‘All men die sooner or later.’ Sparhawk tried to sound convincingly indifferent. He stepped up onto the fourth terrace. He felt as if he were suddenly trying to wade through solid rock. Azash did not dare attack him directly, since that might trigger the fatal stroke which would destroy them all. Then Sparhawk saw his one absolute advantage. Not only could the Gods not see his Destiny; they could not see his thoughts either. Azash could not know when the decision to strike would come. Azash could not feel him make that decision and so He could not stop the sword-stroke. He decided to play on that advantage. Still locked in place, he sighed. ‘Oh, well, if that’s the way you want it.’ He raised his sword again.

‘No!’ The cry came not only from Azash but from the snarling Troll-Gods as well.

Sparhawk crossed the fourth terrace. He was sweating profusely. He could hide his thoughts from the Gods, but not from himself. ‘Now, Blue-Rose,’ he said quietly to Bhelliom as he stepped up onto the fifth terrace, ‘I am going to do this. You and Khwaj and Ghnomb and the others will aid me, or you will perish. A God must die here – one God or many. If you aid me, it will only be the one. If you do not, it will be the many.’

‘Sparhawk!’ Aphrael’s voice was shocked.

‘Don’t interfere.’

There was a momentary hesitation. ‘Can I help?’ she whispered in a little-girl voice.

He thought for only an instant. ‘All right, but this isn’t the time for games – and don’t startle me. My arm’s set like a coiled spring.’

The firefly spark began to expand, softening from intensity to a glow, and Aphrael emerged from that glow, her shepherd’s pipes held to her lips. As always her little feet were grass-stained. Her face was sombre as she lowered the pipes. ‘Go ahead and smash it, Sparhawk,’ she said sadly. ‘They’ll never listen to you.’ She sighed. ‘I grow weary of unending life anyway. Smash the stone and have done with it.’

The Bhelliom went absolutely dark, and Sparhawk felt it shudder violently in his hand. Then its blue glow returned, soft and submissive.

‘They’ll help now, Sparhawk,’ Aphrael told him.

‘You lied to them,’ he accused.

‘No, I lied to you. I wasn’t talking to them.’

He could not help but laugh.

He crossed the fifth terrace. The idol was much closer now, and it loomed large in his sight. He could also see Otha, sweating and straining as he and Sephrenia engaged in that duel which Sparhawk knew, could he but see it, was far more titanic than the one he had fought with Martel. He could see more clearly now the stark terror in the face of Annias and the near-collapse of Arissa and her son.