'What about it?'

'It is sailing an identical course to that which destroyed it when it sank with the loss of 1, 500 lives. The gold . . .'

The ship is on a mountain. It cannot sink.'

The iceberg will pierce the side - a 300-foot gash. The Stone will create . . . the . . . ocean.'

Sarento's eyes lost their focus and his body slid to the stone. As his blood touched the glowing ground it hissed and bubbled, and a deep red stain was absorbed into the rock.

Shannow dropped his sword and stepped to the altar. Sarento's fingers had been scrabbling near a raised relief and when he pulled at it the top moved. Crossing to the other side, the Jerusalem Man pushed the gap wider, then reached inside. There were four spools of wire.

He dragged them free and scanned the circle. There were thirteen standing Stones and he ran to the first and looped the gold around the base.

Far above him, the ghost ship sped through the eldritch sea, while people danced and sang in the great ballrooms. One young couple walked out on to the deck. The iceberg loomed in to the night like a gargantuan tombstone.

'Isn't that incredible?' said the man.

'Yes.' They were joined by other revellers, who leaned over the wooden rail to watch the ice loom ever closer.

The ship ploughed on, sc.r.a.ping the side of the ice mountain. The revellers shrieked with laughter and leapt back as chunks of ice fell to the promenade.

Deep below decks came a shuddering jolt, and the ship trembled as if sliding over shingle.

'You don't think Sarento has taken Rebirth too far?' asked the girl.

'There's no danger,' the man a.s.sured her.

And the ship tilted.

Shannow had attached the gold to six of the monoliths when a growling rumble set the ground vibrating. The vast roof trembled and a foot-wide crack opened. Stalact.i.tes began to fall like giant spears and water streamed from the fissure above him. Shannow grabbed the wire and pulled it tight. Below him the ground glowed ever brighter. Two more monoliths were connected when the far wall of the cavern exploded outwards, as millions of tons of icy water cascaded down from the stricken t.i.tanic.

The lake swelled. Shannow ignored the chaos around him and struggled on; the spool he was carrying ran out, and he swiftly tied a second spool to the wire. Water swirled around his legs, making the stone surface slippery. Then four more monoliths were joined by the slender gold line, but now the lake had submerged the bridge and Shannow found himself wading through against the current. A stalact.i.te splashed into the water beside him, cracking against his arm and tearing loose the spool. Cursing, he dived below the water, his arms fanning out to retrieve it. He was forced to swim back to the last monolith and follow the wire down, then with the spool once more in his hand he struck out. The water was rising faster now, but he ignored the peril until he had completed the golden circle.

He could no longer feel the stone beneath his feet, but the fading glow could still be seen.

Water was now flooding the cavern and Shannow watched as the roof came steadily towards him.

He searched for a fissure through which he could climb, but there was no way out.

Sarento's body bobbed alongside him, face down, and he pushed it away. As the roof loomed directly above him, he was forced to turn on his back to keep his mouth above water.

As Batik pushed opened the door, sh.e.l.ls hammered into the frame and the h.e.l.lborn warrior dived through the doorway and rolled. Four guards turned their guns on him.

Madden came through a fraction of a second later, his pistol blazing; one guard went down, another was stung by a bullet across the forearm. The other two opened fire on Batik and a bullet seared through his side, while another riocheted from the marble floor to tear the flesh under his thigh. Despite his wounds Batik coolly returned the fire - his first bullet taking a guard under the chin and hurling him from his feet, his second hammering home into the last man's shoulder, spinning him. Madden finished the man with a shot to the head.

All around them red-robed priests were scurrying for safety as Batik grabbed Madden's outstretched arm and hauled himself to his feet.

Outside the huge double doors, Achnazzar lifted his dagger over the unconscious Donna.

'No!' screamed Batik and he and Madden fired simultaneously. Punched from his feet, Achnazzar landed hard on the upper steps and rolled to his stomach. He could feel blood filling his lungs. Clutching the knife he crawled towards the comatose victim, but as he raised it a giant black shadow loomed over him.

Talons as long as sabres ripped through his back. The knife fell from nerveless fingers and Achnazzar could not even scream as the taloned hand carried him towards the dreadful maw.

Batik limped to Donna and tried to lift her.

'Christ Almighty!' shouted Madden. Batik looked up to see that the demon, having finished with Achnazzar, was now reaching down once more. He c.o.c.ked his pistol and stood, straddling Donna.

The taloned fingers opened . . .

Batik fired and the hand jerked, but relentlessly came down once more. He threw his empty pistol aside and drew Griffin's weapon from his belt. As the fingers came within reach Batik leapt into the palm; his clothes burst into flame, but he ignored the agony as he held his gun two-handed and levelled it at the colossal face.

Eight hundred miles away, the created waters of the Adantic ocean streamed across the Blood Stone, draining its power, blurring its energy.

