trick!'
Life is full of tricks. Life itself may be a trick.
He turned away.
'Why are we standing here in the gloom? I thought you were taking me someplace important?'
You are the one who halted.
'Okay! Let's get going!'
He turned back.
Betty Lewis, wearing a tight, low-cut dress, stood frowning at him off to the left. The texture of her familiar flesh looked so real....
'You could have called,' she said. 'Maybe it wasn't that big a thing between us, but you might at least have said good-bye.'
'I couldn't,' he answered. 'There was no way.'
'Just like all the others,' she said, and the mists moved between them and she was gone.
'I see what you are doing,' Pol said to the flame. 'But it won't work.'
Is is the condition of this place. You are doing it to yourself.
Pol took a step forward.
'You brought me here!'
'Pol?' came a familiar voice from his right, sending a shiver along his arms.
'The hell with you!' he said, not turning. 'Let's go, flame!'
Obediently, the bluish light moved away, and he followed it. The shadow remained to his right, drew nearer.
'Pol!'
He did not look. But an arm was extended into his field of vision--muscular, covered with heavy, rust-colored hair, a thick, wide bracelet at the wrist, studded with control buttons, indicators, lights--and even when he saw it, he did not believe that it was real.
Until the hand fell upon his arm, gripping it, halting him, turning him.
'I feel your hand,' he said slowly.
'I felt your wrath,' said the other.
Pol raised his eyes to regard the once handsome, rugged features of Mark Marakson, marred by the eyepiece to the left, its lens a deep, glittering blue.
'You gave me no choice,' Pol replied.
'You had my name, my parents. You took my girl ...'
'This can't be!' Pol said.
'...my life,' Mark finished, and then the lens went black and his flesh reddened and charred and began to peel away.
Pol screamed.
The hand, through which the bones were now visible, fell away from his arm. The figure backed off into the mist--the black-lensed prosthetic now affixed to a skull--and then it was gone.
Pol began to shake. He raised his hands to his face and lowered them again.
Nora now stood where Mark had been. Her face was expressionless.
'It is true,' she said. 'You killed the man I loved.'
She turned and walked away.
'Wait!'
He ran, reaching for her, but her shadow was lost among others. Still he groped, turned, moving in one direction and then another.
'Come back!'
Pol! Stand still! Do not lose yourself in this place!
He turned again, and old Mor stood before him, leaning upon his staff.
'For that which I see before you, I wish that I had never brought you back,' the sorcerer said. 'Better Mark had prevailed than that you do the thing you would do.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pol said. 'Tell me, if there is something I should know!'
Mor vanished in a burst of fire.
Stay with me! came the words out of the flame. This could get out of control!
'Whose control?' Pol asked, turning away.
Stel, the centaur, stood looking into his eyes.
'You would break faith with us,' she said, 'though you swore by your scepter not to.'
'I have not broken faith with you,' he replied.
'...And the doom which walks always at your back will move forward.'
'I have not broken faith,' he repeated.
'Evil son of an evil father!'
Pol turned and strode away.
Come back!--almost, a pleading note now.
The giant dog-headed figure he had faced beneath the pyramid rose suddenly before him.
Thief! Breaker of the Triangle of Int! came its mental message.
'I stole nothing. I took what was mine,' Pol said.
I've curses for thieves, to hound them to the ends of the earth!
'Piss on your curses!' Pol replied. 'I beat you once. I'm not afraid of you now!'
He took a step toward the menacing figure.
Stop! They're gaining power! It really can hurt you! came the words out of the flame which had just appeared between them, sounding frantic now.
The dog-headed one raised his right arm. Pol wheeled and ran.
Stop!
A small shape rushed into view. It was white, had long ears, was wearing a waistcoat. It's nose twitched.
'Late again!' it said. 'It'll be my head, sure as hell!'
It looked up at Pol.
'Yours, too,' it said, before it scurried off.
Pol kept moving.
Stand still! In this place--
He almost bumped into the man. It was the nameless sorcerer he had fought back at Rondoval. Pol backed away from him.
The sorcerer raised his right hand and a fiery knife appeared within it. He cast it directly at Pol's breast.
Pol threw himself to the side and hit the ground rolling. He continued the movement until he was well away from the place.
He lay panting for several moments, then moved to regain his feet. Another man approached as he did so, moving quickly, halting before him. It was a tall, regal figure, with a single black streak running back through a mane of white hair. Pol realized immediately that the features were very similar to his own.
'You are... ?' Pol said.
'Det Morson, your father,' came the reply.
'Well curse me and be on your way,' Pol said, standing. 'That's the game here, isn't it?'
'I am not a part of the game here. I am merely taking advantage of it.' His right hand rose and brushed Pol's cheek lightly. 'Whichever way you turn, no matter what your decision, no matter how things break,' he said, 'your real enemy will be the Madwand.'
'What Madwand? I thought that was a general term for--'
'Henry Spier is the greatest of the Madwands, and he is known only as that.'
'What kind of name is Henry Spier? In this place--'
The tongue of flame flared into being between them.
Back, Det! Back to your special hells! came the voice out of fire. Tour power over us has passed!
Det raised his hands, crossing his arms upon his breast. As if by contagion, flames violated his outline. Suddenly, however, he raised his head and stared at Pol.
