Max Allan Collins

two copper-skinned slaves in square cloth head­dresses entered, heavily leathered, bearing a big wicker cage within which wriggled and thrashed a host of deadly serpents—cobras, asps, vipers—slith­ering sinuously over each other, in a boiling deadly pile.

Using a stick with a small rope looped at its end, one of the slaves expertly reached in and plucked out a huge king cobra, who hissed its displeasure, its hood extended. The other slave removed the lid from one of the half-dozen identical urns, and the snake handler dropped the twisting, spitting reptile down into the pot, the other slave quickly slamming the lid on.

Cassandra stood now, watching in horror, though she tried not to reveal her feelings.

Memnon wasn't hiding his—he was grinning, mockingly nostalgic as he said, 'Having you back... working your wonders ... it's like old times.'

And she watched, with open eyes, as various ven­omous serpents were dropped, writhing with rage, into all but two of the pots.

Elsewhere in the palace, in the lower catacomblike corridors, Arpid and Philos were even now scurry­ing, each little man lugging four stacked bags of powder. As they reached a fork in the passageway, Philos stopped, got his bearings for a moment, then pointed to the right. 'This way,' he said.

Arpid frowned, studying the scientist. 'You're sure?'

'Of course I am,' he said, mildly offended. 'I used to live here!'

And down another corridor they scampered.

With a wave the Great Teacher dismissed the snake-handling slaves to wait along the periphery, and he went to his sorceress, taking her by the arm, walking her over to the alcove, as if escorting her to a dinner of state. But the big round table, with the half-dozen massive urns, was no banquet, unless one considered terror a suitable main course.

He moved away from her and gripped the edge of the table ... and spun it!

This was, it seemed, a meal of sorts, after all—a revolving serving table had been perverted by the warlord into a wheel of spinning doom.

Memnon's eyes flicked from her face to the ro­tating table and back again, as he said, 'And so, my sorceress . .. my seer—let us see what you can see.'

She watched, mesmerized, as the table slowly came to a halt.

'Which two, my oracle? Which two of these urns are empty?'

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then stepped forward. Walking slowly around the table, apprais­ing each urn, she stopped at one and lay her hands on the pottery.

Memnon watched intently, and when her eyes snapped open, he wondered—was something wrong?

Something was indeed wrong, though Cassandra strove not to show it. She closed her eyes and touched the urn once more—and her mind was a blank. The ancient myth had proved true: only a virgin could possess the gift of second sight; and she had given herself to the Akkadian. And thrown her gift to the winds ...

Glancing at Memnon, she knew one need not be a soothsayer to read his inquiring gaze. If she re­fused this test, that would be an admission, and she would surely die; perhaps the gods who had granted her vision were still with her, even if her gift had come to its end.

Cassandra prayed to them, silently—not to return her vision, but to guide her hand ... because there was no eluding this test.

She reached out and lifted the lid from the urn, and she gazed down into the unknown depths of its stygian interior, which seemed to stare back up at