Batik fell through the now transparent fingers and plunged into the crowd below. Madden ran to him, beating at the flames on his clothing with bare hands. Incredibly, once they were extinguished, he found that Batik was still conscious. He helped him to his feet, and together they staggered back to the temple steps.

Above them the demon was fading fast and a strange sense of calm settled on Madden.

'It's over,' he told Batik.

'Not yet,' replied the h.e.l.lborn, as the angry crowd surged towards them.

Soon after midnight Griffin awoke. The house was empty and he knew diat Madden and Batik had set out to save his wife. Shame burned in him, swamping the pain from his wounds. He should have been out there with them.

He struggled to sit, ignoring the pull at the st.i.tches which Madden had experdy placed, and gazed from the window at the overgrown garden beyond. Never had Griffin felt so alone. He glanced down at his body and saw the wasted flesh; his shirt seemed voluminous now and his belt had needed an extra notch, which Madden had made with his hunting- knife. Anger surged, fuelled by frustration and helplessness. But he had nothing on which to vent his emotion and it turned inward as he saw again young Eric blasted from life in the doorway of their home. Tears brimmed and he blinked them away, swinging his head to focus his gaze on the garden. The trees should have been trimmed back, for their branches were spreading above the rose bushes and blocking the light needed for good blooms.

A shadow caught his eye - something had moved in the moonlight by the gate. Griffin scanned the area. Nothing. There were no lights in the house, and he knew he could not be seen. He waited, focusing his gaze on the gate and allowing his peripheral vision a chance to pick up movement. It was an old hunter's trick taught to him by Jimmy Burke many years before.

There! By the silver birch. A man was moving stealthily through the undergrowth. And there! Another crouched beside a holly tree.

Griffin's mouth was dry. He identified two other shapes as intruders and then cast his eyes about the darkened room for his pistol. But it was gone - Madden must have taken it. He lay back on the sofa and carefully eased himself to the floor, drawing his hunting-knife from its sheath. He was in no condition to fight one man - four might as well be four hundred!

Think, man!' he told himself. His eyes flicked around the room - where would they come in?

The window was open and that seemed the best bet, so slowly he moved on all fours to sit beneath the ledge. The exertion weakened him and he felt dizzy. He took a deep breath and leaned his head against the cold stone. Minutes pa.s.sed and his mind wandered. He had once hidden like this as a boy, when his father had been hunting him to deliver a thrashing. He couldn't remember what he had done, but he recalled vividly the sense of defeat within the excitement, knowing that he was only putting off the awful moment.

The window creaked. Griffin glanced up and saw a hand on the ledge.

With infinite care he eased himself into a crouch. A leg swung into sight, the booted foot almost grazing Griffin's shoulder, then the man was inside. Griffin rose to his feet, grabbing the long dark hair, and before the intruder could scream the hunting-knife sliced across his throat.

He began to struggle wildly and Griffin was thrown from him. The man fell to his knees, dropping his pistol. Griffin scooped it up and crawled back to the wall, waiting for the next man.

Across the room the first intruder had ceased to struggle. Griffin c.o.c.ked the pistol and closed his eyes to aid his hearing. Nothing moved . . .

He awoke with a start. His mind had drifted him into a dream and he blinked hard, scanning the room. How long had he been asleep? Seconds? Minutes?

And what had awakened him?

The pistol b.u.t.t was warm in his hand and slippery with sweat; he wiped his palm on his shirt and took up the gun once more. Outside he could hear the sound of distant chanting, and a red glow filled the room.

A man stepped inside from the door at the far wall and Griffin shot him twice. He stumbled and fell, then raised his pistol and a bullet smashed into the wall above Griffin's head. Holding his pistol two-handed, Griffin fired once more and the man fell dead. The room stank of cordite and smoke hung in the air. Griffin's ears rang, and he could hear nothing.

He pushed himself to his feet and risked a glance from the window. A man was running towards the house; Griffin's first shot missed him, but the second took him in the chest and he fell. The wagon-master wiped sweat from his eyes as he glanced up at the night sky.

. . . And saw the Devil looming above the house tops.

'My G.o.d!' he whispered.

'No, mine,' said a voice. Griffin did not turn.

'I wondered what had happened to you, Zedeki.'

'You are a hard man to kill, Mr Griffin.'

'I am surprised you did not just shoot me down?'

'I thought you might like to witness the last act in the drama. Watch his hand, Mr Griffin.

The next person you see will be your wife being carried to his mouth . . . then I will kill you.'

The Devil disappeared and Zedeki screamed. Griffin swung and fired and the bullet punched Zedeki back against the wall; his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, still gazing at the star-filled night sky.

Griffin sat down and watched the young man die.

