endeavors had a direct bearing on her fate, so it was the same thing. 'Trojan, do your worst.'
The evil eyes flashed horrendously, darkening the entire area.
Smash was in a compound with assorted other creatures. It was a miserable place, stinking of poverty, doom, and despair. Jets of bright fire shot from cracks in the ground, preventing escape. Harpies and other carrion birds wheeled above, watching for food.
'Slop time!' a guard called, and dumped a pail of garbage into the compound. A gnome, an elf, and a wyvem pounced on the foul refuse. But before they got more than a few stinking scraps, the harpies swooped down in a squadron and snatched it all away, leaving only a pile of defecation in its place. The prisoners squabbled among themselves in angry frustration. Smash saw that all were emaciated; they had not been getting enough food. Small wonder, with those harpies hovering!
What was to be his torture this time? For Smash realized now that these scenes were supposed to be extremely unpleasant, even for an ogre; each was awful in a different way. As he considered, the sun moved rapidly across the pale sky, as if time were accelerating, for normally nothing could prevail on the sun to hurry its pace one bit. Smash's hunger accelerated, too; it took a lot of food to maintain a healthy ogre.
'Slops!' the guard called, and dumped the pail. There was another scramble, but the wyvem wasn't in it.
That noble little dragon was now too far gone to scramble. In any event, the harpies got most of the slop again. Smash felt a pang; even garbage looked good now, and he had gotten none. Of course he wouldn't touch anything a harpy had been near, anyway; they spoiled ten times as much as they ate, coating their discards with poisonous refuse. Harpies were the world's dirtiest birds; in fact, real birds refused to associate with these witch- headed monsters.
The wyvern belched out a feeble wisp of fire and collapsed. Smash crossed over to it, moved by un-ogrish compassion. 'Anything I can do for you?' he asked. After all, it took one monster to understand another. But the wyvem merely expired.
Immediately the other prisoners converged, working up what slaver they could; dragon meat was a lot better than starvation. Affronted by the notion of such a fine fighting animal being consumed so indelicately. Smash hefted a fist, ready to defend the body. But the vultures descended in a swarm, gouging the corpse to pieces from every side so swiftly that Smash could do nothing; in moments, nothing but bones was left. His efforts, perhaps pointless from the beginning, had been wasted. Smash returned to his place.
The sun plopped behind a distant mountain, throwing up a small shower of debris that colored the clouds briefly in that vicinity. It really ought, he thought, to be more careful where it landedl The stars blinked on, some more alertly than others. The nocturnal heavens spun by, making short work of the night.
By morning Smash was ravenous. So were his surviving companions. They eyed one another covertly, judging when one or the other might be unable to defend himself from consumption. When the guard came with the slops, the gnome stumbled forward. 'Food! Food!' he croaked.
The guard paused, eying the gnome cynically. 'Are you ready to pay?'
'I'll pay! I'll pay!' the gnome agreed with uncomfortably guilty eagerness.
The guard reached through the bars of fire and into the gnome's body. He hauled out the gnome's struggling soul, an emaciated and bedraggled thing that slowly coalesced into a pallid sphere. The guard inspected it briefly to make certain it was all there, then crammed it indifferently into a dirty bag. Then he set the pail of slop down and waved the hovering harpies away. They screamed epithets of protest, but obeyed. One, however, so far lost control of herself as to loop down close to the tantalizing garbage.
The guard's eyes glinted darkly, and the harpy screeched in i sudden terror and pumped back into the dingy sky, dropping several greasy feathers in her haste. Smash wondered what it was that had so cowed her, for harpies had little respect for anything and the guard was an ordinary human being, or reasonable facsimile thereof.
The gnome plunged his head into the bucket and greedily slurped the glop. He guzzled spoiled milk, gulped apple and onion peels, and crunched on eggshells and coffee grounds in a paroxysm of satiation.
He had his food now; he had paid for it.
