The elf does not scream. He is too stunned, or perhaps too frightened of affronting me further; he simply turns, both stumps trailing red, and runs after Jayk. I start to float toward the amphora, which takes me nearer gasping Silverwind. Though he has not recovered his wind, the old bariaur scrambles to his hooves and gallops away. A Pain bursts, spilling green ichor down his withers, and he does not break stride as he comes to the back of the blind. Instead, he springs into the air and disappears over the wall, his rear hooves clipping the crest as he passes out of sight, and only then does he realize what he has abandoned.

Jayk looks from the wall to me. Her murky complexion pales to peart, then she grabs Tessali by the elbow and drags him to the two plumes of ash that mark where Silverwind left the blind. She laces her fingers together to boost the elf, who, aside from a forlorn glance at the hands he leaves behind, hesitates not at all to step into her palms. The tiefling heaves him over the wall and scrambles after, and then I am alone with the amphora.

How long Lstare at the jar, I cannot say. In Sigil, mortals enter their little inns walking and come out crawling; the iron is poured hot into the mold and pulled out cold; the fingersmith is caught and judged and locked tight away, and still I stare. I have a churning coldness deep down inside. I feel myself quivering, and I ache with the weakness of mortals. The amphora can hold only ill for me, else the King of Seas would never have sent it, yet open it I must. Whether the net inside be twined from strands genuine or false, the truth remains of the void within my breast, and, no matter how unlikely, that a god might have what belongs in my chest is a threat to Sigil too great to allow.

I go to the amphora, but do not pull the stopper. That is what Poseidon would want. The memories would come swirling out all at once, overwhelming in number and power, and then would I be lost. Better to let them come singly, to sort and judge and to leam the extent of the Sea King's deceit in my own time.

I wipe the ashen patch from the jar's neck, then hold it on its side until a golden thread writhes from the crack. The strand is as yellow and fine as my wind-blown hair when I stood with Poseidon and my mother. Even now, I cannot say what magic this is, whether illusion or conjuration or healing, but it can be no happenstance the amphora looses golden filaments for me and black tatters for the Thrasson, and that is knowledge in itself.

I return the jar to its resting place, then step back. The strand writhes free and floats over to me. It circles my head once. My breath quickens, and a low, hissing wind gusts through the streets of the Lower Ward. The fiber circles twice, and an acrid drizzle falls in the Hive. Thus does the Lady of Pain betray her worry; we are one, Sigil and I.

A third time the strand circles, and from the emptiness in my chest rises a feathery effusion, an airy gush that flutters and ripples and grows ever more compelling. I feel my feet moving and my body spinning, and the lilt of a satyr's gay-hearted pipes tickles my ears. The smell of roast swine fills my nostrils. I find myself clasped in the brutish arms of a great bull-headed ogre, my golden hair flying about us as we whirl through a dance.

"Nay; marry not that foul one." His whispering voice is low and rumbling, his breath sweet with wine. "Come away with me, and I will spare you eternity in misery. "

We whirl past the high table where sits Poseidon, an entire swine and a cask of wine before him. Seated with him is my groom, the black-cloaked helmsman of the black-sailed dhow. Save for two yellow eyes burning in the stygian depths beneath his hood, his face remains shadowed from view. In the center of the table sits my heart, still pulsing inside green-tinted glass; next to it, the bride's price, still locked away in four ebony boxes.

"Have no fear," whispers my bull-headed dance partner. "I will steal your heart, that Set will have no power over you, and I will steal the Pains, and make them a betrothal gift to you."

Set slams his fist down, and a thunderclap peals through the hall. The dark god rises from his seat and leans far over the table, and by the light of a candle I have my first glimpse of my groom. He has the hideous face of a jackal, with a long pointed snout and enormous ears and a coward's spiteful eyes.

"Have done with your whispering, and your dancing, Baphomet!" His voice yowls like steel upon the whetstone. "I will not have you soiling my bride with your filthy bull's tongue."

The music stops at once, yet Baphomet whirls me around one last time. "Be ready," he whispers. "Tonight."

He releases me, and again I am in the maze, hovering before the amphora with the bitter ash burning my nostrils and the roaring wind chugging in my ears and a thousand questions whirling in my mind. Well has Poseidon twined his net, that one question answered raises two even greater. Again, I must take up the jar. Another fiber snakes from the crack; I step back and wait as it circles me once; my dread wells, and claps of thunder roll through the Clerk's Ward. The strand rounds me again, and the Market Ward shudders with my trepidation.

The golden filament circles a third time, and from the void in my chest trickles a chill swirling, a numbing current that runs and purls and grows ever more cold. A foul, swampy stink hangs thick in the air, and a stinging wind bites at my flesh. I am kneeling at the brink of a vast salt plain, staring into the inky shallows of a broad, torpid river. The black sky is booming and yowling with my father's bellowing and Set's yelping.

"Drink and be safe." Baphomet stands at my side, a black satchel slung over his shoulder. I have not seen what is inside, but the bottom hangs low with something round and heavy. "Drink, and none will have power over you."

But I do not drink. Though I carry the four ebony boxes in my own satchel, Baphomet has not returned my heart to me. Though he denies it still, I suspect that is what he carries in his black sack, and I know that this is the River Lethe-some call it by another term, but they who have drunk from it can never recall its true name. If I swallow those dark waters, I will not remember Set, or my father, and then only he who holds my stolen heart will have power over me.

"Thieves!" booms Poseidon. "Return what you have stolen!"

"Wife-stealer!" Set howls.

Baphomet's eyes widen, for he is no match for my father's fury. "Drink!"

While I recall my father's name, ever will Poseidon have the power to find me. Still, I refuse. Why should I trade one master for another? Better that they should kill each other upon the salt plain, and by their blood that I should be free.

Now does Baphomet mark my plan. "Scheming woman!"

With a circle of his wrist, he gathers my hair in his great hand and drags me forward. "You will drink!"

Quick is my hand to my dagger. Quicker still my dagger to my golden hair, and with a single slash the sharp blade cuts my bunched tresses. I fall back on my haunches. Baphomet screams and plunges headlong into the river, the dark waters dosing fast over his body.

With Poseidon's bellow thundering in my ears and Set's yowling grating down my back, I watch the inky currents many moments before Baphomet surfaces far down the river. He is choking and gagging and spewing black water from his bull's nostrils. His arms are pounding the surface. The black satchel no longer hangs from his shoulder, and when his eyes turn in my direction, there is only emptiness and confusion in his gaze.

I rise and run along the bank. At last I glimpse the dark sack, floating a hundred paces ahead and drifting faster than I can run.

From the black sky booms my father's voice. "There, Foul One, upon the shores of the Styx! Hurry, or she is lost!"