The night was huge above them, a vault of infinite crystal black in which the stars glittered in their frosty myriads and the Milky Way tumbled its bright mysterious cataract between the constellations. The pale disc of Amaris rode high, painting the city and the hills and the dead sea-floor with its cold ghostly light. And now Dannos was swinging rapidly out of the west, brightening the dark and casting weird double shadows that slowly writhed with its changing position. It was bitter chill. The wind blew and blew, hooting down the streets, banging signs and driving dead leaves and sand and bits of parchment before it. Alfric shivered, wishing for the rest of his clothes. In the waxing moonlight, he could see sand-devils whirling on the sea-bottom, a witches' dance--and on such a night, trolls and ghosts and the Fates themselves might well be abroad. He set his teeth against chattering and tried to fix his mind on real and desperately urgent problems. "The priests seemed able to trace us," he said. "At least, they knew where I went for lodging. Best we work toward the palace as you say, but look for a ruined house or some such place to hide in till morning." III The street below was deserted now. They jumped down to it and darted into the shadows on the other side. Slipping along the walls of buildings they followed its twisting length for some time. An occasional cloaked form passed silently by; otherwise there was only the bitter wind echoing hollowly along the tunnel-like streets. Of a sudden Alfric stiffened. He heard the measured tramp of feet--a city patrol approaching, just around the next corner. Whirling, he led the way into an alley black as a cave mouth. It was blind, but there was a door at the end, from behind which came the twanging of harps and the thin evil whine of desert flutes. A tavern--shelter, of a sort-- Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardsmen passed the alley--passed, stopped, and turned back. "They may be here," Alfric heard a voice. Cursing under his breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through, into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfric's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odor of shivash, and he noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow man scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged men of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives. Freha slammed the bolt down behind them, and Alfric brandished his great sword and said to them all: "Show us a way out." A fist beat on the door, a voice shouted: "Open, in the name of the Holy Temple!" "No way out," gasped the landlord. "There is always an exit to these dens," snapped Freha. "Show us, or we split your skull."