“Perhaps you should try feeding him on time,” the rider said carelessly, and led his mount to a stable in a cave just ahead, where a bunch of horses started whinnying and looking seriously unhappy as soon as we came in.

“Azurr,” the old fey grumbled, moving to quiet several stallions. “I assume you were being sarcastic with that name? He never listens to anyone!”

“He listens to me,” my fey stopped to pet the great neck, marveling as always that he could tell where feathers met fur, even with his gauntlet on. “Most of the time.”

“Well, tell him to stop disturbing them! They’ll be in a panic soon!”

“War horses should be stouter of heart. Perhaps you should train them better?”

The old man grumbled something just out of hearing, and my fey looked sternly at his mount. “Be good?” he suggested, taking off the bridle and hanging the saddle over a rail.

The gryphon ignored him with kingly aplomb, settling into a larger than usual stall with the air of one who was only staying because he felt like it.

That was probably true, since the muscles on the great body looked like they could destroy the sturdy wooden sides without effort, but I didn’t get to see if they did. Because we were on the move again, through a series of similar stables, with the inner ones having a symmetry that natural caves never did. Like the shallow depression we turned into suddenly, and then spun about to face outward again.

For a second, I thought that the fey was lying in wait for someone, because I couldn’t imagine why else he’d be standing in a hole, in a dark corridor, all alone. But then the stone on either side of us began pushing together, not caving in but closing in front of us, until there wasn’t even a crack anymore. It blocked out what little light the corridor had, leaving us entombed in darkness.

And solid rock.

I felt my pulse start to pound as I stared around at nothing, with my breath coming faster in my throat. The rock had closed up all of a couple inches away from our face, to the point that it felt like being sealed in a coffin—or a stone sarcophagus, ready to wait out the ages until some poor archeologist got the fright of his life. I was way ahead of him there, desperately wanting to push against the wall, to force it open, to beat and bang on the cold, unfeeling surface—anything to get out! But the fey just stood there.

And before I could give in completely to fear, the floor jerked under our feet and we started to—