Sometimes, as with the one who called, she simply started the process too young. But the one above had been so close, from the moment she first brought it here, the ley had engulfed it, nourished it, treasured it, until its scent and sweet taste permeated the cavern as none before it.

Mother had had plans for her current special children, had been forced into modifying those plans when Anheliaa had set the rings spinning overhead, and her siblings and progenitor had insisted she fall into their pattern.

Not all her special children had weathered that pattern change well.

Another child brushed her perimeters. A mind of a far different scent, an almost-familiar flavor. But her memory still inclined toward unreliable. She reached toward it, curi- ous, hungry for something new. ...

Chapter One.

"Whoa-oa-oa-oa."

The public coach rumbled, swayed, and creaked to a halt.

Mikhyel, after his second day of fighting frozen feet, sun- burned face, and the overwhelming battle of his compan- ions' perfumes, had the door unlatched and the stairs extended before the vehicle had finished moving.

Cool mountain air rushed in, driving out the overused molecules within. The youngest woman squealed, as she had when he'd tried to lower the window earlier that after- noon, and drew a length of scarf up over her nose, pro- tecting herself from the Evil Outside Humors.

One had to wonder why such dainty pieces were on their way to Khoratum, but one truly did not want to ask, be- cause one might find oneself obliged to listen to the answer.

The entire answer.

Mikhyel eased down the stairsthe slightest movement jarred his pounding headthen turned to help his fair com- panions out. At least, he assumed they were fair. From the way they were bundled against those Humors, one of them could be Ganfrion in his newest guise. Hunched over dou- ble, but even that was possible.

Words came out of those mounds of fabric; a plethora of words, as a matter of fact. And at least two of the three found him and his fabricated life endlessly fascinating. For- tunately, their curiosities frequently took varying directions and they'd spent more time arguing over what to ask him than in expectations of answers.

And as they disengaged from the coach, each clasped his hand in vociferously heartfelt gratitude. He'd smile, pry one set of fingers loose, only to find himself captured again by the next lady to descend.

The possibility existed that by the time they reached Khoratum, he would come to hate the young man, whose name he didn't know, but whose experienced, quick think- ing had landed him the sole outside seat beside the coachman.

He picked up the portmanteau that thudded into the dust beside him, hefted one of the women's bags, whose weight threatened the limits of his strength, held on to it with grim determination and pride, and limped into the staging inn on feet barely able to feel the ground through his thin- soled shoes.

Somewhere, Ganfrion was laughing while he sipped his brandy.

He set the woman's bag down inside the door, where the coachman would pile the rest, and went to sign his name on the register and get his keyhis own key, this time, please the gods; the quick-thinking young man had snored the previous night through, after staggering in reeking of spirits.

The young man complained, having counted on the re- duced rate of a shared room, but Mikhyel assured him the innkeeper had generously offered otherwise, not telling him the offer was: if Mikhyel wanted separate rooms, Mikhyel paid the full rate, plus half. It would be worth the extra expense for a decent night's sleep.

Supper was a delight not to be contemplated, with break- fast still heavy on his stomach and his afternoon bread and cheese still wrapped, untouched, in his pocket. The ladies made much of his obviously failing health, exclaiming over his need of a separate room, his impaired appetite, the "pain that furrowed his beautiful brow," until all he could think of was that well-sprung bed, the room filled with mountain freshness, awaiting him.

The bed was lumpy, and the window nailed shut.

The portmanteau slipped from fingers gone numb. Mi- khyel's shoulders slumped, along with every other bone and muscle, and he sank onto the hard, wooden stool beside the rough carved table.

The stool . . . rocked.

From somewhere deep inside him, laughter happened, helpless, but with a real sense of his own foolishness, the crazed situation he found himself in, all of his own deliberation.

He rubbed his eyes, then drew the hand down over his clean-shaven face, encountering the tiny bandage from this morning's worst mistake, wondering if tomorrow, he'd man- age to slit his throat with his razor.

And he laughed some more.

Until his hands began to glow.