The guard turned to gaze at Smash. There was a malignant glitter in the man's eye. Smash realized that he was, in fact, an aspect of the Night Stallion, on his rounds collecting more souls.
Now Smash understood the nature of this trial. He resolved not to purchase his sustenance at that price.
If he lost his soul here, he lost it everywhere, and would not be able to help Chem and Tandy escape.
But he knew that this would be the most difficult contest yet; each time the Stallion came. Smash would be hungrier, and the pail of slops would lure him more strongly. How could he be sure he would hold out when starvation melted his muscles and deprived him of willpower? This was not a single effort to be made and settled one way or the other; this was a dragging-out siege against his hunger-and the hunger of an ogre was more terrible than his strength.
The sun shoved rapidly across the welkin, looking some-what undernourished and irritated itself. It kicked innocent clouds out of the way, burning one, so that the cloud lost continence and watered on the ground below. It was an evil day, and Smash's hunger intensified. He had to escape before he succumbed.
He got up, dusted off his bedraggled and filthy hide, and approached the burning barrier. These jets were unlike those of the firewall in Xanth or the jets of the Region of Fire, for they were thicker and hotter than the first and steadier than the second. But perhaps he could cross them. Certainly he had to try.
He held his breath, closed his eyes and charged across the barrier of flames. After all, he had done this in the real world; he could survive a little additional scorching.
He felt the sudden, searing heat. His fur curled and frizzled. This was worse than he had anticipated; his hunger-weakened body was more sensitive to pain, not less. Then the fire passed. He screeched to a halt on singed toes and opened his clenched eyelids.
He was in the prison chamber, the bars of flame behind him. He had blackened stripes along his fur, and his skin smarted-but it seemed he had gotten turned about. What a mistake!
He turned, gulped more air, screwed his orbs shut again, and leaped through the burning bars. Again the pain flared awfully. This time he knew he hadn't turned; he had been in midair as he crossed the flame.
But as he unscrewed his vision, blinking away the smoke from his own eyelashes, he found himself still in the cell. Apparently it was not all that easy to escape. He had to go by the rules of the scene.
Nevertheless, he readied himself for a third try, because an ogre never knew when to quit. But as he oriented on the bars, he saw the guard standing just beyond them, with a glittering gaze. Suddenly he did know when to quit; he turned about and went back to his original spot in the compound and squatted there like a good prisoner. He didn't want to go near the Dark Horse until this struggle was over.
The sun plunged. Another poor creature yielded his vital soul to the Stallion in payment for food. Two more perished of starvation. Smash's firewounds festered,- and his fur fell out in stripes. His belly swelled as. his limbs shriveled. He became too weak to stand; he sat cross-legged, head hanging forward, contemplating the tendons that showed in high relief on his thighs where the hair had fallen out. He did not ask for food, though he was now being consumed by his own hunger. He knew the price.
Slowly, while the days and nights raced across the sky, he starved. He realized, as he sank into the final stupor, that when he died, the Stallion would have his soul anyway. Somehow he had misplayed this one, too.
Once more he stood before-the Stallion statue. Still he had some of his soul, and would not yield.
Apparently there was a limit to how much of a soul could be taken 'as penalty for each loss, and ogres were ornery creatures. 'I'll fight for my soul as long as any of it remains to fight for,' Smash declared.
'Bring on your next horror, equine.'
The eyes glinted. Then the Night Stallion moved, coming alive. 'You have fought well, ogre,' it said, speaking without difficulty through its horse's mouth. 'You have won every challenge.'
This was completely unexpected. 'But I died each time!'
'Without ever deviating from your purpose. You were subjected to the challenge of fear, but you evinced no fear-'
'Well, ogres don't know what that is,' Smash said.
'And to the challenge of pain, but you did not capitulate-'
'Ogres don't know how,' Smash admitted. 'And to the challenge of fatigue-'
'How could I stop when I thought my friend was caught?'
'And to the challenge of hunger.'
