Max Allan Collins

Watching her as she patted a damp rag to the Akkadian's forehead, surprised by her tenderness, the thief settled himself down in his own blankets. He wondered if the woman knew that she loved this man....

Gently, Arpid asked, 'Can you save him, sorcer­ess?'

She glanced toward the little thief, her dark eyes leaping in the firelight. 'Perhaps ... but his fever is strong. The poison is made from the venom of the scorpion.'

He frowned in curiosity. 'How could you identify the poison? What, from the signs of his sickness ... ?'

She shook her head. 'I know, that is all.. .. This man is tied to the scorpion, in some mystical way even I cannot fathom. This may be a good thing— if he survives, that venom will always be within him.'

'A poison in the blood is a good thing?'

She wrung out the cloth. 'It may give him the strength of the scorpion ... and a resistance to any future poisoning.'

'But will he survive?'

'Tonight will tell.'

Arpid sat up. 'Well, you better work your magic, woman. He's our only way out of this desert—he dies, we die.'

Cassandra sat back, pausing in her ministering, as if considering the little thief's words; then she gazed up at the full moon, her lovely features bathed in its ivory glow. She might have been listening to words only she could hear—Arpid could not be sure. He knew only that she was lost in a near trance....

And then she seemed to relax, her shoulders set­tling, and her expression was tranquil as she turned to the thief and said, quietly, 'He will not die.'

Arpid frowned. 'But he's poisoned, you said....'

'Hush now, little thief,' she said, her voice both musical and kind. 'Do not interrupt.'

'Interrupt what... ?'

'Hush.'

And Cassandra lay one hand over the Akkadian's heart and another over the nasty wound on his thigh; she closed her eyes, and drew within herself. The moonlight now seemed to provide an aura around her, her entire body haloed in its glow; or was the sorceress herself emanating that radiance ... no, surely, it was just the moon....

Yet Arpid knew, somehow, that the sorceress was healing the assassin—that she was calling upon all her powers, every particle of her very being, to use her magic as a cure.

Not far from their campsite, another figure trudged, a small figure with wild white hair and modest robes and an enormous pack on his back, the likes of which would half cripple a mule. And yet Philos the scientist had no means of transport beyond his sandaled feet, though he had a better sense of direction than most travelers.

Partly that was due to the detailed maps in his backpack; but also he was guided by one of his own inventions, an instrument that in slightly different form would one day be known as a compass. The scientist's strange instrument, fashioned of wood and glass, included a primitive dial, with a needle that pointed to magnetic north.

Right now, however, that needle wavered, strangely, pulled away, drawn to the east.

Under the purple sky and the ivory moon, the odd little figure halted. Philos turned toward the direction the needle of his invention indicated—something was happening out there, in the dark desert night, something big . . . something that wasn't science... .

At the small campsite, Arpid sat up, watching the sorceress do her mysterious work; suddenly the glowing aura disappeared, and the slender woman seemed almost to collapse, though really she only slumped, her shoulders slack, her head drooping, as she remained seated there on the sand. It was as if all of the energy in her, every ounce of air, had suddenly vanished, like the snuffing out of a can­dle's flame.