The overheated air quivered above the rust-colored stones, warping the horizon into a wavering mirage. Dust grated between teeth, clogged pores, and settled in a gritty film upon skin darkened by sweat.

Stan walked first. An axe rested on his broad shoulder, its massive blade catching the sun with a dull, muted glint. His stride was heavy, grinding gravel into sand. The pale scars on his back flared bright against skin burned the color of old copper. He did not look back, yet from the way the muscles of his neck remained taut, it was clear: he was cataloging every movement behind him.

Hiss followed step for step. Her black hair, drawn tight into a high tail, was turned gray by road dust. Her lean, athletic frame seemed almost fragile beside the giant, yet the hands gripping the hilts of her two short blades did not tremble. She moved without sound, like a shadow sliding across scorched ground.

At the mouth of a narrow gorge, the air suddenly thickened with the stench of old wool and carrion.

From the shadow of a boulder stepped a mountain lion. Its ribs strained beneath a mangy hide, its eyes burning with a dull, hungry amber. It sank low against the rocks, gathering itself to leap.

Stan did not slow. He simply shifted the axe into both hands, thrusting forward his elbow and the massive hammer-back of the head. Hiss instantly slipped to the right, fanning away from him. Her blades parted: one froze at her thigh, the other rose toward her face, catching a shard of sunlight.

They made no sound. They simply looked at the beast. There was so much dry, burned-out fury in their gaze that the lion halted. Its claws scraped stone; it gave a short growl—not threatening, but confused—and, backing away, vanished into a rift in the rocks. The predator had sensed those who had themselves become death.

Stan stopped and turned. Far behind, where sky merged with sand, gray points trembled. They were barely visible, yet their monotonous movement did not cease.

“More are coming,” he rasped. His voice sounded like the cracking of dry wood.

Hiss gave a short nod, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. A dirty streak remained on her cheek. She did not sheath her blades.

“The gorge narrows. Let’s go.”

The sky filled with a thick, inky blue. Shadows stretched, turning the rocks into warped, lurking giants. The heat vanished at once, replaced by a biting cold that crept beneath their clothing along with the fine sand.

They collapsed at the base of a cliff. Stan sank down first, leaning his back against stone that still held the last trace of warmth. The axe slipped from his fingers, the blade clinking against pebbles. His chest heaved, and his fingers spasmed open and shut, trying to drive away the numbness.

Hiss sat opposite him. Her movements were broken now, stripped of their former grace. Slowly, she raised her right hand and brought the blade to her face. In the dusk, the steel looked like a gray band of mist. She did not look at Stan. Her gaze was fixed on the tip of the sword as she slowly set it against the hollow at the base of her throat.

Stan lifted his head. His eyes, ringed with dark circles, locked on her hands.

“No,” he said. His voice was dry, cracked.

“They’re close,” Hiss whispered. She did not move, pressing the cold metal to the pulsing vein. “I hear their scales scraping stone. I don’t want to ... not like this.”

Stan slowly reached for his axe. His hand touched the heavy haft, but he did not lift it. He looked toward the cliff, beyond which stretched the endless emptiness of the night desert. There was no choice left: either this metal, or the snake-heads would reach them.

Hiss closed her eyes. Her lids trembled. She pressed the blade harder; a thin, dark line of blood appeared on her skin.

Stan suddenly froze. His head jerked to the side, and he drew in the cold air through his nostrils. Amid the smell of dry dust and cooling stone, something else broke through—a heavy, cellar-stink of dampness and stagnant water.

He lunged forward, seizing Hiss’s wrist.

“Wait.”

He turned toward the rock. Where two monoliths met at a sharp angle yawned a vertical crack. From it flowed a faint breath of grave-cold and the smell of wet stone.

“Look,” Stan said, pointing.

Hiss opened her eyes. The sword in her hand slowly lowered, yet she still gripped it so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

They crawled sideways into the fissure, scraping their elbows against the rough edges. Inside, the light died completely. There was only dense, tangible darkness, smelling of centuries of dust and damp.

Stan stretched out a hand, feeling emptiness.

“It’s wide. The stone ... smooth.”

Hiss squeezed in after him. Her breathing in the confined space sounded loud, almost frightening. Somewhere in the depths came a sound that made them both freeze: drip ... drip...

They moved toward the sound, nearly brushing shoulders. Stan’s fingers sank into cold, motionless water. It was a stone niche, filled to the brim with icy moisture. They drank, scooping with their hands, choking and feeling the water burn down their dried throats.

When the first savage hunger of thirst eased, Stan began feeling along the floor. His fingers struck a pile of brittle, dried roots, blown here by the wind over centuries through upper cracks.

He took out flint. A few sharp strikes against the axe blade—and a spray of sparks tore their faces from the dark. The dry twigs caught quickly, grudgingly releasing a thin thread of smoke that immediately drifted upward into some unseen vault.