It was what she needed. A gasp of fear escaped her throat, releasing her. She snatched the rifle and ran, not caring who might hear her. Terror gave her legs. She flew through the foliage and over the wall in a heartbeat.

She sank gratefully into the shadows, rifle clutched to her chest.

The voices behind her grew louder. Gulping air as silently as she could, she turned and peeked into the courtyard. It was Kamapak and Pachacutec returning. She watched the tattooed shaman cross to the yard’s center and throw a handful of powder into the fire. Azure flame danced to the rooftops, then died back down.

The two men spoke in their native tongue. The only word decipherable was the name Inkarri. The king seemed reluctant to do what the shaman wanted, but finally his shoulders sagged, and he nodded.

Straightening and stepping near the fire, Pachacutec reached to his shoulder and pulled the gold tupu pin that held his robe. The fine cloth fell like a flow of water from his body to pool around his ankles. The Sapa Inca stepped free of his robe, naked of all except his llautu headpiece and his staff.

A hand flew to Maggie’s lips, clamping away her cry of shock. But something must have been heard. The king glanced to the courtyard wall, staring for a long breath, then turned away.

Maggie’s stomach churned with acid. But she knew better than to move. She could not risk the scuff of stone alerting them further to her presence. She stared.

From the neck up, the king’s skin was the familiar mocha brown of the Andean Indians, but from the neck down, his skin was as pale as something found under a rock. It reminded Maggie of the beastly predators that haunted the caverns below. But Pachacutec’s skin was even paler, almost translucent. Vessels could be seen moving blackish blood under his skin; bones appeared as buried shadows. The man’s belly and chest were flat, hairless. Not even nipples or a navel marred the smooth surface. He was also sexless, completely lacking external genitalia.

Sexless and unnaturally smooth. Maggie found one word coming to mind as she stared at this strange apparition. Unformed. It was as if the king’s body were a blank slate waiting to be molded, like pale clay.

Oh, God. The realization dawned on her.

The story of Inkarri was true!

Saturday, August 25, 4:48 A.M.

Andean Mountains, Peru

Henry stared out the window as the helicopter banked over the jungle-stripped ruins. He had not slept all night. Worries and fears had kept him awake as their bird flew over the midnight jungles. He had yet to come up with any plan to thwart his captors. And without the additional stop to refuel, their flight from the guerrilla airstrip had been shortened. Time was running out.

Below, the campsite was still dark. The sun had yet to rise. Only a set of work lights near the base of the buried pyramid illuminated the dig. Apparently, even after the news of the students’ escape, work continued to open the temple. The abbot’s people sought every scrap of their precious el Sangre del Diablo.

The abbot, wearing a radio headpiece, yelled over the roar of the rotors. “We’re here, Professor Conklin! I assume that I do not need to remind you what will happen if you fail to cooperate fully!”

Henry shook his head. Joan. She was still being held hostage at the Abbey. Any punishment for failings on his part would be exacted against her. Henry cleared his throat and pointed to the abbot’s radio headpiece. “Before we land, I want to speak to Dr. Engel. To make sure she’s unharmed.”

The abbot frowned, not in anger but in disappointment. “I am faithful to my word, Professor Conklin. If I say she will remain safe, she will.”

Only until you have what you want, Henry thought dourly. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me if I doubt your hospitality. But I would still like to speak to her.”

Abbot Ruiz sighed and shrugged his large bulk. He slipped his headset off and passed it to Henry. “Be quick. We’re landing.” The abbot nodded toward a cleared square not far from the students’ tents.

The helicopter righted its banking turn and began to settle toward the flat stone plateau. Below, Henry spotted men with flashlights positioned at the periphery of their landing site, guiding the chopper down. Henry did not fail to notice the mud brown robes the flashlight-bearers wore. More of the abbot’s monks.

Henry pulled the headpiece in place and positioned the microphone.

The abbot leaned forward and was talking to the pilot, pointing to the radio. After a minute of static, a scratchy voice filled his earphones. “Henry?”

It was Joan! He held the microphone steady. “It’s me, Joan. Are you okay?”

Static blazed, then words trailed through. “… fine. Have you reached the camp?”

“Just landing now. Are they treating you well?”

“Just like the Hyatt here. Only the room service is a little slow.”

Despite her light words, Henry could hear the suppressed tension in her voice. He pictured those tiny crinkled lines that etched her eyes when she was worried. He had to swallow hard to speak. He would not let anything happen to her. “Slow room service? I’ll see what I can do from here,” Henry said. “See if I can light a fire under hotel management.”

“Speaking of fire, Henry, remember back at college we shared that classical mythology class together. I was in the Abbey’s library today. They have the professor’s book here. Can you believe that? Even that chapter I helped him write about Prometheus.”

Henry’s brows drew together. “Small world, isn’t it?” he answered blandly, going along with her ploy. Back at RiceUniversity, the two had never shared such a class. Clearly Joan was trying to get a message to him. Something about the myth of Prometheus, a definite reference to Friar de Almagro’s etched warning.

He heard the heightened tension in her voice. “Remember the difficulty we had in translating the line Prometheus holds our salvation?”

Henry chuckled with false mirth. “How could I forget it?” He clenched his hands in his lap. What was Joan hinting at? Something about fire. But what? What does fire have to do with salvation? And time was running short. The helicopter was about to land.

Joan must have sensed his confusion. She spoke rapidly, practically just blurting it out. “Well, I also reread the section where Prometheus slays the great Serpent. Do you remember that? Where fire was the final solution?”

Henry suddenly tensed as he realized what she was saying. The Great Serpent. The Serpent of Eden. Understanding dawned in him. She was offering him a way of destroying el Sangre del Diablo. “Sure. But I thought that event was said to be done by Hercules. Are you sure your interpretation is accurate?”

“Definitely. Prometheus packed a vicious punch. You should have seen the picture in the book. Think plastic explosive.”

“I… I understand.”

A shudder suddenly shook through the helicopter’s frame. Henry jumped in his seat, startled. Outside, the helicopter’s skids bumped on the granite stones, then settled to a stop.

The abbot’s face appeared before Henry’s, yelling to be heard above the slowing rotors. “You’ve talked long enough. We’ve landed!” He turned to the pilot and made a slashing motion across his neck.

Henry was about to be cut off. “Joan!”

“Yes, Henry!”

He clutched his microphone tightly, struggling with words he thought he’d never speak to another woman. “I just wanted to tell you that… that I—” Static blasted in his ears as the radio contact suddenly ended.

Wincing, Henry stared at the radio. What had he wanted to say to Joan? That he was falling in love with her? How could he presume she shared any deeper feelings than mere friendship?