"T'haik nagàth,” whoever was carrying her rumbled.

The troll. I'm being carried off by a troll. The thought struck her as eminently hilarious, and as the screaming reached a fresh pitch she began to giggle, a high terrified sound.

"Francesca!” Ryan yelled, and she felt a swimming loose satisfaction that he was using her name before she passed out. Again.

She surfaced as if through a great quantity of very clear water, and heard a rumbling voice. “Varakhin nagàth; il vakr maig.” It sounded like oily dirt being stirred, pebbles clicking against each other, with a faint but distinct note of far-off heavy machinery.

What the bloody blue fucking hell? Chess blinked. She lay on her back, under something soft and on something soft; she was covered with a great quantity of what felt like heavy downy blankets. It was dim but not dark, and she saw a great sheaf of hanging threadbare velvet, ragged and blue, with huge moth-eaten holes in it. Up at the top was a sunflower in what looked like heavy massive beaten gold. She stared at it for quite some time before realizing the dancing dim lights she saw out of the corner of her eye were candleflames.

There was a scraping squeak as if a door had closed, and a low murmur. She blinked again, lifted her hand, and felt gingerly at her head. No, she hadn't been hit in the head again. What had happened? All she remembered was darkness and the horrible screaming. The cold, spilling up her arms and legs.

And Ryan yelling her name. What instincts? Protective instincts. He sounded frantic. Where the hell am I? That's a cliché, isn't it? But really, where am I?

She pushed herself up on her elbows. Thin blue silk sheets slid away from her body, her bag lay right next to her, her knife jabbed her hip before she sat all the way up. She winced, reached down and readjusted it, sat up all the way. Ryan. Where was he? There had been demons—maybe the weird Ankeny thingies—and she'd passed out. That had never happened before, but she was tired and had been thrown against a Dumpster, not to mention had a part-demon hunter dangle her like a rag doll and threaten her. No wonder she was feeling a little less than frisky.

It felt so cold, she thought, and shivered.

The room was low and small, and made completely of stone. The ceiling looked like one sheer blank piece, so did the walls; the floor was flagstones carefully fitted together. There was a table, festooned with wax drips and holding lumpy homemade candles. Chess blinked and rubbed at her eyes. Did I get carried off to a troll's castle? I'm not a princess.

The thought was accompanied by a screaming, dark well of hysteria she didn't much like. Where was Ryan? He'd promised to watch out for her, had the demons caught him?

I don't care if he manhandled me, I can talk to him and he'd tell me what was going on. At least, I think he would; unless the troll told him something that radically redefined his idea of partnering up with me. What did the thing say to him? He seemed to understand it.

There was a lopsided, rough wooden door, and she slid her feet out from under the silky sheets and layers of motheaten velvet. Everything was ragged and lumpy except for the flagstones and the sheer rock walls; she wondered where she was.

Her head hurt. She rubbed at it, gingerly, and sighed. The chill from the darkness faded, and she rubbed life back into her fingers and took a deep breath. I am going to be really tired at work tomorrow.

That was a comforting thought, and one she decided to keep with her as she stood, unsteadily and ducked through the strap of her bag, settling the bag itself on her hip and fiddling with the strap so that it passed directly between her breasts. Thank God I'm wearing a sweatshirt. Where am I? And how the hell can I get out of here and back home? Everyone out of the pool, I'm done.

Just then, the door scraped open, and she looked up. Her jaw threatened to drop.

A troll stood in the door. This one was squat and wide, powerfully built, with a wide face so scarred with warts it looked like smallpox. It wore a threadbare black silk tunic that met its horny gray knees, belted with a bit of rough hemp cord. Its shoulders hunched, and its broad bald head gleamed. Its shoulders touched the lintels on either side, behind it she could only see darkness.

Chess swallowed. Oh, my God.

The troll's yellow eyes regarded her mildly. Then its massive gray lips parted, and it made a sound like rocks shifting, rubbing together in oily dirt. The sound turned, lowered itself, mutated into words at the very lowest audible range. “Vakr danath illyanar,” it thrummed. Its teeth were broad, and yellowing; Chess could also see little bits of something stuck between them.

The troll obviously expected some kind of reply. Chess gathered herself. Well, this can't be any worse than trying to get vitals for a library card from a Russian immigrant. “I'm sorry.” She pitched her voice low, soothing. “I don't speak your language."

The troll actually nodded sagely, as if that was expected. “Come,” it rumbled. “Come now. Grgath take."

Come now? Take where? What? “I'm… supposed to follow you?"

It nodded slowly, still smiling broadly. “Vakr,” it said. She was getting used to the way its voice seemed to shake her bones, thumping against her chest like the subsonic beat in a nightclub. “Come. Davr'zing."

Sing? I doubt you want a rousing rendition of Hungry Like A Wolf, but I could probably come up with some Dylan for you. Or some Kansas. How about Dust in the Wind? The lunatic urge to laugh spilled through her chest, she strangled it. It was one thing to fight a tentacled thing in a sewer. It was totally different to be standing in a room she was beginning to suspect was underground facing a troll with huge yellow teeth and hands that looked like they could tear her apart. Don't trolls eat young women? That's what all the stories say. Ryan, for God's sake, where are you? “You want me to sing?” She heard the disbelief in her voice, congratulated herself on not screaming.

"Come.” The troll beckoned. Its long blunt fingers didn't have claws, thank goodness. Chess took a few nervous steps forward.

I really don't have much left to lose at this point, she realized. “Ryan.” Her voice cracked in the silence, she could almost hear the hissing of the candleflames. “The… the man I was with. Is he…"

The troll shrugged. “Nagàth.” The rumble filled the room, made Chess's scalp crawl as if the hair was trying to stand up. Goosebumps stood up hard on her arms, spilled down her back. “Drakul.” The one word was loaded with the rumble of rocks down a mountainside, the preface to a landslide. He didn't sound happy.

Chess's hands flew up instinctively. She stepped back, hoping she hadn't just pissed off a thing that looked like it could debone her with no trouble at all. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Really, I'm sorry. Forget I said anything.” Her voice sounded very light and breathy compared to the troll's rumble.

Yellow eyes widened, stared at her. She stared back, trying vainly and desperately to think of something, anything, she could say to return this situation to normal.

Normal. Yeah. A troll. Underground. A bunch of candles. Bars full of things that shouldn't exist. God, help me out here. I think I'm going into shock.

He beckoned again, this time very carefully and slowly. “Vakr come with,” he rumbled. “Safe with stonekin.” He nodded his broad hairless head, and Chess was suddenly struck by the fact that he resembled a very old bulldog Mrs. Flatbush down the street from her parents used to own. The dog, almost blind and with its teeth worn down to nubs, had been almost pathetically grateful for a calm voice and a gentle pat on the head. Mrs. Flatbush had run all his food through a blender, he couldn't chew it anymore. He'd been called “Killer” in his youth, but all the neighbors had taken to calling him “Old Glory."