"Back, you fool! Back!"

Another shout, again ignored--the snarling creature demanded his entire attention. Dumarest sidled, facing the beast, tasting blood, feeling sweat dew his face, his palm, loosening his grip on the shaft of the knife; small things each of which could bring his end but there was no time to correct them now. He slowed, tempting the animal, showing himself, waiting, every nerve tense for the one, exact moment when he must move with smoothly oiled perfection.

Dirt rose beneath a scraping foot, furrows showing the rake of claws and, on the plated bone of the skull, a patch of reflected lavender moved, to glow again, to vanish as with a blur of movement the head lowered, horns lunging like twin spears as the massive thighs drove the thing at Dumarest.

He darted aside, felt agony tear at his lungs, saw the monstrous head turn vague as his sight became edged with darkness, felt the rasping impact of claws against hip and thigh as, almost too late, he spun to avoid the kick. Even as new pain joined the old, he was reaching, gripping, lifting the blade in a vicious, upward thrust at the far eye-knowing he had missed even as an arm swept around him to tighten, to crush him against the thick torso as, rising, the beast lifted him from his feet.

He dangled helpless, vomiting blood, staring at the blood-smeared mask above him, the jaws which gaped to show the dagger-like fangs, the pointed teeth. Jaws which lowered to his face, fangs which would rip the skin and flesh from the bone and leave nothing but a naked, grinning skull: the badge of the loser-the hallmark of death.

A moment, then he heard the dull and distant thuds, saw the sudden sprouting of feathered tubes in the thing's head and throat, felt the bruising sting as something drove into his neck-and fell into immediate and utter oblivion.