Kamahl whirled the shaft, watching as the seeds of the doomed plant leaped away among the stars to plant their life anew.

Ixidor worked feverishly, but not at his table. His quills and ink sat quiet beside sketches for the next battle-plenty of illusions to keep any foe jumping. Ixidor had put aside paper disks for metal disks-a different sort of image magic.

Crouching beside the fireplace, Ixidor fed three more wax-soaked logs into the blaze. With blackened fingers, he closed his jury-rigged furnace and pumped the bellows. Each breath of air stoked the heat. It radiated through the metal plates and made the river-stone chimney crackle. Ixidor watched in delight as the thin pewter wire resting atop the grate melted away.

He clapped his hands and rubbed them excitedly together. Donning a thick glove, he picked up an iron skillet filled with more pewter-shavings and shards from a cup he had owned-and gingerly slid the skillet into the upper compartment.

"What are you doing?" came a voice behind him.

He pivoted, nearly falling, and set his knee down. "Nivea. I didn't know you'd come in."

She stood above him in their small apartment, her arms folded over her chest and one eyebrow lifted. She looked beautiful, as always, but also a little severe as she stared at the smelting process. "I know we're short on coin, but you're not melting down my jewelry again, are you?"

Ixidor spread one hand innocently on his chest and left a black handprint "You wound me, my dear. I would not rob you of your jewels, though even finest gems look shabby next to your eyes."

Her skepticism only deepened. "What are you up to?"

"Art," he said brusquely, and he turned back to the fireplace.

Nivea dropped her arms from her chest and approached, irritation replaced by curiosity. "Really, what are you doing?"

Still wearing the thick glove, Ixidor drew the hot skillet from its slot in the front grate. The pewter had melted into a thin, smooth pool of metal. Ixidor carried the skillet to his table, where thick pads waited. He set down the molten metal, doffed the glove, and picked up a slender pair of tongs. With them, he plucked a gold coin from the table top and lowered it to rest flat upon the pewter.

"I'm making money. It's a sort of sculpture, really "You're counterfeiting? Here, in Aphetto? Why don't you just cut your throat?"

"Don't be so dramatic," muttered Ixidor. He set another gold coin into the hot metal, this time turning its obverse side downward. "I'm not going to be actually spending the money. It's just security."

"What security is money you can't spend?" asked Nivea.

Ixidor positioned a third coin, and a fourth. "Security for a bet. I'm going to turn ten gold coins into a thousand-lead ones, at any rate, with golden pigment. With solid bets, I'll turn a thousand into a hundred thousand."

Nivea circled around to stare him in the eye. "Why are you doing this?"

Only then did he pause. "How else will we make enough money to quit the pits? How else will we be able to travel to our undreamed land?"

Nivea seemed to stare beyond him, as if over the horizon. Her eyes were haunted. "What happens if the Cabal finds out?"

'They won't find out unless we lose."

"What happens if we lose?"

Ixidor did not answer, only setting another coin into the hardening metal.

It was a match day like any other. Beasts and warriors fought across blood-stained sand. Crowds gawked in avid rings up to the heavens. Bookmakers laid odds. Bets coursed in tortured channels.

Ixidor had placed five different high-stakes wagers, each of which would pay off only if he and Nivea won the match in a certain amount of time or in a certain fashion. Between the prize purse and any single payoff, Ixidor and Nivea would be able to retire from the pits. If they won every bet, they would be set for life.

The partners waited together in the prep pen. Ixidor worked a final fidgety adjustment to his stack of disks. Nivea mentally prepared aven and Order warriors for summoning.

It was a match day like any other, except this time Ixidor and Nivea weren't laughing.

"Make sure we have enough fliers," Ixidor said as he flipped through the disks. "A flier saved us last time."

Nivea's eyes remained on distant places. "A flier that I brought…"

"You almost didn't have any avens."

Nivea's focus shifted to her partner. "Don't worry about the warriors. They'll be there. Worry about your illusions. You can't fool everybody."

Ixidor scowled, and his chin jutted irritably. "If you're talking about the fake coins, you won't be so critical when we win a fortune."

"I'm not talking about the coins," began Nivea slowly. She started to pace, nibbing her thumbs across gnawed fingernails. "Not about the coins. I'm talking about everything. Nothing is real to you, not warriors, not coins, not spells. You make fun of me because I dream about escaping to some faraway place, but you're the one living in a false place, surrounded by illusions. You call it art, but it's just lies."

Ixidor stopped flipping though the images before him. Nivea had struck the truth. She always did. Under her blazing glare, he was defenseless. The bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd gave him an out. "This isn't the time to talk-"

"When is the time?" She gestured over her shoulder at a minotaur warrior crouching beneath a rain of blows. "This may be the only time we have."

"All right Let's talk. You're so keen on truth. The truth is that you are the reason we're fighting in the pit. If it weren't for you and the fall of your self-righteous people, I'd still be telling fortunes with these cards-"

"Don't turn this on me-"

"You're the reason I'm trying so hard to get us out of the pit "This isn't about me. This is about lies and deceptions "My lies. My deceptions. All right. You knew that when you met me. I was an unabashed charlatan. I read your fortune just to meet you. Now I'm an artist."

"What's the difference?"

"You. You're the difference." He stowed the disks in his jacket pocket and took her hands. "I never liked the world as it was. I never wished to live in reality. I made up worlds that were truer and more beautiful. You are the only real thing I ever cared for. Everything else is a lie, but you aren't."

She pulled her hands free and turned away.

The crowd roared.

"The false gold is meant to buy you a real paradise. The false spells are meant to bring about real magic. The lies that I call art are the only way I know to change what is into what should be."

"I know," she said quietly.

"Once we win, I'll give it all up-the illusions, the lies. This is our last deception. If we win, we won't have to lie again."

She glanced over her shoulder, and a weak smile formed on her lips. "Once we win."

The minotaur in the arena went down. The pit thundered with delight.

Ixidor took Nivea in his arms. They could not go into battle this way, divided and shaken. He had to wipe this all away, somehow. "Let's just think of the coins as practice."

"Practice?" She stared, red-eyed, at him.

He nodded deeply. "Yes. Once we have our paradise, we'll need to mint our own coins. I'm thinking your face should grace the coins."

She smiled wryly. "Knowing you, you'll carve one part of me for 'heads' and another part for 'tails.' "

He laughed, and she joined him.

"I thought the reverse side should hold my own profile," Ixidor said grandly, "but perhaps that would make the coins too valuable to spend."

'Too valuable?" she asked, slapping him lightly. "Yes, it would take a lot of gold to depict that chin."