It should have slowed him… but the Terichik’s lunge carried it past Torngarsoak, and now Sedna’s lover was behind the beast, thundering through the ocean, every step rending sheets of ice that might have locked a freighter dead.

Ahk-lut turned to strike again, and as he did, Torngarsoak’s axe clove the air. Ahk-lut barely snaked his serpentine head out of the way in time.

The mass of Torngarsoak’s weapon carried considerable momentum. The Lord of the Hunt spun a little past his target. The Terichik lunged in, and Torngarsoak sprang back out of reach, his awful weight thundering like the detonation of thousand-pound bombs.

The two antagonists circled each other in the shallow sea, probing for openings, weaknesses, as the Gamers watched ashore, mouths open, silent and awestruck.

Torngarsoak swung back with the axe And let it fall, lunged forward, grasped the Terichik’s neck in both hands, and locked his furred legs around the scaly thickness of its body.

It hissed, it wiggled and writhed, it coiled about him and sought his face and throat with its teeth. Torngarsoak held on, and the two antagonists fell into the ocean together.

The Terichik gouged Torngarsoak’s face, fastened its teeth into his arm. The Lord of the Hunt screamed in pain, but never let go, and although blood — flowed from the wounds, the Adventurers saw the god’s fingers sink into the Terichik’s flesh.

With greater and more frantic exertions the monster struggled, but Sedna’s lover hung on. They rolled together onto the shore. Adventurers and Eskimos alike fled from their path, and the blackened skeleton of a hypersonic jet was smashed to ashes beneath them.

Finally Torngarsoak sat astride the Terichik, hands crushing out the monster’s life. The god threw his head back and laughed hugely, a terrible, primal laugh, the blood running down his face, down his arms, and into the distorted face of the Terichik.

The Terichik spasmed, and then, unexpectedly, began to shrink.

Torngarsoak stood up, shaking the blood from his face, and walked out into the surf. He recovered his axe, and turned, watched as the Terichik continued to shrink. Then he lifted his bloody hand in salute to them, turned, and walked straight out into the ocean.

Far beyond him, a wet black mass burst up through the ice. It was as big as the Terichik, too big to be bothered by bullets. Eviane was ready to fire anyway, before she recognized the face beneath dripping black locks.

Sedna smiled, and submerged. Torngarsoak kept walking until the ice rose above his head.

The Gamers walked toward the dead, shrinking Terichik. It fluxed, changing shape. It was only the size of an elephant now, and assuming the shape of a man-the shape of Ahk-lut.

And finally they stood around the still, naked corpse, the ravaged body of the dead Eskimo wizard. Just a man after all. A dead, defeated man.

For a moment there was stunned silence, and then the Eskimos, men, women, and children, emerged from hiding places around the battlefield, and gaped, and pointed, and (a few) screamed in triumph.

The five survivors formed a group hug and looked at each other. Dirty, grimy, exhausted, and-and ecstatic.

Then the lights came on, and the Game was over.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

CONFESSIONS

Griffin felt sick. He wanted nothing more than to smash or bury the sorry object in front of him, but he had to deal with it, had to question it. He had no idea what he would do with it afterward.

“All right, ‘Hippogryph.’ How much did they pay you?”

With immense effort, Marty looked up. For the first time in many hours, his eyes focused; for the first time, there were tears. “Griff? I don’t understand. I’m dead. She shot me-”

“She had the right!”

Marty waved it off. “Griff. Where did she get the bullets?”

Griffin turned away. Vail said, “You got caught.”

“Caught.”

“Here.” Vail set his tape going. He was still brisk, and it jarred.

Marty’s wobbly eyes found the right screen. He watched himself and Charlene in the ice cave… brow furrowed, indignation trying to surface…

Harmony’s attitude seemed to vary: vindication, anger, and apprehensive nausea. Sandy Khresla and Tom Izumi showed barely suppressed rage. Dwight Welles wore an air of almost academic speculation. He doesn’t care enough, Griffin thought.

Vail was enjoying the vivisection enough for all of them. “Watch the graphs. You told Charlene Dula you’d never seen Eviane before, here. Your blood pressure and pulse rate and skin conductivity all jumped, see? You didn’t just lie, you were nervous about lying.”

“So you… killed me? Made magic?” Marty looked around the interrogation room and knew that there was no hope. He sat on the edge of his chair, his arms hugging his belly, holding himself in. The muscle structure might have been poured into his skin with no concern for rigidity or function.