Nikos jogged on, his legs still moving even though they seemed to drag through mud with each stride. His clothes, soaked by the trip through the pond, were dry again and rasped against his skin. The rocky plain, cut with odd mounds and sculpted towers of black stone, stretched ahead of him. His foot hit a rock and nearly turned his ankle. He stopped. Running on unknown ground under almost no moon was unwise. Stopping was a mistake, though, for his arms were leaden and he slumped against the nearest outcropping. The stone, brittle and spongelike with tiny razor edges and a crumbling nature, cut at his hand though it seemed to take a very long time for the pain to reach his consciousness. He staggered back, wiping the blood off on his leggings.

He walked on, picking his way through the eroded lava field with mindless care. Exhaustion crept up upon him, and when he started awake, he was lying, curled up, between two pitted stones in a tiny patch of sand. The boat of the moon had crossed most of the sky. He levered himself up and continued on.

A mile past the lavafield, he reached a shallow wadi, dry as a bone. He slid down the side of it, but found, once he had trudged across the sandy bottom, that he was too tired to climb up the farther bank. He began walking up the bottom of the wadi. The river of milk hung over his head, and in the starlight, the mountain loomed enormous ahead of him, gleaming pale white under the moon.

The ringing of clear bells woke Thyatis. Her eyes opened and she saw a roof of burnished dark cedarwood above her. Sunlight, filtered dim by golden curtains, fell at the edges of the platform that she rested on. A great murmur of people carried on the air to her. She felt strange; her hands and feet would not move to her will. The roof rocked back and forth, and she realized that she was on something that was rolling forward on an uneven road. Incense traced trails in the air and slowly drifted away behind her. A heavy cloth of soft silk lay over her, and a diadem of silver leaves was upon her brow.

Her eyes, at least, she could move, and from their corners she could make out pillars of gold placed around the platform that held her bed. The capitals of the pillars were worked into a deep flourish of leaves and carefully cut flowers. Rich paints anointed the carving with deep greens and yellow highlights. She could smell flowers too, and guessed that the bed of the great platform that she lay upon was deep with them. The bells rang again, tinkling silver, as the wagon stopped. The sound of the crowd rose, and there was the basso shouting of men.

Incense pooled in the still air under the roof beams. Voices rose and fell, though the sound of chanting halted- all-pervasive and unnoticeable until, as now, it was gone. The golden curtains to the left side of the bier parted, carefully brushed aside by a gloved hand. Thyatis struggled to rise, but her limbs, heavy, refused to move. The face of a man rose into view, looking down upon her with sad eyes. He was elderly, with short graying hair and an intelligent brow. He wore a rich burgundy cloak, bound with clasps of silver and gold over a linen shirt of deep purple. His beard was neat and short, shot through with veins of white hair. Gently the man placed a hand on Thyatis’ forehead and bowed his own.

Tears fell from his eyes, sparkling in the dusty sunlight. The old man’s shoulders shook slightly, and Thyatis blinked the salty water away, but he was trapped in his own grief and did not see the slight movement. When at last he looked up, he had composed himself. He leaned close, close enough for Thyatis to catch the smell of clean fabric and a muskiness of coriander and thyme. His lips brushed her forehead and then he stood fully. The shadow of the roof fell across his face. He was the king once more. “Good-bye, brother,” he said, his strong voice subdued. “I will take you to your true home and build you a monument to last a thousand years.” Then he turned and went out through the golden curtains. The voices raised, soldiers chanting a name, as he emerged into the sunlight. Thyatis strained to catch it, but now the world was receding into a dark funnel of rushing lights. The clamor of the people faded and sleep overcame her again.

The sound of a boot crunching on rock and gravel filtered into Nikos’ dreaming sleep. He lay still and opened on eye a bare fraction. A pair of heavy leather riding boots was within his field of view, standing on light sand and scattered rocks, and another pair beyond them. The snort of horses broke the silence. He continued to breathe evenly, though he was sure that the time for subterfuge was long past. Something sharp pricked his ear, and he twitched.

“You know,” came a voice in Persian, in a slow burr, “this fellow might be awake already.”

Two more sharp pinpricks came to rest between his shoulders. Nikos opened one eye and moved his head slightly. Three Persian cavalrymen were arrayed around him. The closest, kneeling, had a long dagger in his hand and its point rested lightly against the side of his head. The man, almost clean-shaven his beard was so closely cut, smiled down at him and traced the end of the knife across his cheek to rest against the skin of his throat. Nikos swallowed to moisten his tongue.

“I’ll not run,” he said. “Let me rise and you can take my weapons.”

“A reasonable fellow,” one of the other Persians commented. The two spears and the knife withdrew enough for him to stand, though the alertness of their wielders did not waver. Nikos climbed to his feet, the rush of adrenaline in his blood cutting through the muzziness of sleep broken too early. The cluster of brush that he had crawled into when the sun had begun to lighten the eastern sky seemed much smaller and sparser than it had in the night. Another Persian was on horseback, a distance from the litter of brush, a bow and notched arrow in his hands. Nikos turned slowly around, catching sight of the great bulk of the mountain to the northwest and another two horsemen. He clasped his hands on the top of his head. There was nothing to be done now.

The man with the dagger deftly removed the Illyrian’s shortsword, cooking knife, and the dagger he wore on his left leg. Quick fingers checked the folds of his shirt and his pants. Satisfied, the Persian handed the weapons off to one of his juniors and drew out a length of rope.

“Turn,” the sergeant said. “Hands behind your back.”

Nikos did as he was told. The sun was bright, cutting through banks of clouds. It might rain in the foothills of the mountains. He stared at the snowcap of Ararat.

Luck of the gods with you, girl, he thought.

After binding his hands, the Persians helped him onto the back of one of their remounts and then the whole band galloped away to the south, leaving a cloud of dry white dust to mark their passing. The tight cords bit into Nikos’ wrists. His hands were already becoming numb.

There was a weight on her chest when Thyatis woke. She shifted a little, off a rock lodged under her shoulder blade. A hiss stilled her, and then she felt muscular coils shifting between her breasts. She lay back, completely still, and slowly opened her eyes. A triangular head with beady black eyes stared back at her. A heavy, scaled body lay coiled across her chest and trailed down onto her belly. Thyatis barely breathed, testing her hands and feet. She could move them again. The head of the asp danced from side to side, its pale pink tongue tasting the air. It drew its tail in with a slithering rasp. It was under her tunic, close to her warm skin. She could feel the coolness along her cheek where its own head had lain against her neck.

Oddly, for she was in dreadful danger, she did not panic or scream. She watched the snake as it curled its muscular body up out of her shirt and down off of her shoulder. It was long-two or three feet in length-and its center was a tight bundle of muscle like the arm of a strong man. At last the tail tickled across the upper curve of her left breast and it was gone. She let out a long breath, still soundless, and turned her head to follow its passage.