The giant's club landed in the soft ash, raising another gray cloud. The Thrasson hurled himself into the billowing dross, bringing his sword down in the place where he imagined Periphetes's wrist to be lying.

The blade hit with a sharp jolt, then continued to slice downward until it sank into the soft ash. A thick, coppery smell filled the Thrasson's nostrils, and he glimpsed the red stump of a log-sized wrist rising through the grayness of the cloud.

A great, racking cough boiled out of the depths of the Amnesian Hero's lungs, forcing a plume of spewing ash from his swollen throat. Ignoring his body's demand to stop for air, he pounded through the gray cloud and found Periphetes kneeling in the ash. The giant was clutching the stump of his wrist to his chest, a position that left his armpit well-protected against a flank attack.

With a quick kill out of the question, the Amnesian Hero flipped his sword around to try for the next best thing. Periphetes, stunned by the loss of his hand, did not turn to look until the blade was already slipping between his massive ribs. The Thrasson pushed into the stroke with all his strength, driving the weapon hilt-deep and stirring it around to enlarge the wound.

A long, breathy groan slipped from Periphetes's mouth. Then, almost in resignation, the giant lowered his elbow and smashed his attacker away from his flank. As the Thrasson flew through the air, his sword came free, and a single gout of frothy red blood shot from the wound. The Amnesian Hero hit the ashen wall without much force, then picked himself up and scrambled away as his foe's anguished gasps began to ramble down the passage.

Once he was safely out of reach, the Amnesian Hero dropped to his knees. His vision began to darken. He used his hand to clean the ash from his mouth and throat, but even then he could hardly suck down any air. His breath came fast and shallow and wheezy. He began to suffer a dry cough that dislodged no dross and added greatly to his misery, racking his chest with spasms as anguishing as they were uncontrollable.

As terrible as his agony was, the Thrasson knew Periphetes was suffering worse. Dying of a punctured lung was both a slow and painful way to pass to the next stage, and, if the Amnesian Hero had possessed the strength, he would gladly have spared the giant such a miserable death.

Silverwind padded up beside the Amnesian Hero, still holding Jayk in his arms. The Thrasson was alarmed to see a tiny trickle of blood mnning from the tiefling's nose.

"Truly, you are my path out of the mazes," said the bariaur. "No matter what wickedness my mind contrives to block the way, you will defeat it."

"Well… done." Tessali cringed as the giant let out a particularly loud and anguished moan. "Though… a more… merciful… death…"

The Amnesian Hero replied with a long string of hacking coughs, then followed it with a strangled rasp nearly as pitiable as that of the giant.

Silverwind's bushy eyebrows rose in alarm. "What's wrong? Are you injured?"

The Thrasson shook his head, then clutched at his throat.

"Something is lodged?"

Again, the Amnesian Hero shook his head. He curled his hand as though holding a cup, then raised it to his lips and tipped his chin back.

"Of course, you are thirsty!" Silverwind was relieved. "I imagine I have something in my saddlebags to take care of that."

Tessali began to fumble with the straps, but the Amnesian Hero was in no mood to wait for the clumsy fingers of the wounded elf. He sheathed his sword, then tore the knots free with his own hands. Inside, he found a bulging waterskin. The Thrasson grabbed the bag and jerked the stopper from its mouth, then tipped his head back and began to pour. The fluid that gushed out, red and warm and thick, was not water.

Wine, sweet wine. Fever Vision

The wine, warm and bland to the ash-coated tongue of the Amnesian Hero, muddied the dross in his mouth. He spat the slurry out and drank again. This time he tasted the ambrosia instead of the ash; the drink was plum-sweet and rich with cinnamon, a honeyed nectar to soothe the rawness in his gullet. He drew a long rasping breath, and the darkness retreated from his vision. He soaked his parched throat with another gulp, then smiled as a certain exhilarating warmth filled his belly.

"Silverwind, that wine would do Dionysus himself proud." The Thrasson's voice remained gruff, and he still felt flushed, but he counted himself lucky to be speaking at all. "I cannot imagine how you came by it in these mazes."

"The same way I came by you, of course. I-"

A tremendous groan rumbled down the passage, drowning out the rest of the bariaur's reply. The Amnesian Hero turned to see Periphetes slumping forward; the giant's head smashed into the labyrinth wall, loosing an avalanche of powdery dross. A raucous snort jetted from his gaping nostrils and stirred the airborne ash into a boiling gray cloud. He toppled on his side and lay in a fetal curl, blocking the corridor so completely that the howling wind faded to stillness. His skin began to grow coarse and grainy. A dark pallor blossomed over his entire body, quickly deepening to a drab, lusteriess black. His anguished expression assumed the fixed, eternal character of a statue, and any hint that he had ever been alive vanished from his eyes.

"Good… riddance." So weak was Tessali's voice that the words sounded as though they might be the elf's last.

The Amnesian Hero turned back to his companions. The blood was flowing from Jayk's ears and nose more strongly now, and there was an alarming slackness in the way her limbs dangled over Silverwind's cradling arms. Tessali looked better only because he remained conscious; his face had paled from blood loss, and his eyes had that far-off look of someone mad with pain.

"Silverwind, the time has come to care for our wounded." The Amnesian Hero slung the wineskin over his shoulder, then lifted Tessali off the bariaur's back. Despite the lightness of the elf, the Thrasson flushed at the effort. "I trust this place is quiet enough to work your magic."

Silverwind nodded, then kneeled and laid Jayk on her cape. "Which one first?"

Tessali raised his hand and lifted a finger toward the tiefling. Though Jayk might well have considered the gesture an impediment to her progress toward the One Death, the Amnesian Hero approved of the elf's charity.

"You are noble for a Sigilite."

The Thrasson offered the wineskin to Tessali. Too weak to decline with even a modest shake of the head, the elf merely closed his eyes.

Already working on Jayk, Silverwind rolled the tiefling onto her stomach and ran his fingers lightly over the back of her head. He began mumbling to himself, at the same time tracing the star-shaped pattern of a skull fracture. After a time, he gmnted, apparently satisfied that he had found the extent of her injuries. Then, to the Thrasson's astonishment, the old bariaur leaned forward and started to dribble spittle onto his patient's bloody head.

Though the Amnesian Hero was beginning to fear he had trusted Jayk's care to a senile charlatan, he restrained the urge to push the old fellow away. Things worked differently here in the mazes, and, strange as Silverwind's behavior appeared, it did not seem dangerous. Besides, Tessali had opened his eyes again, and he showed no sign of surprise at the method of treatment.

Once Jayk's head had been thoroughly wetted, Silverwind placed his palm over the tiefling's wound and uttered what sounded like a magical incantation. The bariaur grimaced, as though suffering a terrible pain, but there were no shimmering glows, no wondrous tinkling, no smoking brimstone. The tiefling's blood continued to drip from her nose and ears, and, as far as the Thrasson could tell, that was all that happened.

"What's wrong?" The Amnesian Hero wiped his brow; he was sweating harder now than he had during the battle with Periphetes. "She looks as bad as before."