"Snick-snick-snick!" whispered the slender knife as Zantut continued the ceremonial whetting. "Christ on the mountain tops!" despaired Rankin. "Sharpen that knife and be done with it!" Rankin sighed, and relaxed as the diabolical whisper of steel against stone ceased, and Zantut, pacing about the altar, passed his hands and knife through each of the five streamers of violet flame. The Dark Prince would this time be victorious without even stepping from his throne. And this was the last chance.... From the depths came the ever-increasing volume of a beaten drum. "Abaddon in the darkness beats his black drum triumphantly!" intoned Zantut. And then he uttered a word of command, at which the assembled devil-worshipers knelt about the altar. Zantut, knife in hand, stepped forward. "Malik Taûs, Lord and Master, accept the sacrifice that Thy servants offer!" he intoned, timing his words so that the last syllable would be coincident with the final stroke of the gong. "Malik Taûs, the Night of Power is at hand. Malik Taûs, the broad moon rises----" "Halt!" commanded a voice that rang like sword against sword. Zantut whirled about, knife in hand. The adepts leaped to their feet. Ismeddin, sword in one hand, torch in the other, stood in the entrance. Following him came the Shareef. "Holy darvish! Oh, son of many pigs!" roared the Shareef, and opened fire with his pistol. But the old man's rage was too much for his aim. "Steady, uncle!" snapped Ismeddin. "You'll hit the girl!" Zantut and his followers charged, swords drawn. Ismeddin dashed his blade to the floor, drew from his _djellab_ a slim tube the length of his forearm, and touched it with his torch. The fuse sputtered ... and then a cascade of sparks and flame. "There is neither might nor majesty save in Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!" thundered Ismeddin. "Out, sons of calamity!" And as he sprayed the devil-worshipers with his torrent of flame, he side-stepped to his right, flanking the howling, smoking, milling company of adepts, driving them toward the entrance of the vault. The devil-worshipers bolted, Zantut leading. The Shareef opened fire with his pistol. Ismeddin tossed aside the dead signal rocket and retrieved his blade. "_Allah Akbar!_" roared the Shareef as he dropped his emptied pistol, drew his sword, and carved his way into the fugitives, cutting them down as they fought their way up the stairs. Above the confusion and uproar of the slaughter, Ismeddin heard the clank of arms and the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, far above them. "If that's the guard," observed Ismeddin, as he paused to wipe on his _djellab_ the blood-drenched grip of his scimitar, "all is well. But if it's reinforcements for these sons of flat-nosed mothers, they'll regain their wits.... Drive hard, uncle!" And the two graybeards resumed the pursuit, slashing and hacking as they took the steps three at a leap.