LITMIR.BIZ

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what?"

      She made no reply. He subsided into gloomy silence, watching the great column of water that gushed from the jaws of the huge stone lion at the far end of the pool. The water, smooth as a steel pillar, fell with surprisingly little sound.

      But while he gazed, it changed. The smoothness was broken. Bubbles flashed, and then the flow ceased altogether while a huge bubble glistened, billowed and broke. Something white and shining and large as a man shot with a small splash into the pool. The column of water crashed instantly back.

      A webbed hand holding a silkwrapped package rose suddenly from the black water. An amphimorph!

      Evanie seized the bundle, crammed it beneath an Urban cape at her side.

      "Quick!" she said tensely. "Stand here beside me, Tom, so we'll block the scanner."

      He obeyed wonderingly. A queer low coo came from Evanie's lips. The black waters parted again and he glimpsed the tiny round mouth and horrible face of the creature in the pool. It flopped to the bank, scuttled desperately along into the bushes. He saw it raise the lid of a manhole of a storm–sewer, and it was gone.

      Pale and trembling Evanie sank down on the bank, her bronzed legs dangling toward the water.

      "If only we weren't seen!" she whispered.

      "How the devil did that thing get here?" Connor demanded.

      "It rode a bubble down the water tunnel from the mountains, fifty miles. An amphimorph doesn't need much air. A big bubble will last."

      "But—"

      "Don't ask me how it found the maze of mains in Urbs. I don't know. I only know they have queer instinctive ways of getting where they want to go. Now it's gone into the storm–sewer. It will find its way to the Canal and so up rivers to its mountains."

      "But what was that it brought, and from whom?"

      "From King Orm."

      "From whom?" he persisted.

      "Tom," she said quietly, "I'm not going to tell you."

      "What was in that package, Evanie?"

      "I won't tell you that, either." She threw the cape over her arm, concealing the package. "I can't trust you, Tom. You and I are enemies."

      She backed away at his anger.

      "Tom, please! You promised to help me escape, didn't you?"

      "All right," he yielded dully. "Evanie, I sought you out here because I wanted to end this misunderstanding. Please give me a chance to convince you I love you!"

      He held out his arms to her. She backed another step.

      "I won't come near you, Tom. I won't trust myself in your arms. I'm afraid of you, and I'm afraid of myself. You're strong—too strong for me physically, and perhaps too strong otherwise. You wakened my love once. I dare not chance it again."

      "Oh, Evanie! Now of all times, when I need you!"

      "Need me?" A queer expression flickered over her face. "So the Black Flame burns at last!" Her voice dropped to a murmur. "I'm sorry for you, Tom. I'm sorry for anyone who loves her, because she's utterly heartless. But I can't come near you. I don't dare!"

      She turned and darted suddenly into the Palace, leaving him to stare hopelessly after, and then to follow slowly.

      He slept little that night. Restless, tortured hours were filled with dreams of Margaret of Urbs and the sound of her laughter. He arose early and wandered dully from his room.

      The halls were crowded with arriving Immortals, among whom he stalked as silent and grave as them–selves. At last, tired of aimless wandering, he went into the shaded Gardens, and sat glumly down beside the pool.

      Far overhead Triangles drifted with muffled, throbbing roars, and a bird sang in the bushes. Deep in his own perturbed thoughts, he was startled when he heard his name spoken softly, almost timidly.

      "Tom."

      He looked up. Margaret of Urbs stood beside him, garbed in the most magnificent gown he had ever seen, golden and black, and concealing her tiny feet. Instead of the circlet of the previous evening, she wore now a coronet of scintillant brilliance, and the strange flower flamed at her waist.

      "Official robes," she said and smiled. "I preside this morning."

      She looked a little worn, he thought. There was a pallor on her cheeks, and a subdued air about her. Her smile, almost wistful, tore at him.

      "You didn't give me a chance to thank you for last night," he said.

      "Did you want to thank me? For—everything?"

      "No," he said stonily. "Not for everything."

      She dropped listlessly to the bench beside him.

      "I'm tired," she said wearily. "I didn't sleep well, and my head aches. That Grecian wine. I must see Martin Sair."

      "My head aches for other reasons," he said grimly. "I'm sorry, Tom."

      "Were you laughing at me last night?" he blazed. "No," she said gently. "No."

      "I don't believe you!"

      "No matter. Tom, I came here to tell you something." She paused and gazed steadily at him. "The Master will grant you immortality."

       "What?"

      She nodded. "He considers you worthy."

      "Worthy! What of the children of mine he was so anxious about?"

      "You're to have them first."

      He laughed bitterly. "Then I'll be old and feeble by the time I'm ready for immortality. Evanie has refused me—and I refuse him! I'll live my life out in my own way."

      "Think well of it first," she said slowly, and something in her voice caught him.

      "Now I know I won't accept," he flashed. "You begged him for it! Do you think I'd take favors of you?"

      "I didn't—" She was silent. After a moment she said, "Would you believe one statement of mine, Tom?"

      "Not one."

      At last his bitterness touched her. She flushed faintly. The old gleam of mockery shone for an instant.

      "You're right, of course," she snapped. "There's nothing real remaining of Margaret of Urbs. She's the Black Flame that burns on illusion's altar. You must never believe a single word of hers."

      "Nor do I!"

      "But will you believe one sentence if I swear it by something sacred to me? One thing, Tom?"

      "What's sacred to you? God? Honor? Not even yourself!"

      "By the one thing I love," she said steadily, "I swear I'm speaking the truth now. Will you believe me?"

      It was on his very tongue to say no. He was thoroughly surprised to hear himself mutter "Yes"—and mean it.

      "Then do you remember that day in the Triangle when I said I was going to commit suicide? I swear that is the only lie I've ever told you. Do you understand? The only lie!"

      She arose as he stared at her uncomprehendingly.

      "I want to be alone," she whispered. "I'm going to"—a brief, wistful smile—"my thinking room."

      Connor's brain was whirling. He did believe her. What of it? Evanie didn't love him. He knew that now. And he didn't love Evanie. And Margaret of Urbs—said she loved him! Could it be possible…

      A blinding light in his brain! The Black Flame—his! The unearthly beauty of her, the wild, untamed character, his to tame—if he could. The Satanic spirit, the fiery soul, all his for life. For life? For immortality, if he chose!

      An exultant shout burst from him and went echoing between the walls as he leaped to the Palace door, flung himself through.

      Memory of Evanie had

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