fear.

Fear would come later. For now, he was in a nightmare exis tence, a dreamworld from which there would be

no awakening.

The torchlight blinded him. He could see nothing but an occasional face-mouth leering, eyes gleefully staringilluminated

in the light, vanishing swiftly in the darkness, only to be replaced by another. He caught a glimpse of

the young woman who had lost the child, saw her face, grieved, pitying, afraid. She reached out her hand to him

as if she would have helped, but the priests shoved her brutally back.

The Temple of Belzor loomed in the distance. The stone structure had not been damaged in the fire,

apparently, only portions of the interior. A crowd had gathered on the broad expanse of grass in front of the

temple to watch a man in blue robes drive a large wooden pole into the ground. Other priests tossed faggots of

wood around the stake.

Many of Haven's citizens were assisting the priests to build the pyre. Some of the very same citizens, who had

only hours before jeered the priests, laughed at him and mocked him. Raistlin was not surprised. Here again was

evidence of the ugliness of mankind. Let them be subjugated, robbed, and hoodwinked by Belzor.He and his

followers deserved each other.

The priests and the mob hauled Raistlin down the street leading to the temple. They were very close to the

stake now, and where was Caramon? Where were Kit and Tanis? Suppose the priests had managed to intercept

them, waylay them? Suppose they were battling for their lives inside the fairgrounds, with no way to reach him?

Suppose-chilling thought-they

had seen that rescue was hopeless, had given up?

The mob picked up the chant, shouting, "Belzor! Belzor!" in an insane litany. Raistlin's hopes died, his fear

sprang horribly to life. Then a voice rang out over the wild chanting and the shrieks and laughter.

"Halt! What is the meaning of this?"

Raistlin lifted his head.

Sturm Brightblade stood in the center of the street, blocking the priests' way, standing betweenthe stake and its

victim. Illuminated by the light of many torches, Sturm was an impressive sight. He stood tall and unafraid, his long

mustaches bristling. His stern face was older than its years. He held naked steel in his hand; torchlight flared along

the blade as if the metal had caught fire.He was proud and fierce, calm and dignified, a fixed point in the center of

swirling turmoil.

The crowd hushed, from awe and respect. The priests in the vanguard halted, daunted by this young man who

was not a knight but who was made knightly by his demeanor, his stance, and his courage. Sturm seemed an

apparition, sprung from the legendary time of Huma. Uncertain and uneasy, the priests in front looked to the High

Priest in the back for orders.

"You fools!" the High Priest shouted at them in fury. "He's one man and alone! Knock him aside andkeep going!"

A rock sailed out from the midst of the watching mob, struck Sturm in the forehead.He clapped his hand over

the wound, staggered where he stood. Yet he did not leave his place in the road, nor didhe drop his sword. Blood

poured from his face, obliterating his vision in one eye. Lifting his sword, he advanced grimly on the priests.

The mob had tasted blood, they were eager for more, so long as it wasn't their own. Several ruffians ran from the

crowd, jumped on Sturm from from behind. Yelling and cursing, kicking and pummeling, the men bore him to the

ground.

The priests hustled their captive to the stake. Raistlin cast a glance at his friend. Sturm lay groaning in the

road, blood covered his torn clothing. And then the mob surged around Raistlin and he could see his friend no

more.

He had quite given up hope. Caramon and the others were not coming. The knowledge came to Raistlin that he

was going to die, die most horribly and painfully.

The wooden post thrust up from the center of the pile of wood, dry wood that snapped underfoot. The jutting

branches caught on Raistlin's robes, tearing the cloth as the priests shoved

him near the stake. Roughly they turned him around, so that he faced the crowd, which was all gleaming eyes and

gaping, hungry mouths. The dry wood was being doused with liquiddwarf spirits, by the smell of it. This was not the

priests' doing, but some of the more drunken revelers.