The dog-headed one raised his right arm. Pol wheeled and ran.

Stop!

A small shape rushed into view. It was white, had long ears, was wearing a waistcoat. It's nose twitched.

"Late again!" it said. "It'll be my head, sure as hell!"

It looked up at Pol.

"Yours, too," it said, before it scurried off.

Pol kept moving.

Stand still! In this place--

He almost bumped into the man. It was the nameless sorcerer he had fought back at Rondoval. Pol backed away from him.

The sorcerer raised his right hand and a fiery knife appeared within it. He cast it directly at Pol's breast.

Pol threw himself to the side and hit the ground rolling. He continued the movement until he was well away from the place.

He lay panting for several moments, then moved to regain his feet. Another man approached as he did so, moving quickly, halting before him. It was a tall, regal figure, with a single black streak running back through a mane of white hair. Pol realized immediately that the features were very similar to his own.

"You are... ?" Pol said.

"Det Morson, your father," came the reply.

"Well curse me and be on your way," Pol said, standing. "That's the game here, isn't it?"

"I am not a part of the game here. I am merely taking advantage of it." His right hand rose and brushed Pol's cheek lightly. "Whichever way you turn, no matter what your decision, no matter how things break," he said, "your real enemy will be the Madwand."

"What Madwand? I thought that was a general term for--"

"Henry Spier is the greatest of the Madwands, and he is known only as that."

"What kind of name is Henry Spier? In this place--"

The tongue of flame flared into being between them.

Back, Det! Back to your special hells! came the voice out of fire. Tour power over us has passed!

Det raised his hands, crossing his arms upon his breast. As if by contagion, flames violated his outline. Suddenly, however, he raised his head and stared at Pol.

"Belphanior," he said. "'Remember that in time of need."

Pol opened his mouth to question him, but Det was gone in a rush of fire and wind.

The flame which hung before him began to contract, resuming its former, smaller size and shape.

What did he mean by that? it asked him.

"I have no idea," Pol answered.

What else did he tell you?

"Nothing. There wasn't time."

You are lying.

"The truth is such a sacred thing that I guard it well."

The flame did not move. He felt sensations of puzzlement and of anger, but no words came with them. Long moments passed.

Finally, with a movement almost like a shrug, the flame drifted leftward. Pol followed. There were still shadows in the mist, but they did not draw near. The flame moved quickly now, and Pol increased his pace.

The mist began to thin. Pol saw a wall to his left, nothing to his right. Shortly, an archway appeared before him. He followed the light through it and felt as if he had returned to normal space. There was no mist on this side, only dimness and a feint odor of mildewed tapestry.

"We were really just moving around inside one big room, weren't we?" Pol asked.

There was no reply.

"It was a land of downbeat Rorschach-thing, wasn't it?" he said. "Everything in there came from me, one way or another. Didn't it?"

Silence again.

"Okay," he said, as they approached a stairway leading upward. "If whatever you want from me requires my cooperation, just remember that you haven't been keeping the customer happy."

He reached the stair and began to mount it.

A ripple of amusement passed back down over him. His dragonmark throbbed intermittently. They reached the top of the stair and passed through a better-furnished, though apparently long-unused room. After exiting, they came upon another stair, again leading upward. As he climbed it, Pol reflected that they had probably come into that eastern or northeastern wing of the place into which he had followed Larick's progress earlier.

"We've taken a kind of roundabout course, haven't we?" he said.

It was necessary.

"Why?"

To avoid the inhabited sections.

"Is that the only reason?"

Why else?

"Not to condition me or impress me in any fashion?"

You flatter yourself.

"Have it your way."

We will.

He took a lefthand turning and headed along a narrow corridor. Then a right into a room with a single, large window which faced out across the ramparts onto a bleak, starlit landscape. The room itself contained old and damaged furniture not arranged as if for use. He exited at its farther end and entered another room also obviously being used for storage. Pol brushed away the strands of a spider-web as he passed. A rat dashed across his path and crouched, staring, beneath an armchair.

Two rooms later, in a place with several doors, a feeling of familiarity came over him. He felt certain that Larick had passed this way earlier.

His feelings of fatigue were rising again as they headed leftward and back from corridor to tunnel to a place where rough-cut steps led downward. The flame moved faster, grew brighter now. He increased his pace to match it, reaching out as he passed to touch the rock wall, discovering it to be as moist as it appeared. Yes, this was the way that Larick had come.

He hurried about the turnings and there, finally, before him, was the dark, stony rise with the shining thing atop it. The flame rose toward it. Pol climbed after.

"What is it?" he said under his breath.

Something we'll need.

"You're so damned helpful."

Far more than you seem to realize.

A little later, he saw that it was a casket with a bulging, transparent cover. And when he came up beside it, he drew in his breath sharply, for he saw that it held the body of a woman, perfectly preserved. Her high cheekbones, small chin and wings of hair he now saw to be of a light brown color in the glow shed by his guide, were not unfamiliar to him.

"The ghost..."he breathed.

Her spirit is said to wander these halls. It is of no importance. Remove the lid.

There are fasteners along the sides and at either end.

Pol continued to regard the pale features.

"Why the Snow White bit?" he finally asked.

Pardon? I do not understand the reference.

"Why is she on display?"

Her father, Ryle Merson, wishes to view her upon occasion.

"Morbid son of a bitch, isn't he? I suppose he's laid a preserving spell on her--if she's been dead very long."

It has been a long while. Remove the lid.

"Why?"

In order to move her.

"Why move her?"

Her presence is required elsewhere. Do as we say!

"All right. It was a pretty steep climb, though."

You will bring her this way.

The flame brightened and Pol could see a level ledge beyond the casket, leading back toward a tunnel. He leaned forward and sought the fastenings. One by one, he undid them and slipped them. He seized hold of the lid's frame then and strained to raise it. For a time, it resisted his efforts. Then, with a creaking sound, it slid slowly upward.

He eased the transparent cover back and lowered it to the ground. Only then, did he pause to scrutinize the woman with more than clinical concern.

"What's her name?" he asked.

Taisa. Pick her up. Bring her this way.

The flame advanced along the level route beyond the casket. Pol stooped, raised the woman in his arms. The feint, familiar aroma of a delicate perfume reached his nostrils.

"How did she come to this end?" Pol asked, as he moved around the catafalque and followed.

A victim of circumstance, in a long and involved struggle.

He crossed the ledge and entered the tunnel behind the moving light.

It turned abruptly to the left after a few paces, and Pol found himself traveling upslope. The feeling of anticipation which had been his companion since he had awakened, was heightened now. He felt that he was nearing the heart of a mystery, a mystery made very personal, a mystery in which he would be playing a significant role.