Leythium chandeliers, leythium-lace drapes, liquid ley- thium bubbling in sweet-smelling pools . . . It appeared he was back in the caverns beneath Rhomatum.

"Damn," he muttered, then said aloud, "Sir? Your, uh, lordship? Forgive me, I . . . I don't know how to address you, but I can't be here."

{0 oo-oo-oo, do I know you?) Mikhyel spun on his heel.

His bare heel. Bare . . . as the rest of him was exposed.

"Sir, please might I have my clothes back?"

{Clothes? Why? Certainly not for my sake.) He turned again, and there he was. Or perhaps not the same creature, for this one was as female as the other had been male.

Which seemed a silly conclusion, for something he'd seen form out of the ley itself, then shift shape even as he watched. This could as easily be a different manifestation of the same being, chosen out of whimsy.

Still there was something in the . . . flavor . . . of the thoughts that had floated through his mind that suggested, if not female, then at least youth, a facile agility of thought the Rhomatum being had lacked.

And the scent that filled the air here was not fireblossom- tea, but . . . raspberries.

Almost as if in response to his thoughts, the creature changed form subtly as it glided across the cavern toward him, gaining humanlike, feminine curves. But if it catered to his sensibilities in that shift, it only compromised: the iridescent, scaled skin, the fanged, elongated face, and the bare, webbed feet were many things, of which humanlike was not one.

And though she declared clothing unnecessary for him, she was herself covered in lacy leythium gauze, that trailed off in floating tendrils and connected, weblike, to the sur- rounding leythium formations.

A sort of sleepy curiosity encompassed him like a cloud as the creature made a slow, drifting circuit around him.

"I thought," her voice whispered through the tendrils, setting them fluttering, "that I knew you. But I . . ."

She seemed puzzled, but Mikhyel hesitated to place any human value on what such a creature might feel. That they had emotions, he didn'tcouldn'tdoubt following his ses- sion with the Rhomatum creature.

Self-preservation dictated caution, and healthy fear of these strange beings, but curiosity overpowered all sensi- ble faculties.

"Did you bring me down here?" he asked.

"Naturally..."

Her voice held none of the Rhomatumin creature's sibi- lance, and it, as well as her form, seemed more easily maintained.

"Why?"

"I told you . . ."

She drifted near, and her webbed, talon-tipped fingers cupped his face. Instinct dictated avoidance. Escape. Logic scoffed, and asked: Where would he go?

"Welcome home, my darling . . ." Her fanged face leaned close, her eyes closed. She seemed to be smelling him.

He held himself very still, vaguely disturbed that calm acceptance came so easily, particularly when very wom- anlike lips pressed his, more so when his lips opened will- inglyher will, a voice deep within him objectedand a strange, delicate flickering investigated the inside of his mouth.

He should, a different part of him pointed out, feel vio- lated. He should be fearful of such intimate contact with a being composed of a substance that in at least one form absorbed human flesh. He should be wondering whether these creatures considered him a viable candidate for sup- per's main course.

But none of those fears reached maturity. Only love and curiosity coursed through him in the wake of that flickering exploration. Love, curiosity . . . and memories of the caves beneath the Rhomandi hypogeum.

"Ee-ee-eck!" She pulled her hands away as though stung, and herforkedtongue flicked out between her lips, over and over as though ridding them of some foul taste.

"You've been with him!"

Free at last of her influence, those remote fears blos- somed to full flower. He fought them down, determined that panic would not rule his thinking. He had nowhere to run, no way to escape this place except through the same agency that had brought him here.

Besides, he reasoned with himself as he backed slowly away, compared to Anheliaa or Mheric, this creature's touch was exemplary, and the ley had never threatened him, had, in fact, welcomed him with its cool-warm touch at both Rhomatum and Barsitum. Had, in fact, saved his life.

This creature was, he had to believe, responsible for the unnatural calm that had held him steady for her examina- tion. Anheliaa had used her own desires to manipulate his thinking, he and Deymorin affected one another even with- out consciously willing it. It seemed reasonable to assume that these creatures, made of the ley itself, might project eminently more compelling desires.

And yet, it was difficult to find threat in either being.

