Ptolemy's Gate

entwined itself around the mercenary's waist; an arm looped upon his throat. The man's head jerked back. He raised his knife, slashed out. The shadow moaned, but clung on tighter. A sickly blue radiance emerged from the shadow and enveloped the mercenary; he coughed and spat. Other shadows drifted from the walls and floor, wound themselves around the boots and trousers, grasped the flapping cloak. The mercenary slashed left and right; he tapped a heel—the seven-league boots took wing. In a single step he was away along the corridor, halting at a junction far ahead. But the blue glow hung about his head, the shadows clung to him like leeches, and still more came hurrying from the stones.
    Nathaniel leaned against the wall for support. It was the boots, of course: their aura had triggered the trap as soon as the mercenary entered the corridor. The shadows had immediately set upon their owner. Trouble was, it was a magical attack, and—as he knew from bitter experience—the mercenary's resilience to magic was huge.
    But their intervention had given him respite. The treasure vault was somewhere up ahead, past where the mercenary thrashed and struggled. There was no help for it. Clutching the silver disc gingerly (the edges were very sharp), Nathaniel stole along the corridor, past numerous doors, and side turnings, nearer and nearer to the junction.
    By now, so many of the shadows had poured themselves upon his enemy that Nathaniel could scarcely make him out. He was hidden amid a pile of writhing bodies. Their weight alone had forced him to his knees; occasionally his face, purple behind the beard and the choking radiance, came in sight. He seemed half throttled, but his knife still flashed about him. Curls of melting essence littered the floor like wood shavings.
    It's silver too, Nathaniel thought. The knife — they can't withstand it. Sooner or later he'll be free.
    This unpleasant knowledge spurred him on. He reached the junction; keeping the disc raised and his back to the wall, he rounded it, watching the combatants the whole time. Even as he did so, one shadow fell away, cut clean in two by a single blow. Nathaniel lingered no longer; he didn't have much time.
    Down the corridor, dead straight into the earth.There at the end: the steel door with the little grille—the entrance to the treasure vault.
    Nathaniel reached it at a run. He looked back the way he had come. Distant scuffles, gasps, unearthly moans. Forget the mercenary wow. What was he to do?
    He inspected the door. It was ordinary enough: the hatch with the viewing grille, a simple handle, no other marks or indentations. Might it contain a trap? It was possible; then again, the clerk had not mentioned one. A Pestilence guarded the treasures inside, he knew that much, but how was this triggered? Perhaps simply opening the door would set it going-----
    Nathaniel's hand hovered over the handle. Should he?
    He looked back over his shoulder. It was no good, he had to get the Staff. He was dead otherwise. He grasped the handle, turned, and pulled—
    Nothing happened. The door remained fast.
    Nathaniel cursed and let go. Locked somehow. . . He racked his brains. There seemed no obvious keyhole. Some magical hex-lock? If so, he'd never find the Charm.
    A foolish thought struck him. He turned the handle again. This time he pushed.
    Ah. The door swung open. Nathaniel let it swing. He held his breath. . .
    No Pestilence bubbled forth. Automatic lights, perhaps from some captive imp imprisoned in the ceiling of the treasure vault, switched on. Everything was as he had seen it two days before: the plinth of marble in the center, piled high with treasures; the otherwise empty room; the wide ring of olive-green floor tiles all around the plinth, stretching almost to the door.
    Nathaniel rubbed his chin. In all probability, if he stepped upon those green floor tiles, the Pestilence would rise up, and in seconds he would perish horribly. The idea was unappealing. But how could he bypass it? The ring of tiles was far too wide to jump, he had no means of climbing above them, and he could not fly....
    Indecision gripped him. He could not go back—the situation was too desperate, and Kitty was relying on him to succeed. But to enter the room was death. He had no means of defense; no Shield or Charm. . .
    His eyes fixed upon an object lying in the center of the distant plinth. A jade stone set in a delicate oval of pressed gold; it hung by a chain from a wooden