Nahaman and the survivors of her host withdrew to the island, and thence overseas, and darkened the shores of Nawami no more.

Ethrian was puzzled. All that drama and violence, just to sail away? What was it all about?

The woman in white became older. He felt her despair.

Long had she lived. Long had the mouth of the stone beast preserved her youth and beauty. Now she aged. She withered. She became a crone. She begged for death. The beast would not let her die. Her body became old dry sticks. Even that faded away, till she was no more than an aching spirit fluttering the slopes of the beast's mountain.

Ethrian wakened to the light of dawn. He had slept the clock around. He smelled sweet water. He scrambled to the pool.

Not till he had slaked his thirst did he notice that his hands no longer ached. They remained raw, but seemed on their way to a miraculous healing.

He stood and examined himself. His feet, too, were improving rapidly. His knees were better. Even the sting of the sunburn had disappeared.

He whirled around, suddenly frightened.

Near where he had slept lay a pair of sandals, a neatly folded toga, and a leaf on which stood a stack of seedcakes.

Fear and hunger warred within him. Hunger won. He seized the cakes, fled to the pool, alternately ate and drank. When he finished, he clothed himself. Sandals and toga fit perfectly.

He began exploring. Try as he might, he found no evidence of any presence but his own. He stared at the stone beast. Was there a ghost of a smile on those weathered lips?

He climbed the monster and looked round from the peak of its great head.

For as far as he could see this country was lifeless. The flatter land was ochre and rust. The mountains were bare grey stone.

He knew he would never leave. No mere mortal could storm that wasteland and hope to evade the Dark Lady's eternal embrace.