These creatures. He was increasingly certain this was not Rhomatum. But if not Rhomatum, where. . . ?

He'd been on a cross-ley road about halfway between Khoratum and Giephaetum. If each node had oneor moreof these creatures beneath it, wouldn't Giephaetum have "spoken" sooner?

They'd crossed the Orenum line, but the Orenum Node itself was quite distant, far to the north.

Khoratum...?

{How clever you are . . .} The thought drifted into his mind and the creature floated up to him again, cautiously, or so it seemed, examining his face. Her fingertip, a talon every bit as sharp as Anheliaa's honed nails, traced his jaw. And again, foolishly, he felt no desire to avoid that touch.

But it was a feather's gentle caress, not Anheliaa's vi- cious torment.

A slow smile split her undeniably beautiful, though ut- terly inhuman, face. "Ah, darling, I did a good job on you."

"Job?" He blinked, wondering what she meant.

She disappeared. A finger traced his backbone, followed the handful of near-invisible scars remaining from the terri- ble burns he only half-recalled.

"I told them there'd be scars-s-s-s-s." And with that came the first hint of the sibilant hiss he associated with the Rho- matum creature's speech.

The webbed fingers smoothed his shoulders and down his ribs. "Skinny, child. Chickens. You must eat more chickens." And absently: "Did you bring one for your mother? She grows thin with hunger these days-s-s-s."

Delicate fingers cupped and caressed his buttocks, slid around his waist and down his flanks. He shifted. "Uh . . .

excuse me . . ."

Laughter, light as the breeze, full as a storm-fed gale, and she was back in front of him, her hands once again on his face, soothing, reassuring. Until . . .

"Ptah! Fuzz!" Her hands jerked away. "His doing, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Such a bother. Scrape it off it just comes back, scrape it off, it's back, scrape it off . . . I could fix that for you . . . again."

Her fingers entwined in his and she pulled him, with a child's eager delight, toward the nearest pool.

"Thank you, no." He tried to jerk free, and in the next instant discovered himself captive, his arm twisted behind his back, forcing him into her solid as stone body.

Anger. It permeated the air around him, and the ley- thium pulsed a deeper and deeper red. But he refused to be frightened. Neither she nor Rhomatum had given him any reason to believe his life was in danger from them.

Instead, he sought, and found, fascination within himself, just as he had beneath the Rhomandi hypogeum.

Slowlyin the face of that curiosity or perhaps in re- sponse to his indifference to her implied threatthe crea- ture relaxed. The stone clamping him regained the warm pliability of living flesh, and the red cooled, shifting to its former iridescence.

"Darling, don't fight Mother. Never fight Mother. She doesn't want to hurt her children, but when they fight, sometimes it's hard . . . so very hard . . ."

Her tongue flickered out again, touching his face, sooth- ing him with her strange fluttering kisses.

{Not so bad. You taste of him, but you temper his flavor.

Make him quite . . . quite palatable.) It was that other being she referenced, he slowly realized.

The one beneath Rhomatum.

{Of course, darling. You do hear me, don't you? And very well. Oh, you are clever. I'm not surprised he couldn't resist. But Mother found you first. Don't you remember?) Her thought tasted wistful. And he wished that he could make that sadness go away, but (Pain.) It was sensation born out of a memory as vivid as the day it had happened.

(Deymorin! Nikki!) His brothers' desperate situation. Near, in his head, yet far distant.

(A sense of being stretched, horizon to horizon.

(A snap (Light. Pain. Falling. Pain. Burning. Pain.

(Dying.

(Mother.

(And another face, green eyes framed in a cloud of shaded hair.) {Oh, we do remember! And did you bring your mother a chicken?) He was lying on the floor, curled on his side, so con- sumed with the memories, he had to check his own exposed flesh to convince himself he was not once again burning.

The creatureMotherwas squatting next to him, her bright eyes following his every move.

He pulled himself up, wrapped his arms around his knees, not yet ready to trust himself to stand. The remem- bered pain was gone, but his muscles were trembling.

Cramped.

From fighting memories.