Johnis was too stunned to speak.

“You from Summerville?” the man demanded.

“I’m from the Middle Forest,” Johnis said. “We need water.”

The man eyed him carefully. “Show me the town, and I’ll show you water.”

“But I don’t know a town out here,” Johnis stammered. Perhaps the man was mad from the desert heat after all.

“The town, Summerville.” The man motioned to the dune behind him to the right. “There’s a killer forcing us to play a game. I need you to help me find the cops. Tell them to get to the library. It’s all about the library, tell them.”

Heat shimmering off the sand distorted both the man and his words for a moment, then passed.

“Cop?” Johnis had never heard the word. It could be a code word for Horde. The Horde were in the library? “Have you seen my two friends, Silvie and Darsal?”

The man looked completely flat-footed. Maybe he’d been bitten by the desert heat, turned stupid. Johnis looked in the direction of the supposed place called Summerville. When he turned back, the man was gone.

Gone!

Johnis scanned the distorted dune, but nothing changed. He stepped back, just one step, and the hole suddenly closed in front of him, as if drawn by a noose.

Blackness filled his vision.

And the black man-beast was back, reaching—reaching and moaning. This time Johnis saw that he had more books with him, under his arm, but he couldn’t tell how many because the long fingers reached for his throat, and he had to jump back or die. Yes, he knew he would die if he let those fingers/claws touch him.

Johnis screamed and opened his eyes.

Daylight blinded him, and he snapped his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he saw that he was back in the desert.

His horse was lying at his feet. Two bodies lay against him, one on each side, snoring softly. He turned his head and stared at Silvie’s graying face inches from his own.

Silvie lay dead to the world, mouth parted slightly, breathing through some mucus that had gathered in her throat. He fought a sudden fit of empathy for her. Her skin was cracking and puffy. And she smelled.

Something nudged his other shoulder, and he turned to see that Darsal was nestled against his arm, faring no better. And if he could see himself in the reflection of water, he would undoubtedly see that his own skin was hanging from his bones.

“Johnis?”

Silvie had opened her eyes and was staring at him.

“Are we dead?” she asked.

Johnis pushed himself up, grimacing with pain. The horses were still alive; that was good. The Book of History lay where he’d placed it for a pillow, smudged now with a small circle of blood. He’d made a terrible mistake. Never again, he thought.