The girl said, "I promise you, you needn't worry for me; a warrior should not have to think of women, or fear for them. I'll await you at my own apartment." Burke groped. "Ariadne--" It was as if he hadn't spoken: "Remember, you have my promise. But if anything should go wrong, if I'm missing when you reach my quarters--Lord Dion, do you know the River of Amnissus?" "Yes, of course." "To its left, where it meets the sea, a headland rises. So, if fate decrees that I must flee from Knossos, you can expect to find me there." Her slim, soft arms were round his neck, then; her lips on his for a long, pulsing moment. When it ended, she was sobbing, her cheeks tear-streaked. "Dion ..." she choked. "Please my Lord Dion, come back to me! Without you--" She broke off; whirled and fled. For a long, long moment, Burke stared after her, straining his eyes against the black encroachment of the night. Then, abruptly, he dropped to one knee and set to looping one end of Daedalus' cord around the lamp-stand--tying it tight; tugging and testing it. Sound stirred behind him, a faint whisper. Burke bit down hard. "Damn you, Ariadne!" No answer. Another fragment of sound. A footstep. A footstep far too heavy to be Ariadne's. Burke went rigid; started to turn. Only before he could even bring his eyes up, something clouted him a terrific blow to the side of the head, so hard it knocked him clear off his feet and against the wall beside him. Desperately, he tried to roll clear, get his gun out. But his eyes blurred. His head rang. A sandaled foot kicked the Smith & Wesson out of his fumbling fingers before the weapon had hardly cleared his waistband. And now, a tremendous weight crashed down upon him. Blows rained to his face, his rib-cage, his belly. A knee drove for his groin. Cable-muscled fingers clutched his windpipe. Burke choked on his own tongue. The fingers cut off his breath. His head spun. His chest heaved--lungs aflame, convulsing in agony. Then spidery tendrils of blackness seeped into his brain. His will to fight ebbed. He felt himself drifting away, as on a swift-flowing stream that plunged into a cave's dark, swirling shadows. Cautiously, the fingers relaxed on his windpipe. Burke fought for breath in short, tremulous gasps. He didn't have the strength in him even to fill his lungs fully, let alone try to renew the battle. The fingers left his throat and fumbled at his wrists; then his ankles. Burke began to get better control of his breathing. Forcing himself to ignore his aching head and battered body, he pried his eyes open. Bull-necked Theseus squatted by his side, leering down at him. The Greek gripped the Smith & Wesson in one hand, and every line of his face and stance mirrored gloating triumph. Cold with rage--or was it partly panic?--Burke stared up at his captor. But when he tried to move his arms to lift himself, he found that they were bound together.