“Tonight I'd need someone to keep me awake, whether or not he helped me with Mist.” Fighting the cobra had produced adrenaline, but now it ebbed, and her exhaustion and hunger were returning, stronger.

“Snake. . .”

“Yes?”

He smiled, quickly, half-embarrassed. “I was trying the pronunciation.”

“Good enough.”

“How long did it take you to cross the desert?”

“Not very long. Too long. Six days.”

“How did you live?”

“There is water. We traveled at night, except yesterday, when I could find no shade.”

“You carried all your food?”

She shrugged. “A little.” And wished he would not speak of food:

“What's on the other side?”

“More sand, more bush, a little more water. A few groups of people, traders, the station Y grew up and took my training in. And farther on, a mountain with a city inside.”

“I would like to see a city. Someday.”

“The desert can be crossed.”

He said nothing, but Snake's memories of leaving home were recent enough that she could imagine his thoughts.

The next set of convulsions came, much sooner than Snake had expected. By their severity, she gauged something of the stage of Stavin's illness, and wished it were morning. If she were to lose him, she would have it done, and grieve, and try to forget. The cobra would have battered herself to death against the sand if Snake and the young man had not been holding her She suddenly went completely rigid, with her mouth clamped shut and her forked tongue dangling.

She stopped breathing.

“Hold her,” Snake said. “Hold her head. Quickly, take her, and if she gets away, run. Take her! She won't strike at you now, she could only slash you by accident.”

He hesitated only a moment, then grasped Mist behind the head. Snake ran, slipping in the deep sand, from the edge of the circle of tents to a place where bushes still grew. She broke off dry thorny branches that tore her scarred hands. Peripherally she noticed a mass of horned vipers, so ugly they seemed deformed, nesting beneath the clump of dessicated vegetation; they hissed at her: she ignored them. She found a narrow hollow stem and carried it back. Her hands bled from deep scratches.

Kneeling by Mist's head, she forced open the cobra's mouth and pushed the tube deep into her throat, through the air passage at the base of Mist's tongue. She bent close, took the tube in her mouth, and breathed gently into Mist's lungs.

She noticed: the young man's hands, holding the cobra as she had asked; his breathing, first a sharp gasp of surprise, then ragged; the sand scraping her elbows where she leaned; the cloying smell of the fluid seeping from Mist's fangs; her own dizziness, she thought from exhaustion, which she forced away by necessity and will.

Snake breathed, and breathed again, paused, and repeated, until Mist caught the rhythm and continued it unaided.

Snake sat back on her heels. “I think she'll be all right,” she said. “I hope she will.” She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. The touch sparked pain: she jerked her hand down and agony slid along her bones, up her arm, across her shoulder, through her chest, enveloping her heart. Her balance turned on its edge. She fell, tried to catch herself but moved too slowly, fought nausea and vertigo and almost succeeded, until the pull of the earth seemed to slip away in pain and she was lost in darkness with nothing to take a bearing by.

She felt sand where it had scraped her cheek and her palms, but it was soft. “Snake, can I let go?” She thought the question must be for someone else, while at the same time she knew there was no one else to answer it, no one else to reply to her name. She felt hands on her, and they were gentle; she wanted to respond to them, but she was too tired. She needed sleep more, so she pushed them away. But they held her head and put dry leather to her lips and poured water into her throat. She coughed and choked and spat it out.

She pushed herself up on one elbow. As her sight cleared, she realized she was shaking. She felt as she had the first time she was snake-bit, before her immunities had completely developed. The young man knelt over her, his water flask in his hand. Mist, beyond him, crawled toward the darkness. Snake forgot the throbbing pain. “Mist!”

The young man flinched and turned, frightened; the serpent reared up, her head nearly at Snake's standing eye level, her hood spread, swaying, watching, angry, ready to strike. She formed a wavering white line against black. Snake forced herself to rise, feeling as though she were fumbling with the control of some unfamiliar body. She almost fell again, but held herself steady. “Thou must not go to hunt now,” she said “There is work for thee to do.” She held out her right hand, to the side, a decoy, to draw Mist if she .struck. Her hand was heavy with pain. Snake feared, not being bitten, but the loss of the contents of Mist's poison sacs. “Come here,” she said. “Come here, and stay thy anger.” She noticed blood flowing down between her fingers, and the fear she felt for Stavin was intensified “Didst thou bite me, creature?” But the pain was wrong: poison would numb her, and the new serum only sting . . .

“No,” the young man whispered, from behind her.

Mist struck. The reflexes of long training took over. Snakes right hand jerked away, her left grabbed Mist as she brought her head back. The cobra writhed a moment, and relaxed. “Devious beast,” Snake said. “For shame.” She turned, and let Mist crawl up her arm and over her shoulder, where she lay like the outline of an invisible cape and dragged her tail like the edge of a train.

“She did not bite me?”

“No,” the young man said. His contained voice was touched with awe. “You should be dying. You should be curled around the agony, and your arm swollen purple. When you came back-” He gestured toward her hand. “It must have been a bush viper.”

Snake remembered the coil of reptiles beneath the branches, and touched the blood on her hand. She wiped it away, revealing the double puncture of a snakebite among the scratches of the thorns. The wound was slightly swollen. “It needs cleaning,” she said. “I shame myself by falling to it.” The pain of it washed in gentle waves up her arm, burning no longer. She stood looking at the young man, looking around her, watching the landscape shift and change as her tired eyes tried to cope with the low light of setting moon and false dawn. “You held Mist well, and bravely,” she said to the young man. “Thank you.”

He lowered his gaze, almost bowing to her. He rose, and approached her. Snake put her hand gently on Mist's neck so she would not be alarmed.

“I would be honored,” the young man said, “if you would call me Arevin.”

“I would be pleased to.”

Snake knelt down and held the winding white loops as Mist crawled slowly into her compartment. In a little while, when Mist had stabilized, by dawn, they could go to Stavin.

The tip of Mist's white tail slid out of sight. Snake closed the case and would have risen, but she could not stand. She had not yet quite shaken off the effects of the new venom. The flesh around the wound was red and tender, but the hemorrhaging would not spread. She stayed where she was, slumped, staring at her hand, creeping slowly in her mind toward what she needed to do, this time for herself.

“Let me help you. Please.”

He touched her shoulder and helped her stand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so in need of rest . . .”

“Let me wash your hand,” Arevin said. “And then you can sleep. Tell me when to waken you-”

“No. I can't sleep yet.” She pulled together the skeins of her nerves, collected herself, straightened, tossed the damp curls of her short hair off her forehead. “I'm all right now. Have you any water?”