"But unless all the lights are set at perfect angles," said Quazer, "and inaccessible, he will be able to create shadows with which to work. And in darkness, if he can strike but just the smallest light, there will be shadows."

"What strength does he derive from shadows?"

"I know of no one who knows for certain."

"He is a darksider, then? Not human?"

"Some say twilight, but close to the dark- where there are always shadows."

"In that case, a trip to the Dung Pits of Glyve might be in order."

"Cruel," said Smage, and he chuckled.

"Come point him out to me," said the Games Master.

They departed from the tent. The sky was gray overhead, changing to silver in the east and black in the west. Stars dotted the darkness above a row of stalagmitical mountains. There were no clouds.

They moved along the torchlit way that crossed the compound, heading toward the pavilion of the Hellflame. There was a flicker of lightning in the west, near, it seemed, to that place on the boundary where the shrines of the helpless gods stood.

As they neared the open side of the pavilion, Quazer touched Benoni's arm and nodded. The Games Master followed the direction of his gesture with his eyes to where a tall, thin man stood leaning against a tent pole. His hair was black, his complexion swarthy, his features somewhat aquiline. He wore gray garments, and a black cloak was draped over his right shoulder. He smoked some darkside weed rolled into a tube, and its smoke was blue in the torchlight.

For a moment Benoni studied him, sensing that feeling men know when confronting a creature born, not of woman but of an unknown darkstroke, in that place men shunned.

He swallowed once, then said, "All right. You may go now."

"We would like to help-" Quazer began.

"You may go now!"

He watched them depart and then muttered, "Trust one of them to betray another."