We reach it at last, the heat and smoke nearly suffocating. Utterly exhausted, head reeling from the sulfurous fumes, I see a level space leading to the brink of the caldera. A dozen feet below the crumbling edge, molten rock seethes and bubbles, sending occasional gouts of lava spurting upward. Already I’m baking at its proximity, sweat stinging every break in my flaming skin. Like back at the palace, pillars topped by more skulls – human, lizard, crocodile and knife-tooth – march along each sheer wall toward the brink, many of them toppled and broken. Here is the sacred place, where male children and other abominations of Gora are fed directly to her. Yet Brin pauses only briefly – this is hardly a suitable spot for catching one’s wind.
Beyond the cut the path resumes, a well-defined o
