would have no protection, but the rest of his body was covered
with the flame-resistant fabric of the alien suit. Could he do it? There
was such a slight chance, and they were already pushing him onto that
mound, his hands tied. Ennar stooped, and bound his ankles, securing him
to the brush.

So fastened, they left him. The tribe ringed around the pyre at a safe
distance, Ennar and five other men approaching from different
directions, torches aflame. Ross watched those blazing knots thrust into
the brush and heard the crackle of the fire. His eyes, hard and
measuring, studied the flash of flame from dried brush to seasoned wood.

A tongue of yellow-red flame licked up at him. Ross hardly dared to
breathe as it wreathed about his foot, his hide fetters smoldering. The
insulation of the suit did not cut all the heat, but it allowed him to
stay put for the few seconds he needed to make his escape spectacular.

The flame had eaten through his foot bonds, and yet the burning
sensation on his feet and legs was no greater than it would have been
from the direct rays of a bright summer sun. Ross moistened his lips
with his tongue. The impact of heat on his hands and his face was
different. He leaned down, held his wrists to the flame, taking in
stoical silence the burns which freed him.

Then, as the fire curled up so that he seemed to stand in a frame of
writhing red banners, Ross leaped through that curtain, protecting his
bowed head with his arms as best he could. But to the onlookers it
seemed he passed unhurt through the heart of a roaring fire.

He kept his footing and stood facing that part of the tribal ring
directly before him. He heard a cry, perhaps of fear, and a blazing
torch flew through the air and struck his hip. Although he felt the
force of the blow, the burning bits of the head merely slid down his
thigh and leg, leaving no mark on the smooth blue fabric.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

Now the wizard capered before him, shaking his rattle to make a
deafening din. Ross struck out, slapping the sorcerer out of his path,
and stooped to pick up the smoldering brand which had been thrown at
him. Whirling it about his head, though every movement was torture to
his scorched hands, he set it flaming once more. Holding it in front of
him as a weapon, he stalked directly at the men and women before him.

The torch was a poor enough defense against spears and axes, but Ross
did not care--he put into this last gamble all the det