The Persian sighed and scratched a mosquito bite on one ear. The men were beginning to recover some of their strength and would soon grow restless. A tapping sound drew his attention. He looked around, then saw that one of the sorcerer's feet was twitching, banging against the edge of the cot. Khadames leaned over, one hand reaching to check the pulse at the side of the neck.

The sorcerer's eyes opened slowly, blinking in the dim light of the lamps. They seemed unfocused and drifted from side to side. They turned toward Khadames- some flicker of recognition entered them. The yellow pupils blinked again, and awareness crept into the face, drawing intellect with it.

"How long?" the sorcerer croaked. His eyes had focused on Khadames.

"Almost two weeks," said the general, picking up a copper cup from the side of the bed and holding it to the man's papery lips. The sorcerer took a taste of the thin red liquid in the cup and an eyebrow raised, arching like the flight of a raven in the winter sky.

"This has been my milk?" The sorcerer's voice was very weak, lacking all but a memory of its usual subtle power. "You are unexpectedly good to me, faithful Khadames."

Khadames matched the yellow-eyed stare, his face a tight mask. He had done what was needful. "It worked before, so I reasoned that it would work again. How do you feel?"

The sorcerer laughed- a weak human sound.

"Like one on the door of death: but worse than my usual state. I owe you a substantial debt, General. It must have been harsh upon you to put men to death."

Khadames shook his head slowly. "No one died for you, Lord. That is your way, not mine." He pulled back the sleeve of the green linen shirt with thin red stripes he was wearing, exposing his forearm. Along the inside, slashed across his wrist at right angles, was a puckered white scar. It was ugly and jagged, but seemed to have healed cleanly. He turned his arm so that the sorcerer could see. "I strove to save you to abide by oaths sworn to the King of Kings, Wizard. Nothing of them says that I must gut men and offer up their bleeding hearts to the sky to feed your power. You wax strong on the blood of men, so we gave you enough to live. But each man gave only a part, and none so much that they sickened or died."

The sorcerer blinked slowly at the venom in the general's voice, and with great effort raised his hand to touch Khadames' forearm. One long finger traced the route of the scar, and then the hand fell back onto the coverlet that lay over his body. The yellow eyes closed, and the sorcerer lay still for a long time. Then, just before Khadames was going to rise and leave the tent, they opened again.

"How did you do it?" The voice was little more than a croak.

"With the flint blade from your baggage," Khadames answered. "It seemed proper, from what you had done before."

"How many men gave their blood so?"

Khadames frowned at the sorcerer, but the dark man's eyes were closed again, as if in sleep.

"Not all. A few men were on the watch, or scouting, when I called them to this tent. All told, some five hundred."

"Five hundred: " The sorcerer breathed out a long, slow breath. His eyes flickered open again, and his hand gripped Khadames' wrist. "I owe you much, then, General. You are far wiser than I in this matter. I tell you this"- the sorcerer paused and seemed to consider his words, then his voice became stronger- "the day will come, and soon, when this mark- this scar from an ancient knife- will mean more than kingdoms for the men who bear it. I will not forget you or these five hundred who came to my aid when I lay at the verge of dissolution."

The sorcerer sat up, startling Khadames, and swung his legs off of the cot. He seemed suddenly to have limitless energy- the lassitude and weakness dropping from him like a discarded cloak. The general rose, too, though slower, seeing little reason to hurry. The dark man turned, and his eyes burned with something like their old fire. "Bring the sixteen who did not give their blood to me- we go again to the door in the mountain. But no others- you, the sixteen, and myself. It will be enough." With that, the sorcerer strode out of the tent, clad only in a thin tunic and breeches.

Khadames had not come before the massive door and the emblem of fire since the night when he had found the sorcerer lying at its foot. Now he rode up the long series of switchbacks and felt again, even in the dim overcast light of day, the sense of brooding oppression that had come upon him that night. At the end of the valley, where the road of the ancient builders was hewn from the rock itself, rose a peak of black stone. Upthrust from the dull gray rock of the surrounding mountains, it drew every eye to it, but Khadames found that the mountain was featureless and indistinct. The summit was shrouded in the mist that hung constantly over the valley. Tiny black dots circled below the clouds- ravens or crows in flight. Much of the lower reaches were worked by the hands of men; ramparts and parapets jutted from the bulk of the mountain. Long, narrow windows peered down from the recesses, and high up, near the clouds, were indistinct signs of vaulted arches.

Below, in the shadow of the gate, Khadames found the sorcerer crouched before the massive portal. The sixteen men who rode with the general halted and waited for him to dismount. He told four of the men to hobble the horses, and walked to within a dozen feet of the dark man. The sorcerer squatted near the base of the door; he laid his hands on the cold stone, his fingers spread wide on the rain-damp surface. The dark man had found his robes again and was clad entirely in black, save for a gold bangle on one wrist and red lacings on his boots. Khadames settled himself and waited. Behind him, the men did the same.

After a bit, the sorcerer straightened and turned to face the general. "All are here? Yes? Good. Lord Khadames, take this."

The sorcerer handed Khadames a small clay pot filled with a caked black powder. "Not so long ago," the sorcerer said, standing amid the men, "you were absent from the camp when a ritual was undertaken to save my life. Those men who attended me- who allowed me to live againhave won my respect and my debt. Each of you, in pursuit of your duty, was not allowed to partake in that: blessed event."

The soldiers, a stolid collection of Lakhmids Arabs, Bactrians, and native Persians, watched the sorcerer warily. They had heard little or nothing of the events of that night, for Khadames had impressed stringent secrecy upon the other men.

"Khadames," the dark man continued, "take the paint and mark each man with this sign." He pulled his shirt open, showing an odd, inverted mark- more like a blunted triangle than anything else- that was painted on his chest.

The general paused a moment, regarding the sorcerer with suspicion. Then he shook his head. If the creature meant ill, there was little need for this ritual. He went to the first man and made the same mark on the Arab's forehead. The man screwed up his nose at the smell- the paint was thick and sour-smelling. Khadames stepped back, checked his work, and proceeded on to the next man. By the time that he had finished, the sorcerer was squatting again, his legs folded under him, at the center of the rough circle of men.

"Lord General," the dark man said over his shoulder, "pray take the horses down to the first turn of the road- there will be some noise and it would not do to affright them."

Khadames nodded, puzzled, but slipped the hobbles from the horses and tied them to a lead line. When he was done, he rubbed the side of their long noses and clucked at his own steed to lead them down the steep road. Behind him, as he descended the slope, he heard the sorcerer begin to chant. By the time he had reached the roundabout and had tied off each string of four horses to the great jutting pylons that marked the edge of the paved space, the air itself was trembling with sound.