Every muscle in his body ached, felt as if he had been stretched over an anvil and pounded out like sheet metal.

Ar’tor uncurled from his ball and crawled out into the morning light. There was no goat this time, merely a small bird. He crawled out toward it. Old Cat snarled, stopping him dead. No! Stretch first. Stretch always.

“Stretch?”

And Old Cat showed him. With a luxuriant rolling motion of his body, Old Cat extended his claws out, gripped the ground and arched his hips up into the air. His spine crackled with the extension. Old Cat turned his huge head and glared at Ar’tor. Now you.

Ar’tor pulled and torqued until he felt as if his poor stiff body were being torn into pieces.

And when he was done to Old Cat’s satisfaction, he was given the bird. He cooked it hurriedly, finally ripping it off the spit before it Was done. He wolfed it down, watching Old Cat’s yellow eyes staring at him, always staring.

And now we run.

Ar’tor grinned. “That 1 can do. We are great runners! My brother and I used to run up in the mountains all day.”

That is not running. Cats do not run foolishly, squandering their strength. They pick their time, and then they spring. You must learn to spring.

Old Cat backed Ar’tor against the rocks, facing him toward the lip, fifty paces away.

Now. Run there. As fast as you can.

Ar’tor loped across the dead, frozen grass, turned and grinned back at Old Cat, who was nowhere to be seen.

What . . . ?

He turned again, and looked behind him, and there the great feline sat, looking up him disgustedly. I didn't tell you to crawl like a crippled lamb. I said RUN.

Old Cat fetched Ar’tor a buffet that fair straightened his hair out. Ar’tor tumbled to the ground. He shook his head and looked up into the cat’s flaming amber eyes. They held nothing but the promise of death.

Down. Crouch. Relax your legs. Dig your toes into the ground. Now RUN!

Old Cat was right behind Ar’tor now, jaws snapping, and Ar’tor ran, sprinted almost without breathing, ran as fast as he ever had in his life. He dug in his heels as he neared the rocks, stumbling to a halt.

No! Turn and RUN!

Ar’tor didn’t bother to plead for mercy. He turned and ran, every muscle and ligament in his body burning.

Over and over and over again he ran, until he had to stop to chew mushy snow, to heave for breath. To stretch out his cramping leg muscles.

And then, after a meal of the rest of the bird, he picked up the knife.

Cover your belly! Old Cat’s mindspeak was a scream. The cat emphasized the point with a paw swipe so much faster than Ar’tor’s sweat-stung eyes could follow that his attempted defense was a travesty.

Old Cat’s claws raked Ar’tor’s midsection, leaving three roughly parallel lines that seeped blood. Ar’tor stared at them in astonishment. Surely in another instant his intestines would gush forth, and he would die howling in the snow.

You disgust me. It's a scratch. Next time, a little deeper. Now crouch! Cover your belly! Up on your toes! FIGHT!

On and on they went, Old Cat mindspeaking Ar’tor through the movements, until the boy wasn’t sure who controlled which body. There were times that he felt Old Cat in his mind, command and response so close together it seemed he had no volition at all.

And other times, as Old Cat stalked toward him, the feline’s mind was open and talking to him, so that he felt what Old Cat felt, understood the tensions and relaxations that gave a cat its power and speed.

And other times, most of the endlessly long and exhausting day, Ar’tor felt like the clumsiest and most stone-footed creature that the gods of Spring and Summer had ever let live.

That night, Ar’tor tried to escape.

Quietly, oh so quietly, Artor crept out from between the rocks and peered around. There was nothing in sight, no sign of Old Cat. Perhaps the old bastard was out hunting. If so this was a perfect opportunity to . . .

He scampered across the plateau, and began to climb down.

Good. Nothing to stop him. He’d be gone before . . .

That was odd. What was under his foot didn’t feel like a rock. Not like a branch, either.

Even in the freezing cold, Ar’tor began to sweat.

He looked down, directly into a pair of narrowed yellow eyes.

RUN!

Old Cat just behind him, Artor ran so fast that his feet barely left an imprint on the ground. He dove the last few feet into the rocks, rolled losing skin, and lay there panting.

Well. There was a little speed left in you after all.

And this time, for the first time, there was a trace of amusement in Old Cat’s “voice.”

For some reason that Ar’tor couldn’t totally understand, he slept the rest of the night curled onto his side, smiling.

The days began to flow together in a pattern. Every morning, Ar’tor would rise and stretch his body. Then he would eat. And then run. In the afternoons, he would fight, and fight, and fight. And when he had no more strength, Old Cat made him stretch, and then run some more. Not the invigorating, healthy loping stride of the Hillpeople, but a sudden, start-stop movement that drained all of the strength in his body and made his limbs flame.

After the first week, he stopped thinking about the pain, because it was a constant, enveloping thing.

He accepted that this was his lot, and with that acceptance, the pain began to recede. Yes, his limbs hurt, but the agony was more a signal of growth than a warning, and he was able to push it from his mind.

Making' room for other things. First, and now most important, Old Cat himself.

On the ninth morning he left his fissure and found no meal sitting out on the edge. Old Cat sat at the lip of the plateau, gazing out over the valley. His tail moved slowly from side to side. He turned to see Ar’tor coming.

Ar’tor could have sworn that he heard a purr of welcome. Hello, little one.

“No food today?”

/ found nothing last night. I am sorry.

Ar’tor sat next to the creature, for the first time looking upon it as the beautiful animal it truly was. Beneath its black-brown coat, muscles rolled fluidly. Though the skin was loose now, it was easy to imagine Old Cat in his youth. What an unutterably magnificent creature it must have been.

“There is still goat from yesterday.”

It is not fresh. It is not good.

“I’ll survive.”

Old Cat said nothing.

At length, Ar’tor asked, “What are you?”

I am far from home, Old Cat said.

For long minutes Ar’tor thought Old Cat was going to speak again, but he didn’t. Come. It is time for our lessons.

Ar’tor warmed up, loosening his back, flicking the knife with controlled, whiplike motions. Speed is loose. Speed is like a hiss, Old Cat had told him once.

“You’ve known men before, haven’t you?”

Many, the cat replied. Once, long before you were born, I ran the plains with men. I loved them, and they loved me. I had a place in their society. Old Cat shook himelf. But come.

For once, Ar’tor stood his ground. “No. You bring me here, and run me until 1 cannot stand, and then make me fight until my arms are on fire. I want to know. I have a right to know!”

Perhaps you do, stripling. You will know. You will know someday. Eventually, a being wants a mate. A creature to sleep next to at night. To give cubs to. Something to love. I was a creature of the plains, but I found my mate in the mountains. It seems insane now. I could have stayed with my friends, and fought, and lived . . .

“But you didn’t.”

I didn’t. She would not come with me to the plains. And I loved her too much to leave her. So I came here, and I stayed. And we lived together. We had no cubs for many years. Men have a word for this. / don’t know it. Only last winter did I finally feel my seed burn within her. Come summer, she would bear my cubs. And so it came to be.