Max Allan Collins

The little horse thief believed in magic, no ques­tion; but had never seen it so plainly at work, and he was wide-eyed with astonishment. He didn't speak for a while, afraid to, as she sat there, slouched, reeling from the intensity of her healing efforts.

Tentatively, Arpid spoke. 'Is he ... cured?'

For long moments, the sorceress said nothing. She felt depleted, used up .. . and she had glimpsed into the assassin's soul, and memories and images from his violent past were spinning through her mind. Such a brutal being.. . and yet an innate goodness ... she had much to ponder.

Cassandra arose and went to her own bedroll, and lay down, preparing for sleep.

'Well?' Arpid asked. 'Will he live?'

'It is in the hands of the gods,' she said.

And she turned away from him.

But the little thief had seen whose touch had con­veyed the magic to the feverish Akkadian, and it hadn't been the hands of gods ... had it?

Mathayus awoke at dawn.

It was a slow waking, blinking and bleary-eyed, and Arpid thought the Akkadian looked to be suf­fering the worst hangover since time began; but the man was, at least, alive.

When Mathayus's eyes came into focus, a scraggedy-bearded face was hovering over him, and gave him a start. 'Ahhh!'

'She cured you,' the owner of the face said. The horse thief. 'I knew it! I could feel her magic ... I could see it!'

Slowly, falteringly, the Akkadian propped him­self up on an elbow. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, fighting grogginess. 'Cured me? She...'

'She's not just a pretty face, partner.'

Mathayus looked across the now dwindled camp­fire at the still-slumbering Cassandra. She looked in­nocent, somehow, and if he had ever seen a lovelier creature, he couldn't recall it. Of course, he did have a blinding headache....

She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and came awake; her eyes went directly to his, and their gazes locked. Her relief at his survival was evident, as a tiny, tender smile flickered across her lips.

Feeling awkward, suddenly, the Akkadian said, 'We should break camp.'

And they did, without any talk of the remarkable events of the day previous. Perhaps an hour later— Mathayus astride Hanna, with Cassandra and Arpid riding horses bequeathed them by Thorak and his dead warriors—they were again under the desert sun, jogging along. Mathayus was still without fo­cus—surprised to be alive, not yet forming his next move. For the first time in days, his mind was not filled with Memnon.

'I want to thank you,' the Akkadian said to the sorceress.

She turned away, smiling to herself, happy for his gratitude, but not willing to let him know it. Then she looked at him, her face a beautiful blank mask, and said, 'No thanks needed... It was self-preservation. If you had died, where would—'

But an explosion interrupted her—a loud roar that seemed to rock the desert floor.

The thief looked up at the clear sky, confused. 'Thunder? Without clouds?'

Mathayus was noting a billowing of black smoke over a nearby dune. He sniffed the air and a familiar chemical scent tickled his nostrils. 'That is not thun­der ... but I think I know who caused it....'

A tiny fellow came running out of the black cloud, like a figure fleeing a burning house; only Philos the scientist was not terrified, rather he was ecstatic. 'It works! ... It finally