He fought it unto exhaustion, he fought it to a draw. The adversaries stood inclouds, typhoon-breaths rasping, both seeking strength to fight on. And then hehad to say it: "Let this slight go, Stormbringer. Vengeance is disappointing,always. You soil yourself, having to care. Let her stay where she is, WeatherGods' Father; a mortal sojourn will do her good. The parent is not responsiblefor the errors of the child. Nor the child for the parent." And deliberately, heput down the shield the god had given him and peeled the sticky swordhilt from askinless palm, laying his weapon atop the shield. "Or surmount me, and have donewith it. I will not die of exhaustion for a god too craven to fight by my side.And I will not stand aside and let you have the babe. You see, it is me you mustpunish, not my god. I led Askelon to Cime, and disposed her toward him. It is mytransgression, not Va-shanka's. And I am not going to make it easy for you: youwill have to slaughter me, which I would much prefer to being the puppet of yetanother omnipotent force."

And with a growl that was long and seared his inner ear and set his teeth onedge, the clouds began to dissolve around him, and the darkness to fade away.

He blinked, and rubbed his eyes, which were smarting with underworld cold, andwhen he took his hands away he found himself standing in a seared circle ofstinking fumes with two coughing Stepsons, both of whom were breathing heavily,but neither of whom looked to have suffered any enduring harm. Janni wassupporting Niko, who had discarded the gift-cuirass, and it glowed as if coolingfrom a forger's heat between his feet. The dirk and sword, too, lay on thesmudged flagstones, and Tempus' sword atop the heap.

There passed an interval of soft exchanges, which did not explain either whereTempus had disappeared to, or why Niko's gear had turned white-hot against theStormbringer's whirlpool cold, and of assessing damages (none, beyond frostbite,blisters, scrapes and Tempus' flayed swordhand) and suggestions as to where theymight recoup their strength.

The tearful First Consort was calmed, and Torchholder's people (no one couldlocate the priest) told to watch her well.

Outside the temple, they saw that the mist had let go of the streets; an easynight lay chill and brisk upon the town. The three walked back to the Mageguildat a leisurely pace, to reclaim their panoplies and their horses. When they gotthere they found that the Second and Third Hazards had claimed the evening'sconfrontation to be of their making, a cosmological morality play, their mosthumbly offered entertainment which the guests had taken too much to heart. Didnot Vashanka triumph? Was not the cloud of evil vanquished? Had not the wondroustent of pink-and-lemon summer sky returned to illuminate the Mageguild's fete?

Janni snarled and flushed with rage at the adepts' dissembling, threatening togo turn Torchholder (who had preceded them back among the celebrants,disheveled, loudmouthed, but none the worse for wear) upside down to see if anytruth might fall out, but Niko cautioned him to let fools believe what foolsbelieve, and to make his farewells brief and polite-whatever they felt about themages, they had to live with them.

When at last they rode out of the Street of Arcana toward the Alekeep, to quenchtheir well-earned thirsts where Niko could check on the faring of a girl whomattered to him, he was ponying the extra horse he had lent Askelon, sinceneither the dream lord nor his companion Jihan had been anywhere to be foundamong guests trying grimly to recapture at least a semblance of revelry.

For Niko, the slow ride through mercifully dark streets was a godsend, the deepmidnight sky a mask he desperately needed to keep between him and the worldawhile. In its cover, he could afford to let his composure, slipping awayinexorably of its own weight, fall from him altogether. As it happened, becauseof the riderless horse, he was bringing up the rear. That, too, suited him, asdid their tortuous progress through the ways and intersections throngingintermittently with upper-class (if there was such a distinction to be madehere) Ilsigs ushering in the new year. Personally, he did not like the start ofit: the events of the last twenty-four hours he considered somewhat less thanauspicious. He fingered the enameled cuirass with its twining snakes and glyphswhich the en-telechy Askelon had given him, touched the dirk at his waist, thematching sword slung at his hip. The hilts of both were worked as befittedweapons bound for a son of the armies, with the lightning and the lions and thebulls which were, the world over, the signatures of its Storm Gods, the gods ofwar and death. But the workmanship was foreign, and the raised demons on bothscabbards belonged to the primal deities of an earlier age, whose sway wasmisty, everywhere but among the western islands where Niko had gone to strivefor initiation into his chosen mystery and mastery over body and soul. The mostappropriate legends graced these opulent arms that a shadow lord had given him;in the old ways and the elder gods and in the disciplines of transcendentperception, Niko sought perfection, a mystic calm. And the weapons were perfect,save for two blemishes: they were fashioned from precious metals, and madenearly priceless by the antiquity of their style; they were charmed, warm to thetouch, capable of meeting infernal forces and doing damage upon icy whirlwindssent from unnamed gods. Nikodemos favored unarmed kills, minimal effort,precision. He judged himself sloppy should it become necessary to parry anopponent's stroke more than once. The temple-dancing exhibitions of proudswordsmen who "tested each other's mettle" and had time to indulge in style anddisputatious dialogue repelled him: one got in, made the kill, and got out,hopefully leaving the enemy unknowing; if not, confused.

He no more coveted blades that would bring acquisitive men down upon him hopingto acquire them in combat than he looked forward to needing ensorceled swordsfor battles that could not be joined in the way he liked. The cuirass he worekept off supernal evil-should it prove impregnable to mortal arms, thatknowledge would eat away at his self-discipline, perhaps erode his control, makehim careless. In the lightfight, when Tempus had flickered out of being ascompletely as a doused torch, he had felt an inexplicable elation, leading pointinto Chaos with Janni steady on his right hand. He had imagined he wasindomitable, fated, chosen by the gods and thus inviolate. The steadying fearthat should have been there, in his mind, assessive and balancing, was missing ... his moat, as he had told Tempus in that moment of discomfitting candor, wasgone from him. No trick panoply could replace it, no arrogance or battle-lustcould substitute for it. Without equilibrium, the quiet heart he strove forcould never be his. He was not like Tempus, preternatural, twice a man, livingforever in extended anguish to which he had become accustomed. He did not aspireto more than what his studies whispered a man had right to claim. Seeing Tempusin action, he now believed what before, though he had heard the tales, he haddiscounted. He thought hard about the Riddler, and the offer he had made him,and wondered if he was bound by it, and the weapons Askelon had given him nomore than omens fit for days to come. And he shivered, upon his horse, wishinghis partner were there up ahead instead of Janni, and that his maat was withinhim, and that they rode Syrese byways or the Azehuran plain, where magic did notvie with gods for mortal allegience, or take souls in tithe.