The potion she had feared to allow Halloran to drink. She still remembered the shadowy explosion of black terror she had seen when he raised it to his mouth.

Alvarro smacked his lips, lowering the empty jug. "You're a pretty one, d'you know that? I bet you do things for Halloran!"

Her stomach churned as he looked her up and down. He took a step closer.

"Y'know, if you do those things for me, I just might not kill you," he lied. He reached a burly paw to her shoulder, and Erix turned slowly away, forcing herself not to strike him. She knew the stocky horseman could easily overpower her if she gave him cause to attack.

Her hand fell on the pouch, and she slipped the bottle out. She sensed it burning against her hand – a vile and dangerous thing, it was. Roughly he spun her around to face him, his mouth a few inches from her own.

"I – I give him octal" she said, trying to be calm through her terror. "He can drink very much. It – it gives him great pleasure!"

With false lightness, she turned away, snatching up another jug. A quick gesture dumped the contents of the vial into the octal before she whirled back to Alvarro. "Here – I can do the same for you!"

Her heart pounded as the man brushed the jug aside. "I can have that anytime," he grunted. "I want something a little more special."

Until she felt the wall at her back, Erix was unaware that she had been backing slowly away. Now she stood, trapped by one of Alvarro's arms on either side of her. She still held the jug in her hand and smelted the sweet reek of octal on his breath.

"Come. Can we sit?" she said, slowly and carefully. She must not arouse his suspicions!

Scowling, Alvarro nevertheless allowed her to step aside and sink to the floor. Obviously her reaction wasn't the one he had expected. He sat roughly beside her, a curious expression on his face. "Aren't you frightened?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes – I am," she admitted, "terrified, actually. "But we are a fatalistic people. Our gods teach us not to fight the inevitable. You are here, we're alone. I know that I am in your power."

Every muscle in her body screamed for her to strike out at this brute, to punch and pummel him. But a violent contest with Alvarro would certainly be futile, so she continued to use her wits. She raised the flask, not offering it to him but insuring that he saw it.

"Give me that," he grunted, snatching it from her hands. He raised the neck to his mouth and once again took a long swallow. Erixitl watched, trembling with fear. Would the potion, diluted by octal, have any effect at all? If it did, what would that effect be?

Alvarro set the half-empty container aside, smacking his lips. Suddenly, with shocking violence, he turned on her, pressing her to the floor and climbing on top of her. A mad fire gleamed in his eyes.

Then the man grunted once. His eyes widened and his tongue protruded. His fingers clutched for her neck, and his body shook with convulsions.

Finally he stiffened, gasping inarticulately, and died…

Groaning weakly, Erixitl crawled from beneath him, rolling away from the repulsive form. For long moments, she gasped for breath, nearly gagging. She looked at the little bottle, still in her hand. Reflexively she hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter.

She saw her hopes reflected in the shards of glass that scattered all over the floor, disappearing in the fading light of the sun.

Then she sensed movement beside her, and whirled in shock. Another figure had entered the room, not through any aperture – not through any means she could see. This one looked at her with a trace of humor in his slitted, unblinking eyes. Great feathery wings bent slowly, suspending a twisting, serpentine body in the air. His voice, when he spoke, was a sibilant whisper.

"Greetings," said the feathered snake. "I am Chitikas Couatl, and I have returned."

From the chronicles of Colon:

To the chronicler is given the sight, that afterward the tale of the Waning may be told.

The gods gather in the gallery of their immortal cosmos now to watch the arena floor below. Each is sublime and confident in his, or her, own presence. Each takes little note of the other gods, watching instead the play of the humans below.

This may be their undoing. Helm licks his lips as his men count their gold, an ever-growing pile within the palace of Axalt. The Bishou makes loud thanks, and the god basks in the praise.

Zaltec feasts upon the hearts that are offered, but the massive feeding does not slake his hunger. If anything, it inflames him. Now his sacred cult seethes and strains with warlike fervor. They crave the release of an attack, a chance to feed their god as he has never eaten before.

Neither of them shows awareness of the third immortal presence, the spidery essence of Lolth, slowly taking shape in the cosmic gallery beside them. She has eyes – vengeful eyes – for her wayward children. The drow, committed passionately now to the cause of their adopted god, have forsaken her completely.

And her patience wears thin.

"No, by Helm – we cant be lost!" Halloran shouted, bashing his fist against the wall of the tunnel. Frustration threatened to tear him apart. His mind burned with countless pictures of Erixitl's fate at the hands of his former comrades-in-arms.

For hours, the three men had pushed themselves frantically through the network of tunnels, backtracking, exploring, desperately seeking a way out. All around them extended connecting passages – apparently identical tunnels, with new intersections, changes in elevation, secret corridors, and hidden chambers every hundred paces. The priest, Erixitl's brother, threw himself into the hunt as diligently as did Poshtli and Hal.

"We'll get out," Poshtli said grimly, pushing himself to his feet following a brief rest. They had paused only for at moment, but he, too, felt the urgency that would not allow them to remain idle.

"I'm sure we've been going down," Hal guessed, frantic at the thought that they had left Erixitl far behind them. "We're underground by now."

"You might be right. Let's look around for some way to climb." Poshtli gestured to the stone ceiling. They had seen several rotting wooden ladders leading upward in various places.

Shatil remained silent, watching Hal and Poshtli growl and bluster. A part of him – the man – admired the passion with which they wanted to rescue his sister; another part – the servant of Zaltec – hoped with equal passion for success, so that he could perform his god-appointed task and slay her.

The priest lit another of his reed torches from the tump of the last one. "I have only two left," he reported softly. "We will soon find ourselves in darkness."

Halloran whirled on the priest, ready to snarl his anger with this last announcement. Shatil met his gaze coolly, and suddenly Hal felt very foolish. "All the more reason to keep moving," he grunted.

Once again they started along a narrow corridor – a corridor that looked just like a hundred other such passages. "How long have we been down here?" Hal asked, trying to bite back his despair.

"Most of the day, I think," Poshtli replied. "It must be approaching sunset." He didn't elaborate. Both of them fully understood the significance of Erix's premonition. With sunset would come the rising of the full moon, and – if she had seen the truth – shortly afterward would follow the death of Naltecona.

As they plodded along, Halloran turned and saw Shatil studying him, an expression of puzzlement across his features. "What is it?" asked the former legionnaire.

"I am wondering," replied the priest, pointing to Hal's waist, "how it is that you come to carry a band of hishna. Talonmagic, so I believed, is used only by the priests of my order. Or are you a master of hishna as well?"