Ptolemy's Gate

stand. The Amulet of Samarkand. . . Nathaniel knew very well what it could do. He had seen it repel the power of the demon Ramuthra; it could cope with a little Pestilence all right. What if he ran as hard as he could. . . ?
    He bit his lip. No—the distance to the plinth was much too great. He'd never be able to get to the Amulet before—
    It was not a sound that alerted him; the corridor behind his back was utterly silent. But an intuition, a sudden sharp foreboding that sent prickles along his spine, made him turn. The sight along the corridor knotted his stomach, made his knees weaken.
    With knife and fist, the mercenary had succeeded in dislodging all but one of the shadows; fragments of the others lay flopping on the floor around him. New shadows were still emerging from the stonework—one of them fired a blue pulse at the mercenary that knocked him momentarily against the wall, but he did not falter. Ignoring the shadow on his back that sought to throttle him, the mercenary stooped and kicked off first one boot, then the other. They struck the stones, lay on their side.
    The mercenary stepped away from the boots; instantly the shadows' interest in him receded. They flitted about the boots, sniffing and prodding with long fingers. The shadow on his back was distracted, it loosened its grip. A shrug of the back, a swing of the silver knife—where was the shadow now? Two pieces clawing for each other on the floor.
    As Nathaniel watched, the mercenary set off up the corridor toward him. He came implacably, but slowly; his cape was tattered, he walked in his socks. The ferocity of the shadows' assault seemed to have weakened him—his face was mauve with exertion; he limped, and coughed with each step.
    Nathaniel stood in the doorway, half in, half out of the treasure room. His head made frantic movements—side to side, green tiles to mercenary. He was sick with panic; he had nothing to decide but the method of his death.
    He steeled himself. One way, death was inevitable. The expression on the mercenary's face promised him pain. As for the other way . . .
    The cool glint of the Amulet shone on the plinth across the room, beckoning him over. It was so Jar. . . but the Pestilence would at least be quick.
    Nathaniel made his decision. He walked out of the door, away from the treasure room, toward the oncoming mercenary.
    The blue eyes bored into him. The man smiled. The knife rose.
    Nathaniel spun on his heels and sprinted back toward the door. He ignored the snarl of rage behind him, focused only straight ahead. It was crucial to pick up speed, hit the green tiles at maximum velocity. . .
    An explosion of pain in his shoulder; he cried out like an animal, stumbled, but ran on. Through the door, into the room; green tiles stretched out ahead—
    Limping footsteps right behind. A muttered cough.
    The tiles' edge. He sprang, leaped through the air as far as he could—
    Landed. Ran on.
    All about him, the hiss of a thousand serpents; yellow-green vapor rose from the tiles.
    Ahead was the plinth; treasures gleamed upon it. Gladstone's Staff, a jeweled glove, an ancient violin, stained with blood; goblets, swords, caskets, and tapestries. Nathaniel's eyes were fixed on the Amulet of Samarkand, juddering and jerking with the impact of each stride.
    Green vapor covered everything in a sallow veil. Nathaniel felt his skin sting—the stinging intensified, became a sudden desperate pain. He smelled a burning—
    A cough behind him. Something brushed his back.
    The plinth. His hand reached out, snatched up the necklace; tore it from its stand. He jumped, twisted, fell sprawling upon the plinth, sent jewels and wonders scattering, rolled across, dropped to the tiles on the other side. His eyes burned; he screwed them shut. His skin was afire; at a distance he heard a voice give a scream of agony—it was his own.
    Blindly he pulled the necklace over his neck, felt the Amulet of Samarkand brush against his chest—
    The pain was gone. His skin still burned, but it was a residual stinging, not an escalating torment, save in his shoulder, where it throbbed with sick intensity. He heard a whispering, opened one eye—saw the vapor coiling all about him, swirling, seeking out his flesh, but being drawn inexorably around and down, into the jade stone at the center of the Amulet.
    Nathaniel raised his head from where he lay. He could see the ceiling, the side of the plinth beside him, the vapor that filled the room. The view