“He gores to the right,” she thought, suppressing a shudder at the monster’s incredible strength and speed.

The next series of jumps were perfectly executed; yet Charis could feel the heat of the brutal white sun stealing away her strength. She jumped and jumped again, leaping, spinning, tumbling, soaring. But the precise maneuvers were taking their toll. She labored to recover each time, whereas the bull, instead of tiring, seemed to grow faster and stronger with each pass.

Still, Charis danced with characteristic abandon, her body at once graceful and vulnerable, dwarfed by the white mountain of animal flesh wheeling and careening about her. The awe of the crowd was a physical force to her. There were no cheers now, no more cries, no wild shouts of acclaim. A vast and profound quiet settled over the arena; the crowd sat stupefied as the death dance whirled toward its climax.

One more high vault, thought Charis, and I will turn the bull for the triple. The last triple. It had not occurred to her to leave it out. It was her signature, as much a part of her as her name; easier to abandon her name than omit the jump that had earned her immortality as the greatest bull dancer who had ever lived.

The bull made a quick lunge. Charis sprang, reaching for its back. Her hands found their mark, but as she straightened her elbows to push herself up and over, something snapped in her back-between her shoulders where Marc’s foot had struck her. Pain blossomed ugly and red behind her eyes. She forced her limbs to complete the figure and managed to land safely.

The bull had pulled up a short distance away. It stood half-turned toward her, breathing heavily, its sides working like forge Bellows, its pale hide matted and wet. Sweat glistened on Charis’ sun-browned skin as well, but she had gone suddenly cold. Her back felt as if someone had touched her with a firebrand at the crease between her shoulder blades. She could feel her muscles stiffening as pain twitched them tight.

“I must jump now,” she thought. “If I wait any longer it will be impossible.”

Moving slowly sideways, she circled the bull, turning it so that the sun would be behind her. The creature, huge heavy head lowered, glared at her with its red eyes and bawled as if in torment, and Charis noticed that the foam streaming from its open mouth was pink with blood.

“So we are both hurting,” she thought. “Well, come on then. Once more. Let us get it over with.”

The arena might have been a tomb, silent and empty-the crowd merely shadows fixed in their places.

The sun shone mercilessly down. The air singed her lungs. She estimated the distance between herself and the bull and took a quick step backward. The bull stood immobile, an immense white hill.

Come on! shrieked Charis inwardly. Charge!

The pain throbbed in her back, spreading weakness through her like a narcotic. If she did not jump now she would be unable to move. Why did the bull just stand there?

“Bel!” Her voice was a whip-crack in the silent arena.

The crowd stared transfixed. Was she calling on the god? Or was she talking to the bull?

The beast stood as if carved from a massive block of milk-white marble.

“Bel!” Charis screamed again, her cry going up into the firebright haze of sky.

Bel, she thought, I have given you everything. And yet you mean to take my pride as well. Take my life then too. I will not walk away beaten.

With that, she rose on her toes and leaped forward, running straight for the waiting bull, her long legs hurling her to her doom. At the same instant the bull gathered its hoofs under it and charged.

She saw the bull lurch into a trot. She was aware of someone shouting and recognized her own voice ringing in her ears.

She saw the massive neck bending low, the gilt hoofs pounding, golden horns slicing the air. She stretched forth her right hand to meet the horn as it swung toward her. But the head swerved away and Charis saw her destruction-the creature was goring left.

There was no time to switch hands. She would have to leap off her right foot and take the entire force of the jump on her left arm alone. It could not be done, she knew, but it was either try or simply impale herself on the wicked horn.

The cool clarity of these thoughts surprised Charis and, strangely, pleased her. She felt no fear, just a fleeting regret that she would not be able to complete this, her last jump.

And then her hand was on the horn, her leather-wrapped palm gripping its smooth surface. Her legs flew up, feet finding their mark on the wide forehead. The bull locked its legs and dug in its hoofs, throwing its head high, trying to snag its phantom tormentor from the air, bawling its terrible rage to the burning white sun.

But Charis was soaring free. The force of the bull’s lunge had flung her skyward. Bringing her knees to her chest, she tucked her chin down and wrapped her arms around her shins. She tumbled… once… high above the ground… twice… saw earth and heaven reversed, revolving slowly… and again. Then the ground was rushing up to meet her with alarming speed.

She arched her back and spread her hands as if to embrace the whole arena. But she was drifting slowly sideways-the one-handed jump had thrown her into a side spin and the momentum of her leap was carrying her past vertical. Instinct had taken over; already her arms were moving, the left swinging up, the right coming across her chest, increasing the speed of her rotation.

The dazzling white sand of the arena engulfed her field of vision. She straightened her legs at the last instant to plant her feet firmly in the sand.

Crack!

Charis straightened slowly. She had come down hard-too hard. Her injured back had absorbed the force of her landing and something inside had given way. Her vision dimmed as an inky mist passed before her eyes. She knew she could not move.

The bull wheeled around and stopped. It faced her from across the ring, splay-legged, head drooping low, the massive neck unable to hold the heavy head upright any longer. It stared at her, red eyes cloudy, its sides bespattered with blood-flecked foam. Then it raised a hoof and raked the ground, throwing sand high over its back.

Charis stood with head held high. The animal would charge again and there was no way she could elude the inevitable.

You shall not take me, she thought. I give myself.

Slowly, with as much dignity as her injury would allow, she knelt down, drew her arms across her chest, and bowed her head.

With a last Bellow of challenge, the white bull lurched into a lumbering trot, its legs driving it ahead, gathering speed as it came.

The Gulls looked on, stunned. “No!” Belissa screamed, shattering the horror-stricken silence of the ring.

Charis raised her head and opened her eyes.

“No-o-o!” Belissa’s cry echoed from across the ring.

Charis turned her face toward her dancers. She smiled and raised her face to the sun.

The bull swept toward her, hoofs and horns glittering. “Curse you, Bel!” she cried and raised her hand in a final, defiant salute.

Little more than a body length separated them when the bull appeared to tumble. Its forelegs buckled and the awesome head crashed down, one golden horn gashing a furrow in the sand as the hind legs continued driving ahead. Then the horn dug in, caught, and the enormous neck snapped, choking off the beast’s startled cry as it foundered awkwardly onto its side.

Charis stared in disBelief at the blood gushing from the animal’s mouth and nostrils. Its legs twitched spasmodically as a series of tremors animated the great carcass. And then, with a last shuddering convulsion, the beast jerked and lay still.

At first there was but a single voice, filling the arena with a shout of triumph. Charis looked and saw Joet racing toward her. And then the crowd was on its feet, cheering and cheering, the sound of their wild jubilation a deafening ocean roar. Gold sparkled in the sun, a trickle at first, and then more, and still more, filling the air, raining down into the ring, a river of gold, then a flood.