Jan felt himself falling back into the fire, felt it consuming his thoughts. He had scarcely been able to drag his mind away to listen to the white wyrm’s reply. Behind him, the heads were arguing, hissing and snapping.

“Fool, would you undo all that we have worked for? Once we have taken the prince of the unicorns and his band, there will be plenty of red meat—for our hatchlings and your greedy mouth as well.” A simper, a smile. “I shall see that the king gives us this one, though, this little dark one specifically. Only the best meat for my prits.”

He knew then that his time truly was out. But his muscles were melting, his head drooping, chin bowed to his chest. The heat grew fierce. His body prickled with sweat. An updraft from the coals lifted his forelock, flinging it back gently from his brow. He closed his eyes.

Even with his eyes closed, it seemed he could still see the flames—see into them as in a dream; looking deeper and deeper, merging more and more into their changing dance. Searching for something. Searching as others had been searching—for him.

He came aware then, in a twinge that was not sufficient to wake him, that others had been searching for him, many others of his band. But that was hours ago. Now there were only two. Two searching above ground, below ground. It was all the same.

“Just a few moments more,” the great head was murmuring, “and the rosehips will make him a slave to our command.”

Jan’s nose was now well back from the lip of the bowl, below the rising smoke. The air he breathed felt cooler, more clean. His senses seemed to be clearing. The heat upon the rest of his face intensified. He laid his ears back along his skull.

His thoughts had grown dim. He felt his horn’s tip touch the far rim of the bowl, and realized distantly that bright flame must be licking its long, spiral shaft. He felt no pain, only heat like the Sun. The white wyrm’s triple laugh echoed, sounding oddly faint and farther than it should have. Jan’s consciousness was ebbing, his ears muffled in wool, his limbs slipping away.

“Not long now,” the wyvern was murmuring. “See how he faints over the flame.”

Jan came to himself suddenly at a soft, crackling hiss. The scent of singed hair filled his nostrils. He felt a sharp pain across his brow and realized as he started up that his forehead had touched the curved lip of the bowl, his heated sweat turning to steam. The pain made him suddenly aware of himself again, gave him the use of his limbs. He heard the wyvern sliding toward him across the crystal floor.

It came to him then, all in a breath, what must happen now. The wet, stained wall above the firebowl gleamed, the pearly, translucent pocket in its stone catching the firelight like a gryphon’s eye. It seemed to glow. Beneath the wyvern’s subtle, pervasive sweetness, beneath the pungency of rosehips and flame, the scent of water had grown suddenly strong.

Without another moment’s thought, he sprang forward, rearing, bracing his forehooves on the altar’s edge. The branches in the bowl of fire had died again to coals, the blackened rosehips crumbled to ash. Jan champed his teeth, clenching shut his eyes against the updrafts of heat, and brought his horn down in a hard blow against the wall above the fire.

“Hold!” cried one of the wyvern’s heads. Another cried, “What does he do?”

The thin stone shattered like an old seashell. Chips of crystal flew. Jan felt bits striking against his forehead, his closed eyelids. The point of his horn struck the hard stone at the back of the crescent pool.

“Stop!” the wyvern shouted. “Are you mad?” He heard the soft scratch of her belly scales upon the floor.

Jan opened his eyes and shied to one side as water rushed from the breached cistern. The hot coals below sizzled, overwhelmed. White licks of fire leapt roofward, vanishing, as bits of twig and dead embers rode the surge, washing over the rim of the firedish and spilling to the floor. The rest swirled sluggishly about the bowl.

The chamber stood all at once in smoky dimness. The white wyrm gave a triple shriek. Jan turned his head. She sat transfixed, her pale form indistinct in the sudden gloom. Her voices rang out again, strangled.

“What have you done?” cried the central head; and the second, “He has killed the god! All our magic, all our power—gone.” The third head shouted, “Murderer!”

The wyvern lunged. Jan sprang away, his limbs still giddy from the rosehips’ breath. The wyvern missed him by two paces—then he realized it was not he she had sprung at. She darted to the altar, searching frantically among the sodden twigs. But the fire was dead past saving. Her three heads turned on him like goshawks. He made out the glinting of her cut-jewel eyes.

Too late he realized he had missed his chance—he should have fled while she had been distracted. Jan found himself in a corner, one wall crowding against his flank. The white wyrm reared before him, her whiskers bristled, her gill ruffs spread. Her necks stretched wide; her pale jaws gaped. Her teeth like broken birds’ bones gleamed. Jan squared himself to fight.

Jan faced the wyvern across the narrow space, her body poised, her eyes colorless in the hazy dimness. His blood felt slow and heavy from the rosehips’ breath. She snapped at him. He dodged, the wall crowding his flank. The wyvern smiled, her rosy, double tongues darting among her needle teeth. The fingers of her foreclaws twitched.

“Oh, did you think to thwart me, Aljan?” she whispered. The chamber echoed in the dark. “Then you misjudged. So my fire is gone, and my magic, too. But I am angry now, Aljan.” Her heads hissed, sizzling.” And there was always more to me than magic.”

He was lost. He knew it. He had neither the size nor the strength to defeat her, and she had him cornered. But he would fight. He was a warrior, the prince-son of the unicorns, and he meant to go down fighting. There would be no songs to mark his death; and none of his people would even know. But he had saved Korr and the others of the band. It was noon—they were safe out of the hills by now, and none of the rest of it mattered.

Above him the wyvern loomed. She came toward him slowly. Then suddenly behind her, beyond the entry to the chamber, Jan heard a scrabbling of earth and a wild, high shrill. The note was echoed by another—the battle whistle of a warrior. The white wyrm started, snapping around. Jan heard a clatter of hooves on the crystal floor. The wyvern reared, recoiling, as a form—two forms—glanced through the well of light.

He caught glimpses then of rose and black, of dusty yellow shading into gray. He heard the snort of breath and the sound of struggle. The mist of rosehips rose in his mind, and he was a long time recognizing Tek and Dagg.

They were fighting in and out of the suncurtain now. He saw his shoulder-friend lunge, miss, and lunge again. The wyvern’s long, sinewy necks darted, teasing them. Her jewel eyes glinted. Tek reared, panting, but could not seem to land a blow. The wyvern dodged, her hide throwing off brilliant flashes in the sunlight: blue-green, amber, yellow, mauve.

“The light,” Jan heard himself crying, and his voice sounded different—deeper?—or as if there were another voice in it besides his own. “Drive her into the shade,” he cried. “These wyverns have no eyes to pierce the dark.”

One of the wyvern’s heads turned, her whiskers bristling, her nostrils flared, and struck at him. Jan shied, circling the shaft of light. He came around and faced the wyrm. Tek and Dagg had forced her out of the sunlight. Her back now pressed the wall.

Dagg stumbled. Jan saw him lose his footing on the crystal floor. The wyvern lunged, snarling, and struck him a glancing blow with one badgerlike forepaw. Dagg rolled, scrambling to his feet, then suddenly lunged and caught the wyrm’s smallest head by the throat. The wyvern shrieked. On the other side, Jan glimpsed Tek fastening into the second head’s ruff. The central face rose over Jan.