Khadames turned, staring at the sorcerer, who had turned as well and watched him with troubled eyes. It seemed, in this moment, on the verge of the cold pit, that something of the human had returned to the cruel visage.

"Long ago," the sorcerer whispered, "a boy came to the valley, for there was no place else for him to go. The priests of the fire were still here then, keeping their ancient watch, and they took him in. One day, when he was more than usually reckless, he went into the mountain by a secret way and became lost in the tunnels. He was lost for a very long time. In the darkness his footsteps turned away from the door of fire and led him down into the true darkness.

"After a long time, he thought he heard a voice, just a faint thing, calling to him. There was nothing else to do, no other possibility of escape, so he followed it. It seemed that many days must have passed before he came to a door that he could not open, but the voice was stronger, almost clear enough to understand. Even that muttering offered him hope in the darkness and strength and food and a way out.

"And it wanted so little, just a thought or a gesture. The boy made that bargain."

Khadames watched, almost paralyzed, as a bead of moisture formed at the edge of one yellow eye. The tear, if it was a tear, crept out a little, sliding over the tiny scales that rimmed the eye, and then it froze in the chill air, making a hard little diamond.

"And now, I must make it good." The sorcerer looked away, down into the inky darkness below his feet. "The voice promises much to whoever can open the door, but I can feel the hunger that is waiting on the other side. It is huge- that hunger- and the whole world might not be enough to satisfy it. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Khadames jerked back to full awareness. The sleepy tone in the sorcerer's voice had given away, at last, to an iron tone of command. The general nodded, though there seemed nothing he could do.

Dahak held out his hand. Khadames took the hilt of the black flint knife, feeling the worn leather under his fingers.

"I will speak a word, and the door will open. I pray it will only open a little way. If it does not, if it swings wide, drive this blade into my heart."

The sorcerer shrugged off his robe, revealing a thin torso marked with terrible glassy scars over his chest and upper arms. The cold in the room, which seemed to seep into Khadame's bones, did not seem to bother him. He raised his left arm.

"Here," Dahak said, "between the ribs. It will reach- I have measured it myself. If the moment comes, you must not think, you must strike without thinking."

Khadames hefted the knife in his hand. It seemed to have grown heavier than he remembered, and smoother, too, more like a blade of smooth black glass than the crude flint knife he had used before.

Behind the general, the great stone door began to close. The sound of its grinding passage seemed very loud in the room, though Khadames could not discern a ceiling or walls in the flickering blue light. The three of the Sixteen who had accompanied him had disappeared, though when he turned, he could see their pale fingers on the edge of the door. The stone closed with a heavy thud, and the room was quiet again. Khadames braced his feet against the floor and raised the knife, holding it ready to strike.

The sorcerer ignored him, and turned to face the pit. For a long time he stared down into the darkness, immobile, barely breathing. Khadames felt his arm tire, holding the glassy knife, but he did not waver, holding it poised to slip between the narrow ribs of his patron. Still, the sorcerer waited, watching the pit.

Khadames blinked, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. The faint bluish glow had gone out. For a moment the room seemed utterly dark. Then, below his feet, within the pit, there was a ghost light. It gleamed and danced, seemingly far away, like a shore-bound fire seen from a ship at sea. A great cold flowed up from the pit, and Khadames shuffled his feet, hearing a tinkling sound as ice that had formed on his boots cracked and splintered. He could feel the pit breathing, slow waves of cold spilling up and out over the floor. The light in the darkness danced, seemingly coming closer and closer.

The sorcerer began to hum, deep in his throat, an inchoate sound that reverberated in the floor and the walls. Khadames felt weak again, and managed only though an effort of total will to remain standing. The sound, which had seemed so low and quiet, grew, filling the air and the world.

The light flickered in the pit and then went out.

Khadames blinked again, and squinted. In the complete dark, his eyes began to play tricks on him, summoning up odd white flashes and sparkling lights before his eyes. A slow rain of burning motes passed before him. The air itself seemed closer, and the walls of the room, even unseen, pressed against him.

In the darkness, the sorcerer moved and the hum changed, rising in pitch. High up, almost beyond hearing, Khadames began to hear a whistling sound, or an odd piping. Despite himself, he fell to his knees, kneeling at the edge of the pit, staring down into the utter darkness. The piping and whistling echoed in the room, though in his mind- almost paralyzed by fear- the general realized that though he heard those sounds, they did not come from the air. The knife grew heavy and began to slipfrom his fingers.

The sorcerer spoke, and that single syllable smote the air, ringing like a massive gong.

Khadames felt the floor rush up and crash against his face. His nose buckled and broke on the lip of the pit, and blood spattered into the air, freezing into tiny spheres and then cracking against the floor. Smoke boiled up from his exposed skin. He tried to cry out, but then all sound ceased and he stared into the pit in horror.

Darkness parted and showed abyssal black. Ten thousand tiny points of light burned in an ebon firmament. The cold that had gone before was swallowed up in icy darkness. Khadames clutched at the lip of stone, screaming in fear that he would be thrown off into that void of night. Great clouds of hanging fire burned and boiled in the titanic realm beyond the door that now yawned wide.

Khadames could feel the stones ripple and contort under his fingers as the door opened, flexing the world around him. There was a massive rushing sensation, and the pit inverted. Khadames clung to the stones, though they writhed like living flesh under him, and the pit became a sky above. At his side, the sorcerer remained standing, though now he did not look down, but out, into the void.

Something was coming, rushing across the abyss of space, there between the dead suns.

Something that blotted out whole constellations with the shadow of leviathan tripartite wings.

It came on, searching, seeking for the door that now stood ajar. Khadames could feel it, though it was still unguessably far away, hunting in the sea of night. Hunting for the scent of living men and a green world under a yellow sun, where blue seas surged against a white shore. Planets cracked into powder in its passage, shattered by the beat of its wings. Suns, bloated and red, withered and were snuffed out, guttering down to coal-black cinders. Khadames scrabbled on the living stone, feeling the heat of blood pulsing under the rock, searching for the glass knife.

The sorcerer swayed, reaching out with a hand for support. Khadames forced himself to stand, though the reptile mind hiding at the base of his skull gibbered and screamed that they would fall up into the sky. Dahak clutched his shoulder, digging sharptalons into the general's jacket.

"The knife," the sorcerer breathed, turning away from the vast impossible shape that rushed closer and closer. The yellow eyes were lit with fire, and Khadames felt the knife pressing into his hand, cutting at the edge of his thumb. Over the sorcerer's shoulder, the sky was blotted out. Something writhed there, in that darkness.