themartial arts; "don't look at it; don't listen. This is my rest-place, after allnot theirs."

"And me? It's not mine, fighter. Nor are you."

"And they are. I know." There was no abhorrence in the Bandaran fighter'sglance, just infinite patience. And as Ischade looked, his visage changed,contorting through a metamorphosis that seemed to include all the tortures ofhis recent past- eyes rolled up, cheeks split over bone, lips purpled and torn,teeth cracked and crumbled, bruises filled with blood.

Then the entire process reversed itself, and a handsome man still in the lastbloom of youth regarded Ischade once more.

"You're very beautiful, you know-in your soul," Niko said. "It shows here. Inspite of everything."

Behind her, the Tasfalen-thing was shambling closer; she could hear it splashinto the stream. She almost whirled to fight it; her fingers spread into a shapesuitable for throwing coun-terspells.

Niko shook his head chidingly: "Trust me. This is my place. As for your welcomehere-when I needed help, you came here, where risk is greater than mortals know,and tried to aid me. I haven't forgotten."

"Are you dead?" she asked flatly, though it was impolite.

His smooth brow furrowed. "No, I'm sure not. I'm reclaiming what's mine ... witha little help." Behind the fighter, the semblance of the pillar of fire came tobe.

He knew it was there without looking. He said, "See, you must trust. We'regiving Janni his proper funeral, you and I. At last. And you, who kept him fromworse and soothed his conscience, ought'to be here."

"And... that?" Ischade meant what was behind her. All her hackles risen, shefound her mouth dry and eyes aching-if she had a mouth here, or eyes. It seemedshe did.

"We'll put them back where they belong-not here. They're yours to deal with, inthe World."

He must have seen her frown, for he leaned forward on one straight and scarlessarm that might never have been shattered when a demon raged inside him: "Roxaneis ... special. Different. Less. I'm free of all but my own feelings. For that Idon't apologize. Like you, I deal in more than one reality. But 1 ask you formercy on her behalf..."

"Mercy!" Incredulous, Ischade nearly burst out laughing. The thing that was partHaught, part Tasfalen (who was dead and had housed Roxane once and now again, ifIschade understood the rules by which Niko's magic games were played), wasshuffling close behind now, intent on biting off her head or munching on hersoul. It had been one with a demon; it had merged with devils; it had taken fireout of the hands of arch-mages such as Randal and used it even against her. Allof this, Ischade was sure, was Roxane's twisted evil come to ground. And Nikowanted mercy for the witch that had made his life a living hell and wouldn'toffer him so much mercy as clean death would bring.

"That's right-mercy. I'm not like you, but we've helped each other. Tolerance,balance-good and evil: each resides within the other, part and parcel."

Ischade, who'd seen too much evil, shook her head. "You must be dead, or stillpossessed."

"Look." Niko's diction slipped into mercenary argot. "It's all the same-no goodwithout evil, no balance... no maat. If we lose one, we lose the other. It'sjust life, that's all. And as for death-we get what we expect."

"And you expect what?" Now she realized that Niko himself was not naive, orhelpless, or entirely benign. "From me, I mean?"

"Mercy, I already told you." The firewell behind him began to shimmer and todance, swinging its hips like a temple girl. "To your kind; for the record. Forthe balance of the thing. Janni we will take now."

"We?" It was one of the hardest things Ischade had ever done to engage inphilosophical discussion with Nikodemos while, behind, the shambling thing hadcome so close she could feel its fetid breath upon her neck, and fancied thatbreath moist and felt, she thought, a strand of drool land in her hair. Don'tlook at it; don't turn around-it's Niko's rest-place and his rules, not mine,apply.

"We," Niko said as if it were a simple lesson any child should understand. Andthen she did: behind him, a ghost appeared.