‘What happens then?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Aphrael!’ Sparhawk said it in a tone of startled protest.

‘Bhelliom’s Destiny is even more obscure than yours, and I can’t tell from one minute to the next what you’re going to do.’

‘Will it destroy Azash?’

‘Oh yes – and quite possibly the rest of the world as well. Bhelliom wants to be free of this world, and this might just be the chance it’s been waiting for.’

Sparhawk swallowed very hard.

‘It’s a gamble,’ she conceded in an offhand way, ‘but we never know which way the dice are going to turn up until we roll them, do we?’

The temple suddenly went totally dark as Sephrenia and Otha continued their struggle, and for a breathless moment it seemed as if that darkness might be eternal, so intense was it.

Then the light gradually returned. The fires in those great iron braziers renewed themselves, and gradually the flames rose again.

As the light returned, Sparhawk found that he was looking at Annias. The Primate of Cimmura’s emaciated face was a ghastly white, and all thought had vanished from his eyes. Blinded by his obsessive ambition, Annias had never looked fully at the horror to which he had pledged his soul in his pursuit of the Archprelate’s throne. Now at last he obviously perceived it, and now, just as obviously, it was too late. He stared at Sparhawk, his eyes pleading mutely for something – anything – which would save him from the pit which had opened before his feet.

Lycheas was blubbering, gibbering in terror, and Arissa held him in her arms, clinging to him actually, and her face was no less filled with horror than that of Annias.

The temple filled with noise and light, shattering sound and boiling smoke as Otha and Sephrenia continued to grapple.

‘It’s time, Sparhawk.’ Flute’s voice was very calm.

Sparhawk braced himself and started forward, his sword held threateningly over the Sapphire Rose which seemed almost to cringe beneath that heavy steel blade.

‘Sparhawk,’ the little voice was almost wistful, ‘I love you.’

The next sound he heard was not one of love, however. It was a snarling howl in the language of the Trolls. It was more than one voice, and it came from Bhelliom itself. Sparhawk reeled as the hatred of the Troll-Gods lashed at him. The pain was unendurable. He burned and froze at the same time, and his bones heaved and surged within his flesh. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he gasped, faltering, almost falling. ‘Command the Troll-Gods to be silent. Blue-Rose will do it – Now!’

The agony continued, and the Trollish howling intensified.

‘Then die, Blue-Rose!’ Sparhawk raised his sword.

The howling broke off abruptly, and the pain stopped.

Sparhawk crossed the first onyx terrace and stepped up onto the next.

‘Do not do this, Sparhawk.’ The voice was in his mind. ‘Aphrael is a spiteful child. She leads thee to thy doom.’

‘I was wondering how long it was going to be, Azash,’ Sparhawk said in a shaking voice as he crossed the second terrace. ‘Why did you not speak to me before?’

The voice which had spoken in his mind was silent.

‘Were you afraid, Azash?’ he asked. ‘Were you afraid that something you said might change that Destiny which you cannot see?’ He stepped up onto the third terrace.

‘Do not do this, Sparhawk.’ The voice was pleading now. ‘I can give thee the world.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I can give thee immortality.’

‘I’m not interested. Men are used to the idea of dying. It’s only the Gods who find the thought so frightening.’ He crossed the third terrace.

‘I will destroy thy comrades if thou dost persist.’

‘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.

Sparhawk could sense the gigantic presence of the Troll-Gods. They seemed so overpoweringly real that he could almost see their gigantic, hideous forms hovering protectively just behind him. He stepped up onto the sixth terrace. Three more to go. Idly he wondered if the number nine had some significance in the twisted minds of the worshippers of Azash. The God of the Zemochs threw everything to the winds at that point. He saw death inexorably climbing the stairs towards Him, and He began to unleash everything in His power in a desperate effort to ward off the black-armoured messenger carrying His glowing blue death to him.