Somewhere ahead, unwavering, growing more distant despite their deliberation and Kit’s weeping haste, he could hear the even pace of hooves laid against stone like church bells. Trees closed across the path. Kit bulled the sorrel through branches; the horse went snorting, plunging, shivering with eagerness to be free of the trees and run. Kit closed his eye against welling tears of frustration, could do nothing for the ones that soaked his eyepatch. He pulled his cloak around his sore bruised body against a chill; Morgan’s patch, and the troll’s. One from the Mebd and one from Will. Cairbre, Geoffrey, Puck….

The wood was dark as the bottom of a well. Even the sorrel shivered. A good gelding, steady and swift. Kit patted his neck. I wish I had thought to ask your name.

Low and distant, a croak. “Froggy frogs.”

Master Troll? How odd, when I was just now thinking of him. Trust the horse.

The voice came from the left. If it was a voice, and not Kit’s desperation and the wind. He can’t possibly do a worse job of it than I have. Kit swore one more time, for good measure, and let the gelding have his head. He stroked the sorrel’s rough mane and looped the reins around the pommel, then leaned forward to speak into a swiveling ear. “Find him for me. Please.” The red horse snorted, both ears back briefly, then switched his tail and walked boldly forward through the thickest stand of oak. The road lay beyond, broad and shining in the starlight. Kit reached for the reins again, let them fall when the gelding tossed his head.

“If you know what you re doing He caught the mane in both hands. Well, let us make haste.” The horse struck out at an easy canter, clatter of hooves on stone. Over it Kit heard that pealing, tang tang tang, measured as a pavanne. I don’t pavanne.But he kept up now, never gaining, rising in the saddle to see farther ahead. A glimmer of golden light shone on the pavement: acandleflame.

A lantern. A crossroads. Bloody Hell. Where went they?

The sorrel never hesitated. Kit touched the horse with his boots; he sprang past the abandoned light as if it had caught his heels on fire. The way was darker here, tending downward. Relief and horror did battle in Kit, and for a moment he thought he caught the acrid scent of whiskey and char. The trees fell back from the roadside. Alone in the night, Kit heard something huge rustling through leaves. Just the wind. Of course. But there was no breeze on his neck. And now the road descended through nothing at all but blackness to either side.

By the time he saw the broad-pillared gate, his tears had dried, leaving the taste of salt on his tongue. The sorrel snorted and struck sparks from the roadway, refusing the passage. Kit nodded and checked to make sure the reins were knotted so they wouldn’t foul the horse’s legs. “Brave enough, Kit said, swinging down. He rubbed the sorrel’s nose, turned him back up the road, and slipped his bit. “I could not ask more. Go, get home. There’s a warm stable for thee.” The gelding looked over his shoulder dubiously. Kit raised his left hand over the animal’s lathered flank, trying for menace; the sorrel shrugged and ambled back up the road as if to say, ‘I might have waited a bit. Just to see if you were coming back. But if you insist.’

Kit squared his shoulders, turned his back on the sorrel, and walked quickly toward the gate. Quickly, because if he let his feet drag he would never pass under that plain black archway, no higher than the overhead reach of his hands. It was as well he’d left the horse behind; within the gate the road turned to a narrow stair, and Kit fumbled down in the chill, over dank, slick stones. He leaned on the wall, sweat freezing in sequins on his skin, and willed his heart to beat. Cold, searing cold, and he chuckled nastily in memory of a scene he’d written so many years before, Mephostophilis warming Faustus frozen blood with a brazier so that it would run through a pen. This place smelled of leaf mold, of earthworms, of fresh-turned earth. Behind Kit, a gray light like morning was growing; he noticed when he glanced over his shoulder to see if the archway was still in sight, and did not look back a second time. He feared if he did turn he would keep turning, and keep walking, and never force himself downward again. He counted as he descended. On the one hundred and thirteenth step he lost the sound of hoofbeats. On the three hundred and eleventh step he lost the light. There was no railing; he leaned on the wall and felt for the edge of the step with his toe. The rattle of the iron nails in his boots gave him hope. My father’s hand.In hope. And then, bitterly, I saw the back side of it often enough.

He lost count. His left hand fell on something leathery in the darkness; Kit jumped backward, squeaking like a wench who’s brushed up against a rat in the cellar. He would have fallen, Jesu,all the bottomless way, but something moist and strong wrapped his wrist and pulled him hard against the wall. He grunted, scrabbled, found his footing with a twisted ankle that would have been much worse without the bracing of his boots. A cold exhalation pressed his ear. The smell of loam and leaf mold redoubled; Kit held his breath until his heart no longer felt fit to leap through hischest. The predatory grip on his wrist never eased. Another exhalation. A slow voice, inflectionless, half rumble and half hiss.

“Who passes, and on what errand?” The demon’s maw gleamed red when it spoke: the only light in the world, silhouetting serrated teeth as if on coals.

Kit swallowed. This is real. Now. Marley. The smallness of his own voice angered him. “I come to bargain with your master. Let me pass.”

“My master?” Silence, that Kit somehow knew was laughter. He wondered if the thing saw his own face lit red when its mouth opened. “My master treats with none that can not pass by me.”

Kit himself glimpsed nothing but the fangs. It can see in the dark, he realized. “Must I fight you, then?”

“You must pay the toll,” the demon said, releasing his wrist quite negligently. What will you pay it with? Kit crowded back against the far wall of the narrow stair. He laid a hand onthe hilt of his blade, did not yet dare draw it. Well, I won’t offer you thepound of flesh nearest my heart, and that’s for certain. That depends on thegoing rate. It was eerie speaking so, as if the blackness itself could hear him and answer.

“Tis easier to buy thy way in to Hell than out,” the demon allowed. “Your remaining eye, perhaps? Your good right hand?”

Kit blinked, understanding. Just like bargaining in the marketplace. “I’ll not be thee’d down to by demons, either. I’m surprised thou didst not commencewith mine immortal soul.”

“Ah,” the demon said, casting a glare as it licked its maw with a lingering tongue. Light between its teeth like pipe smoke; Kit caught a swift impression of clawed leathery paws, of scaled masculine tits and paunch over hair-thatched legs. The demon was impressively, unpleasantly male. “No such delicacies for me. But a taste of sweet man flesh…” It shrugged. “Or of a sweet, tight arse…”

Kit pressed himself against the wall and pulled his sword into his hand, the scrape of metal on scabbard reassuring.

“My flesh is not for dining on.” Scales rasped on stone; hair rubbed on hair. Kit forced himself to look where the thing’s mouth and, he supposed, its eyes would be, and not strain at the darkness for another glimpse of its talons or its forked, knobby member. It chuckled through its nose, a dying-ember glow limning its nostrils. Kit swallowed hard. “Or any other sport thou mightst desire to make upon it.”

“Pity,” the thing said, its voice very close, the coals in its belly glaring. Kit tasted its cold breath on his face. “That blade is Faerie silver, mortal man.”

“Aye.” Kit brandished it at nothing, felt the tip prick nothing and slide through. A heavy slick sound, and he knew the thing had sidestepped upward. Kit turned to cover it with the blade, boots clattering on the steps. He kept his blind eye to the wall, although it restricted his sword arm; he suspected the sword wouldn’t help him much, all in all.