" What now? More of the powder?"

" No good. The spell is exhausted for twenty- four hours. Let' s get back to our wounded comrade in arms, assure him he won' t die a messy death, then go back to town."

" You' re giving up?" The deputy was incredulous. The old man had never given up before.

" Certainly not!" snapped the sheriff. " I want a couple sniffer snakes. Lan can confound my magics, but he won' t be able to get away from that pair of snakes Lar- ulLen- Beniton trained. Remember how they tracked down that wild howler monkey causing such a ruckus last year?"

The deputy remembered. He also remembered that they' d been too slow in reaching the trapped monkey. The snakes had ripped it apart. No real loss in that case, but to turn those slimy creatures loose on a man' s trail:

He didn' t even want to think of the results.

Lan stood in the tumble- down mass of stone for long minutes, waiting, listening. The baleful moan of wind insinuating its way between fallen blocks built up into a harmonic he knew well. The flesh crawled on his back as the sound magnified. Still, he refused to bolt and run.

Every instinct said flee! This was an evil place. The spirits would devour his soul and leave him a husk of a man.

Lan began walking with great care through the ruins. There was a safe path, a trail he' d blazed once. He didn' t fully understand how the spirits inhabiting the Old Place were kept in check, but there existed spots of safety throughout the ruin. Lan knew about territorial imperatives, had watched animals in the wild exercise their right to hunting space, living space, even dying space. Perhaps the dead ones fluttering up and down the empty hallways of this cold stone mansion wished to preserve their right to a quiet repose.

He couldn' t deny them that right.

The winding trail led to a huge room. The vault of the ceiling had been breached in several places. A thin sliver of moon peered down into the center of the room.

Once, this had been a proud, rich estate. Now tatters of tapestry hung rotting on the walls. The stench of decay persisted with the tenacity of death.

The dim light failed to show much more than rough stone and discarded furniture long eaten away by worms. The grit of dirt under his boots told of years- centuries- of desertion.

Still, in the midst of this dissolution was one feature that captured his attention and held it in an iron grip. The casual observer would have thought the pit in the center of the huge chamber to be a well. Closer examination might have evoked one more astute guess at some sort of altar.

Lan knew it was both- and neither.

His prior explorations of the Old Place revealed the secret of this pit. By the light of day, he had examined the ancient cuneiform writing on the rim of the pit. It was painstakingly slow work deciphering those crabbed, curled letters, but he had persisted.

A well, yes. It was a cistern of knowledge. Following the proper ritual brought forth a fountain of information unrivalled in the world. And it was an altar, too. It was the place of worship of a god so old that even its name had been forgotten. Not one of the modern gods of Ulfblom, this one was more elemental, more basic to the fabric of the universe. But, as with all things living, the entropy of existence had inexorably eroded small bits of power. As the millennia piled up, the god became ineffectual, allowing younger, more vital gods to supplant it.

The very name had faded even from the permanence of the well' s stone rim. But if power was gone, knowledge remained. All knowledgepast, present, future.

Lan approached the stone ledge with a steady stride, but his heart hammered wildly in his chest. He betrayed no outward sign of fear; inside he seethed with emotion. He alone of all men living knew a fraction of what the Resident of the Pit could do.

He stood, his leg resting against the rough, frigid stone of the well rim. The room was cold, but the stone was colder. The depths of space were boiling hot in comparison with the existence of this most ancient of gods.

In the blackness, untouched by silver moonbeams, something stirred. A small motion, silent and ominous. This was the Resident of the Pit that Lan must call forth. He swallowed hard, then turned and began searching the chamber for some indication of mortal life. No building, not even one haunted by the ghosts of millennia, escaped the invasion of rats and other small creatures. Lan sought and found such a beast.

The rabbitlike creature was deceptively docile. It sat on its haunches watching Lan advance. With the speed of light, powerful back legs launched the beast at his throat. The sharp fangs of a successful predator gleamed yellow- white in the moonlight.

And blood spurted darkly as Lan impaled the leaping beast on his sword point. As fast as the creature had been, Lan was quicker. The barely perceptible bunching of muscles had signalled its intent. His long sword had already cleared his scabbard by the time the rabbitthing was airborne.

Lan didn' t bother taking the kicking, still- alive creature off his blade. He carried it to the pit, hesitated, knowing the consequences of his act, then snapped the sword toward the depths of the pit. The beast slipped off the end of his blade, teeth clattering mightily against the carbon steel before it fell, kicking, into the pit. Unfortunately, the creature' s last snap ripped the sword from Lan' s grip. He watched helplessly as the gleaming blade cartwheeled downward.

A pitiful whine echoed briefly through the immense chamber, then silence reigned again. From the bowels of the planet came a deep rumbling. The dark, inchoate mass in the pit began taking substance. A wraithlike creature formed, constantly changing shape as if wind blew through a cloud of dense, inky fog. Even as Lan watched, colors came into the pit. The colors flowed one into another. No rainbow had ever shown more brilliance or innovation of hue.

By the time the deeply resonant voice sounded, Lan had steeled himself to meet the challenge he knew would come. One misstatement now and his soul was forfeit.

" Who beckons the Resident of the Pit?"

" A humble seeker of wisdom."

" I demand payment."

" A life has been given, blood has flowed."

" What is your name?"

Lan began sweating even though the night was cool, the air sluggishly moving inside the chamber. To give his name to a god gave power he wasn' t willing to relinquish. Yet the ritual spelled out on the stone rim of the well required him to give voice to his own name.

" I am Dar- elLan- Martak, second son of Aket- elLan- Takus and Marella of Far Court."

A long silence followed, as if the god meditated profoundly on this information. Then: " I will answer your questions, Dar- elLanMartak. There is one condition."

" What is that condition?" Lan felt fingers closing around his throat. The ritual hadn' t mentioned this.

" A question can be answered only once if it pertains to your personal affairs. Questions of science and magic and philosophy may be asked many times by many people, as they have in the past." The Resident sounded wistful about days long dead.

" It is for myself that I ask these questions."

" So be it."

" Will I escape the sheriff? The man who hunts me for murder?"

" Many men hunt you. The one to whom you refer will capture you in the early morning hours unless a course other than that which you contemplate is followed."

Lan considered this. He' d hoped to slip across the border into Lellvan and offer his services as a forester. The Resident now said this course of action would result in capture by the sheriff.

" What will happen if the sheriff captures me?"

" His evidence is overwhelming. The high sorcerers will uphold the sheriffs verdict. You will be declared guilty and: reduced. Let me ponder this term in its entirety."