"The Eagles will obey the wishes of the Revered Counselor and his nephew. But you must know that the priests of Zaltec will resist," Chical said. "Their cult thrives in the city now. It is rumored they have twenty thousand members. Do you think Hoxitl can keep them in check for long?"

"I don't know, my friend," said Poshtli, with another rush of affection for his old teacher. "But knowing that the fate of the world is at stake, we can only try."

Crimson coals flared in their braziers, casting their blood-colored light throughout the darkened temple. Heavy incense fogged the air, adding an unearthly touch to the scene, while the great statue of Zaltec leered, barely visible in the dim glow.

Shatil was profoundly moved by the pervasive atmosphere of the long room as he advanced to greet his high priest. "Praises to Zaltec," he whispered, bowing before Hoxitl.

"Master of night and war," concluded the patriarch. "And I thank you for answering my call."

Shatil bowed, modestly deferring the high priest's gratitude. "It is I who should thank you for the summons, for all the kindnesses you have shown me."

Indeed, the week that Shatil had spent in Nexal had been an enlightening and invigorating time for him, despite the invasive presence of the strangers within the same sacred compound as this temple. He had worked with Hoxitl and other venerable priests, performing rites on the Great Pyramid of Nexal, the living center of worship for Zaltec's faithful across the True World.

The brand of the Viperhand on his chest burned constantly, but it was a spiritual flame, not a physical hurt. The fire grew slowly inside of him, and he lived for the day when it would come bursting forth, a conflagration devoted to the glory of Zaltec!

And all around him were others, kindred souls who also knew the glory of Zaltec and prepared to work his everlasting vengeance. Yet of all these countless members, the thousands who had joined the cult of the Viperhand, Hoxitl had showed great favoritism to this youthful priest from an outlying village.

Shatil had learned some of the reasons for this with the shocking announcement that his sister was considered a great threat to the cult. At first, he had tried to deny this to himself, feeling certain that some mistake had been made.

But as he thought about it, certain things began to suggest otherwise. There was the matter of the stranger, Halloran, of whom Erixitl had spoken so warmly. Then, of course, she had encountered the couatl, and had been granted the gift of the strangers' language. This bespoke of some sort of destiny far beyond her fate as a slave girl or featherworker's daughter.

Most pressing was the fact that Shatil had no choice but to accept the decree of the Ancient Ones, since they formed the bedrock of his faith. He could not renounce that, nor did he want to. The matter of Erixitl was a sadness, but a necessity. Raised to respect the wishes of his bloodthirsty god, Shatil knew that he was thoroughly capable of carrying out the killing himself.

Now Shatil cautiously moved toward the altar, watching the crimson radiance of the coals wash over the great statue. Zaltec appeared, in the dim glow, to be a living presence.

"Do you understand that your sister is an enemy of Zaltec and a danger to the faith?" began Hoxitl quietly. Shatil nodded and listened, entranced by the cruel beauty of the statue behind the high priest. He saw movement in the shadowy corners of the room, taking little note of the jaguars slinking there.

"I have asked you to come here this morning because of the matter of Erixitl," Hoxitl continued. "She will return to the city soon, if she has not already. I have this task for you: "Naltecona has given the man, Halloran, a house. We have learned that this man and Lord Poshtli journeyed to Palul before the battle in order to find Erixitl. We suspect that when she returns, she will go to this house, or will enter the palace to see Poshtli.

"I myself am watching the young lord, which I can do easily. But your task is to go to this house and seek her, or await her, there."

"I have heard her talk of this man," said Shatil grimly.

"You must be careful," cautioned Hoxitl. "He is a very dangerous opponent. But you must not let him prevent you from performing your task." Hoxitl reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling forth a large, curved claw. The thing was shiny black in color and tapered from a wide, blunt end through a long hook, ending in a needle-sharp point. The talon seemed to have come from a very large jaguar.

"This is to aid you in your task," explained the patriarch. "But treat it with care. The slightest scratch from the tip will cause instant death." Shatil leaned closer, seeing that the claw had been hollowed out. A cork sealed the wide end.

"I shall use it well."

"You must," replied the patriarch. "It is called the Talon of Zaltec."

"Now tell me where to find this house," said Shatil, "and I will see that Erixitl never leaves it alive."

"Here, take my hand," urged Halloran.

"Where is your hand?" Erix asked. Their fingers touched finally, and they linked grips. "That's better," she admitted. "At least I know where you are now." She reached out a hand and touched his invisible body, as if to convince herself of the fact.

"If you can't see me, we can hope that the guards can't either" he told her, touching the side of her face in order to reassure himself as to Erixitl's location. The two of them stood in the shade of several trees, very close to the gate of the sacred plaza. It was nearly noon, they guessed, though the sun had remained masked by hazy overcast all morning.

"I don't know which I like less, not being able to see you, or not even being able to see myself." Her voice, unusually tentative, underlined her anxiety.

"We'll be in the palace in no time. Are you ready?" asked Hal, and felt Erix squeeze his hand in response. Several slaves hurried along the street beside them, but the avenue was otherwise empty. Moving quietly, they started toward the gate.

Halloran felt a smooth sense of confidence, though he understood full well the risks of their ultimate mission to free Naltecona. Finding Poshtli represented only the first step. Still, he felt excitement and anticipation such as he hadn't known for a long time. Perhaps it was the aura of invisibility. Or maybe he felt simple relief to again know a cause and a challenge. His doubts, the sense of alienness he had felt so strongly, all these things seemed to be behind him now.

Hal had swathed his boots in cotton, and he wore a cloth tunic over his steel plate armor. With his sword drawn and his scabbard lashed to his back, he could move with almost complete silence. The spellbook he carried in his backpack. Wrapped around his waist he brought the hishna-magic snakeskin that had bound him, long ago in Payit. The enchanted thing had power, he knew, and though he didn't know how to use it, he saw no purpose in leaving it behind. He knew they would need all of their resources to give their rescue plan a chance of success.

He remembered, too, the other potion bottle. Erixitl had panicked when he tried, once again, to sample it. In fact, she had insisted on carrying it, since he wouldn't leave it behind.

Erixitl, with her moccasins and loose dress, could also move quietly. Yet she currently felt none of Hal's self-assurance. The experience of invisibility she found decidedly unsettling. Her Cloak of One Plume encircled her shoulders, she knew, yet the fact that she could not see it disturbed her too, her sight had been full of darkness and shadows. She hadn't told Halloran, but a black sense of futility threatened to claim her, to drive her to despair.