Max Allan Collins

But Philos didn't hear this remark. At the big Nubian's side, the scientist—frowning in concern— asked, 'Do you think Mathayus will rescue her in time?'

Even as they spoke, the albino camel, Hanna, was standing next to a far wall of the palace, her head tilted to watch her master, a hundred feet above, climbing the stones of the palace, an impossible task a spider might envy.

'That depends on what unexpected dangers he may face,' the Nubian replied. 'And it depends, too, on the Akkadian's skills ... which are considerable. I speak from experience.'

'Well, they best be 'considerable' indeed, or he'll be trapped inside, and he and his woman will ride the explosion to the next world.'

Balthazar's eyes tightened in the scarred battle mask of his face. 'That black dust is that powerful?'

Philos smiled. 'With a wallop enough to shake the gates of Gomorrah—and create a confusion to cover our stealing the sorceress away.'

Balthazar's eyes hardened. 'And you, little ma­gician—you are prepared for your mission?'

'In most battles, brawn like yours is a good thing. But, my friend, only pipsqueaks like Arpid and my­self can sneak through those rat holes into Mem­non's palace.'

And soon the Nubian was helping lower the sci­entist into the grating passage; eight bags of powder had been handed down there. The two little men, their faces smudged, looked up at the brute king of the bandits, who nodded at them reassuringly.

'The Akkadian has an adage,' the Nubian said. Isis was at his side, looking down at the two brave sewer rats. 'Live free ...'

Isis completed the ritual: 'Die well.'

'If you don't mind,' Arpid said, snatching his torch from its perch, 'I'll work a little harder on the first part.'

And then the two scrawny, unlikely heroes dis­appeared into the darkness below the street... and below the palace. Memnon sat on his throne, regarding his sorceress with searching eyes, as she sat at her table. Moments before, a servant had entered, whispered to his lord, and exited.

Fingers tented, smiling enigmatically, the Great Teacher said, 'So . .. tomorrow my victory will be complete.'

Cassandra did not meet his gaze, merely said, 'As I have told you—that is what I saw.'

'That is your ... vision.'

Now she turned toward him. 'Yes, my lord. I have seen it.'

He studied her face. 'Have you?'

Their eyes locked—both of these strong people gave nothing away in their expressions, sharing only blank visages with each other.

'And yet,' Memnon said gently, 'I sense a change in you. You seem, somehow .. . how should I put it? ... Diminished.'

'I assure you, my lord... I am myself. Un­tainted. Unspoiled.'

'How very pleased I am to hear it. Then a small demonstration should be no trouble for you.'

The warlord stepped down from the throne and walked to a side wall, where a curtain concealed an alcove. He drew back the drape, and displayed an­other round table, much larger than the one at which she sat.

On the table were six substantial stone urns, each one lidded.

Memnon clapped once, a loud crack of a clap, and