A lone figure sat in a heavy throne at its head, a circled fire to one
side, an enormous leopard chained to an iron ring on the other. Six
doors stood silent at the back of the chamber.

"Hello Nieman," said the bald figure from its throne. The firelight
distorted his features, but the fat and sneering visage would have been
ugly in any light. He wore a mantle of crimson, edged in gold.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Not so fast," spoke the other calmly. "I am not a person to offend."

"I'm not afraid of you."

The mouth gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Do you know who I am?" He
twisted a ring around his fat finger with the opposite hand.

"I know what you're called," retorted Nieman, his anger growing. "The
ancients called you daemon. Religious fools say you're the Devil."

"And what do you say?" It turned the ring more quickly.

"That you don't exist. I am talking to myself." He looked to the row
of doors, tried to feel her presence among the stone. He stepped
toward the second in line.

"Stop!" cried the visage, which he ignored. He pulled open the door as
the great cat broke free of its chains and came after him. It rushed
and leapt full in his face. But he had turned; he caught it in mid-air
and hurled it against the wall. It gave a cry of pain and alarm,
crashed to the floor senseless, where he left it. He was tired of
killing.

"Fool!" cried the god. "Do you still doubt me?"

"The servant is real but the master a dream." He paid no further
attention as the visage dissolved into excrement. But the fire
remained.

The way before him was too dark to see, so he went back to the entrance
and pulled a torch from its mount just inside the arch. He returned to
the door, and looked inside.

He entered a shallow stone hallway which ended in a tight spiral of
stairs, leading downward. His torch was the only light. He descended
slowly, the way cramped and his legs tight and bleeding, and after
perhaps three hundred steps came upon a long catacomb, which he entered
from a recessed hole in its side. The way was thick with webs which he
brushed aside with is free hand, as he stepped out silently into the
endless row of tombs.

She had to be there, somewhere: the way the shadows played upon the
walls, the branching crypts and long row of stone caskets. The way his
shadow-self stalked behind him, so tall.

He walked a long way, silent but for the sounds of his moving, then
heard somet