Abaddon stood on the black marble balcony overlooking the temple steps, revelling in the appearance of his G.o.d, feeling his doubts swirling away from him like mist in the morning.

The sound of gunshots came from within the temple and the priests scattered. He saw Achnazzar hurled from his feet and devoured by the Devil. Then a dark-clad figure ran forward, the Devil's hand dropped and Abaddon screamed his triumph as the warrior was swept into his palm.

But the Devil disappeared and a pain clutched Abaddon's heart like fingers of fire. He screamed and fell back through the doorway, crawling to his bedside and the ivory-inlaid ebony box which lay there. He whispered the words of power, but the box did not open.

Pulling himself to his knees, he struggled for calm and pressed the hidden b.u.t.ton at the base. The lid sprang open and relief surged in him as his hands pulled clear the large oval Blood Stone. The pain in his chest eased slightly. He bunked and focused hit eyes on the stone - the red was fading, the black veins growing as he watched.

'No!' he whispered. Brown liver spots blossomed on his hands, and the skin began to wrinkle. He managed to get to his feet and drew a silver embossed pistol from a leather scabbard hanging at the bedside.

'Guard!' he yelled and a young man ran into the room.

'What is it, sire?'

Abaddon shot him through the head, then carried the Stone to the twitching body and held it under the pumping jet of blood coming from the man's brow. Yet still the power ebbed, the black veins spreading and joining.

'There is nothing you can do, Lawrence,' said Ruth. Abaddon dropped the Stone and sank down beside the guard's body.

'Help me, Ruthie.'

'I cannot. You should have died a long time ago.'

His hair glistened white and his face took on the look of worn leather. He no longer had the strength to sit and his body slumped to the floor. Ruth sat beside him, cradling his head in her lap.

'Why did you go away?' he whispered. 'It could all have been so different.' The flesh melted from his face and his lips moved in a last ragged whisper. 'I did love you,' he said.

'I know.'

His body fell back hi her arms and she could feel the bones beneath the skin, brittle and pointed. The skin peeled away and the bones crumbled to the floor.

On the steps of the temple, Batik swiftly reloaded his pistol and sat facing the crowd. The roar of rage died down and the mob fell back, staring at their painted hands and looking in confusion at their comrades. At the front of the crowd a man groaned and toppled forward and a friend knelt by him.

'He's dead,' said the man. Someone else in the crowd, feeling unwell, drew his Blood Stone from its pouch; it was blacker than sin. Another man died and the crowd backed away from the body. As other people checked their Stones, panic grew.

On the steps Madden helped Batik to his feet and they moved to Donna, ripping the silver bands from her body. She moaned and opened her eyes.

'Jacob?'

'It's all right. You're safe, girl.'

'Where is Con?'

'He's waiting for us. I'll take you to him.'

'And Eric?'

'We'll talk later. Take my hand.'

Below them the crowd was streaming away. Madden lifted Donna into his arms as a dark- haired young man approached him.

'G.o.d's greeting,' he said.

'Who are you?' asked Batik.

'Clophas. You do not know me, Batik, but I was at Sanctuary while you were there.'

'It seems a long time ago.'

'Yes, a lifetime. Can I help you with the lady?'

On the t.i.tanic, people fought with one another to climb the choked stairways and escape the rising water. The Mother Stone, unleashing all its energy, played its role to the full, tilting the ship to imitate the original disaster. Scores of Guardians, their wives and children slid below the foaming torrent, thrashing and screaming for a.s.sistance. None was offered.

Whereas in the disaster of 1912 a number of brave men had manned the pumps until the last minute, not one Guardian now had the knowledge to do the same. Where the original tragedy had been enacted during three hours, this t.i.tanic was sinking within minutes.

Bulkheads collapsed and hundreds died, dragged to their deaths by the seething ocean.

There was no escape. Many threw themselves from the upper decks, splashing into the sea below only to find themselves piercing the edge of the Stone's field of energy, and dropping through the water to hurtle down the mountain on to the jagged marble ruins of Atlantis.

Amaziga Archer and her son, Luke, struggled through the Smoking Lounge and on to the A-deck foyer. The water here was waist-deep and rising. Lifting Luke to her shoulder, she climbed through a shattered window and out on to the steeply tilted deck. Luke clung to her as she fought her way up towards the stern, rearing like a tower above the swelling sea.

Hooking her arm around a bra.s.s stanchion, she listened to the cries of the victims trapped below.

Slowly the dying ship slid under the waves. Cold water touched Amaziga's ankles ... it shimmered and faded.

The Mother Stone was finished, choked by the thin thread of gold and exhausted by the disaster it had created. The ship shuddered and the sea disappeared. Amaziga sat up and touched her clothes. They were dry. Looking around her, she saw that she lay on a rusted deck and twenty feet from her a male survivor struggled to his feet.