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around him, sweat pouring off him as though he’d run a league in full armor under a summer sun, he moved cautiously over to the high, barred window. He noted with a stab of relief that the bars were set in a framework that could be swung inward.
    The guards, not seeing their quarry, withdrew to the doorway and huddled there, whispering uneasily. Then, making the sign against demonic possession, they vanished into the smoke.
    With a gasp, Jezzil released the Casting and reached for the pin holding the barred window shut. When he had it open, he shoved a chest, already sparking and smoldering, into place beneath it and climbed up.
    Below him—far, far below him—lapped the waters of the moat. The Chonao remembered those half-seen shapes and nearly gagged with fear, but he knew this was his only way out. He could not possibly hold a Casting long enough enough to go back through that charnel house that held the bodies of his comrades—especially knowing in his soul that he belonged there with them—and down those steep stairs, and fight his way out through all those Taenarith. Where had they all come from? One of the raiding parties must have returned, he thought bitterly. Barus had said there was nothing to worry about. He’d been wrong—and had paid for his mistake with his life.
    The fabric of Jezzil’s tunic was beginning to smolder. He looked down again at the gray water. It was either the moat or go back into the next room, fall on his sword, and join his comrades.
    Jezzil shook his head, hating himself, knowing himself for a twice-damned coward. But by all the weapons in Arenar’s Arsenal, he wanted to live .
    Hearing a shout behind him, he sprang from the win-dowsill, launching himself into empty air.
    He was falling … falling …
    It seemed to Jezzil that all of time and yet no time had passed before he struck foul, chilly water. The shock of his landing drove the breath from his lungs. He thrashed desperately, swimming upward with all his strength, but his heavy sword and armor weighed him down.
    He gagged, fighting the water more fiercely than any enemy of flesh and blood, and knew, with a sudden, terrible clarity, that he was going to drown.
    Frantically, his fingers found clasps, buckles, and the heavy armor slipped from his shoulders. His lungs were bursting as he discarded the metal-studded kilt. Fortunately, his stolen footgear was loose enough so he could kick it off.
    With those burdens gone, Jezzil was able to kick upward, until his face broke water and he grabbed a quick, blessed breath before he sank once more.
    His sword—his fingers found his sword belt, just as his thrashing brought him up again. Another breath, longer, deeper, then the flame-edged darkness of the moat enclosed him again.
    He unbuckled the heavy sword belt, but hesitated. Abandon his sword to the dark water? He’d as soon leave an arm or a leg at the bottom.
    Jezzil drew his weapon, then let the heavy, metal-studded sword belt and the attached sheath go. Kicking hard, he swam back up to the surface, and this time he managed to stay there, though the sword dragged at his arm.
    Grasping the hilt, the Chonao warrior began a clumsy one-armed stroke-and-kick, his eyes fixed on the low stone wall that marked the other side of the moat.
    He was within a body span of touching it when an oily ripple in the flame-marked water announced the arrival of one of the moat’s rightful inhabitants.
    In the murky darkness of the water it was naught but a black-scaled shadow. The eyes gleamed fiercely from behind horn-studded ridges, golden and slit-pupiled. Jezzil estimated each of those eyes to be as large as his closed fist.
    The creature came straight for him, its mouth opening wide, wider …
    Jezzil fumbled, trying to concentrate, but this time his effort at Casting flickered like a guttering candle. He tried harder, fighting panic, and felt the Casting work—but he knew he could not hold it.
    The approaching behemoth swung its massive