Max Allan Collins

her.

Then she plunged her arm into the urn!

Memnon watched, an eyebrow arched, perspira­tion beading his forehead, his smile a conflicted one—who could say whether the Great Teacher hoped she would pass or fail his examination?

Her fingers scraped the bottom of the empty urn, and she withdrew her arm.

'Excellent,' Memnon said, though she could not tell if he was truly pleased by her success.

The warlord removed the empty urn, pitching it to the floor in careless abandon, where it shattered.

The sound made her shudder, as did his strangely gleeful expression. Five pots remained—four con­taining poisonous snakes—and Memnon viewed them with apparent pleasure, saying, 'Just one left.'

And again he spun the table.

Why he did this a second time, other than to un­nerve her further, she could not say; perhaps he thought she had managed to keep track of the pots with snakes, when he first whirled the tabletop. But she had not—she had seen only a blur, and luck— or the gods—had been with her.

Now, as the table slowed and then stopped, Mem­non led her back to the table, close by her side as she moved around it, studying her choices. Finally she hovered between two urns, listening for an inner voice or any instinct that might guide her. Her hand reached out—tremblingly.

The warlord seemed amused as he said, 'I am no sorcerer—but I will tell you what I see ...'

Ignoring him, she placed a hand on one of the urn lids.

'...fear.'

Had he not spoken, she might have heard the sub­tle shift of scales against hard clay ... but she did not.

And, with a defiant glare at Memnon, Cassandra reached her hand into the urn.

She froze.

Memnon, watching intently, took several steps back. Had she been biten?

The sorceress withdrew her hand from the urn, and turned slowly, and displayed her arm to the war­lord ...

... Like an elaborate masterwork of the jew­eler's art, a cobra coiled around her forearm, its hooded head near her hand, but ignoring it, instead spitting and hissing at the close-by Memnon.

This turn of events catching him off balance, both literally and figuratively, Memnon staggered back several paces, and cried, 'What magic is this?'

Cassandra, her chin high, unafraid, said, 'My magic.'

Moving away, circling around her, he sought safety.

Now she stalked the warlord, her eyes ablaze. 'I am a daughter of the furies, foolish mortal. I see the world's fate in the stars!'

Memnon drew his sword, a defensive posture, as he continued to retreat; behind him, a few yards, was a shuttered window ...

... and through that window, Cassandra could see the figure there, his eyes locking with hers: Ma­ thayus!

Outside, the Akkadian gripped the upper window ledge, and tensed the mighty muscles of his legs, and swung away from the wall, soles of his sandaled feet aimed at those shutters.

'I see your fate, O hollow king,' a