"Help me—close it!" Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him. She, too leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it from the other side. "Don't let it come open," warned Macenion. "If that gets out, we're dead."

"What is it?"

"Not now! I'm trying to—" Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a language Paks didn't know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other side of the door. "Blast! Wrong one." Macenion began muttering again, as Paks held the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that she needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. "That should do it," he said. "I expect it will. You can let go now, Paks."

"What was that?" Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.

"I don't know how to explain it to you."

"Try."

"A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any intruder, elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, all of them unpleasant."

"And a sword would be no use against it?"

Macenion laughed. "No."

"Is it the thing we came to find? What's holding the other thing prisoner?"

"No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may prove harder than I thought. And we certainly can't risk returning this way to the surface."

"Unless we've destroyed that thing." Paks felt better. Her intuition had been right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits. Macenion looked at her curiously.

"Don't you understand? We can't destroy that—and we don't know any other way out. If what we're looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out."

Paks grinned. "I understand. We took the bait, and we're in the trap: and we don't even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don't know the size of their catch." She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment. "You managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly dangers. And—I've been in traps before."

"Yes, but—Well, there's no help for it. We'd better keep moving. We want to be well away from that door if it breaks through."

They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and ahead of them an archway gave into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was thick with dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion followed.

The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.