In answer the old man returned to the table and opened his package, revealing seven stilettos that glinted against the light. They were thin and ivory-handled; each handle was carved into the form of Christ on the cross.

"Trust these," he said. "These are all that can save you."

In the caverns behind them, the air was still; Jennings moved through in a half-crouch beneath the low and uneven rock ceiling, gazing with awe into the circle of light shed by the lantern he held in his hand. Within his view were artifacts embedded in the hard-packed walls, skeletons half buried in rock that seemed to reach out from the outlines of gutters and steps that once fronted the ancient street. He moved onward, drawn deeper into the gradually narrowing tunnel.

In the cubicle far behind him, the lights had dimmed; Thorn's eyes were filled with fear as he stared down at the table. Before him the seven stilettos were planted firmly upright, forming the sign of the cross.

"It must be done on hallowed ground," whispered the old man. "The grounds of a church. His blood must be spilled on the altar of God."

His words were punctuated with silence as he studied Thorn, making certain he understood.

"Each knife must be buried to the hilt. To the feet of the Christ figure on each handle . . . planted this way, to form the sign of the cross."

The old man's gnarled hand reached in and, with effort, unstuck the knife in the center.

"The first dagger is the most important. It extinguishes physical life and forms the center of the cross. The subsequent placements extinguish spiritual life, and should radiate outward, like this . . ."

He paused, assessing Thorn's expression.

"You must be devoid of sympathy," he instructed. "This is not a human child."

Thorn struggled to find his voice. When it came, it sounded alien, hoarse and uneven, reflecting his distress.

"What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if he's not. . ."

"Make no mistake."

"There must be some proof . .."

"He bears a birthmark. A sequence of sixes."

Thorn's breath quickened.

"No." he said.

"So says the Bible, do all the apostles of Satan."

"He doesn't have it."

"Psalm Twelve, Verse Six. 'Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred sixty-six.' "

"He doesn't have it, I tell you."

"He must have it."

"I've bathed him. I've studied every inch of him."

"If it is not visible on the body, you'll find it beneath the hair. Was he not born with a great deal of hair?"

Thorn recalled the first time he ever saw the child. He remembered being struck with the sight of its thick, glorious hair.

"Remove it," instructed Bugenhagen. "You'll find the mark hidden beneath."

Thorn closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

"Once you begin, do not hesitate."

Thorn shook his head, unable to accept it.