The Serpent's Shadow

join the electric blue of Air and the blazing scarlet of Fire in the dance of the Elements. Only the gold-brown of Earth was missing, and he felt that lack as an obscure ache in his soul.

The Power flowed from him, pouring in a stream that seemed endless, swirling into the Cone and building it, strengthening it, giving it a depth it had not possessed before. Alderscroft stood in the middle of the circle now, in the center of the Cone; Peter did not envy him his perilous place. If the Power got out of his control, it would destroy him with no warning whatsoever, as indifferently as a man would step on a microbe and destroy it.

Then, suddenly, Peter was empty.

Now he moved, sagging back against the wall, as no few of the others were doing. The White Lodge Circle was broken, but it didn't matter; the magic Circle, the shield that contained it held, Alderscroft had the reins of the Power in both hands, and it was all his show now.

The last trickle of Power flowed from the last member left standing. It was only Alderscroft and the Cone—

'Fiat!' the old man shouted, and flung up his arms.

The Cone expanded—so suddenly, and so swiftly, it felt like an explosion. The wall of Power rammed through Peter, taking his breath and thought with it for a moment. It felt very like being slammed into the rail by a Force Five gale-wind.

Damn!

Silence. A silence profound enough to be a thing, a presence in itself.

The room was empty again. The Old Man sagged against his staff. When did he pick that up? I didn't see him get it—

'Well,' Alderscroft said, his voice hoarse with effort. 'That's done it for now.' He straightened with an effort, and looked around at the rest of the members of the Circle, who were, one by one, getting back to their feet and putting themselves to rights. He smiled, and Peter felt as if the Old Man had smiled at him, alone, although he knew very well that every other member of the White Lodge felt the same at that moment. It was part of Alderscroft's personal magic, his charisma, that had made him the Head of the Council for so very long and kept him there.

'Well done, old chaps,' the Old Man said, in tones that made Peter glow and forget every grievance he had ever had for that moment. 'Well done. Now, who's for a drink? I damned well think we've earned it.'

Peter sighed, and followed the others out into the War Room, certain he had earned his drink, but equally certain that there was nothing to celebrate.

MAYA was hiding in the hospital linen closet, wishing that the day was over and she could go home to a cold supper and a colder bath.

It had been a long, exhausting day—first at the clinic, then here at the hospital. To begin with, London had been suffering from a heat wave for a week, and today had begun not just warm, but hot, even by her standards. After spending the morning sweating and panting in her black linen suit through one emergency after another, she came home drenched and ready to drop. She hadn't been able to face food, or even the thought of food, only glass after glass of tepid sweet tea. There was no ice; the ice man hadn't yet made his delivery. There was no breeze, and she had ordered Gupta to send a boy to the baker for precooked pies they could eat cold so that he could put out the fire in the kitchen stove.

The suit she had worn all morning was ready to stand by itself; she took it off, took everything off, and couldn't face putting all that hot black linen on again, nor the corsets, nor the layers of petticoats and camisoles. Retiring to the bathroom, she took a full cold bath, which finally made her feel less like a doll of melting wax, and wished that she could just stay there for the rest of the day.

But she had duty this afternoon at the hospital.

Finally, at the last possible moment, she pulled herself out of the bath and rummaged in the back of her closet for the garments she had brought from India, the clothing of coolest cotton gauze that she had worn when helping her father at the height of summer before the monsoons came. No corset, only a modesty vest and a lacy camisole to disguise the fact that she wasn't wearing a corset. One petticoat, and short drawers, with the lightest of silk stockings. Then a girlish, cotton 'lingerie dress' of the kind worn to garden parties in the stifling heat—loosely woven, reflective white, embellished with a froth of cotton lace, airy enough to be bearable. With this dress, she broke strict mourning. At the moment, it was either that, or die of heat stroke. If she looked more like a debutante at a garden party than a doctor, right now everyone else was so hot that no one seemed to have noticed what she was wearing. This dress was almost as comfortable and practical as her saris.