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thousand similar yams, and they impress only weaklings and cowards.”
    Chadim paused before responding. “Of course you are right, Admiral.”
    “Enough of this—man your tiller and round to. We shall pass through Nehebku’s Noose before sunrise tomorrow.” The thump of Khertet’s boots faded aft-ward.
    Chadim exchanged a few words with the crew, but the Cimmerian could not make these out. He lay upon the uncomfortable wood of the crate, wondering about the “Noose” that Khertet had mentioned. Unlike Khertet, Conan believed most sailor’s tales of sea dangers. He had found elements of truth in most more often than not. It was tales of treasure that he doubted.
    While he pondered this mystery, the setting sun withdrew its light from the cargo hold. Conan tried to stay alert but found himself drifting in and out of a light doze. The constant, pounding throb from his ears and wounded calf finally wore him down. Eventually, his head drooped back against the top of the crate and his leaden eyelids closed. Moments later, he was snoring noisily, too tired to care about Khertet’s “Noose” or the violent jungle dreams.
    When he woke up, the hold was as dirk as a Stygian tomb. He peered through the grate, squinting, but he could see only the inky blackness of a cloudy night sky. Above decks, footfalls thudded against thick planking. The night watchmen were faithfully making their rounds.
    Conan’s head ached miserably, and he could not concentrate through the fog of pain that seemed to enfold his whole body. He shivered in spite of the muggy heat that permeated the hold, and thick beads of sweat ran from his brow, soaking the rags around his head and stinging his wounds. He recognized the signs of fever and knew he was in for a long, restless night. At least no other rats had troubled him thus far.
    Warm wind circulated through the grate, providing breathable air but doing little to ease his fever. The Mistress was again moving swiftly, if the rapidly slapping waves and creaking timbers were any indication. Little wonder that Khertet had insisted on this change of course. As a former admiral, he must have accumulated a wealth of information about the winds and currents of the waters near to his native Stygia.
    A familiar rasping sounded beyond the cargo hold’s door; Conan knew well the scrape of steel against whetstone. The sentry was sharpening his sword, a common enough way to avoid nodding off during long stretches of quiet guard duty. Sighing, Conan ground his teeth together, trying vainly to shut out the increasingly painful headache.
    Pallid light suddenly diffused the hold, causing Conan to stare through the grate at the sky. Like heavy curtains, the thick clouds had parted, unveiling the full moon. Its dull glow, more sallow than white, drew him in, transfixing his eyes. His gaze as vacuous and unblinking as those of a lotus dreamer’s, Conan watched in fascination as the moon grew, filling his entire field of vision like a bloated, pulsating orb.
    The loud rush of wind filled his throbbing ears, but he felt no air stirring his body. Grunting apprehensively, he squeezed his eyelids shut, but the image of that bright sphere had been indelibly etched into his brain. His hands began to tremble, and a violent shiver rippled through his body from head to toe. Squirming and twisting as much as the ropes would permit, Conan lifted his head and stared down at his trapped limbs, certain that a nasty fever was burning through him.
    The heavy cords seemed to tighten around him, digging into him until blood welled anew from dozens of abraded cuts. Another tremor shook him, and his skin began to itch, as if a thousand ants were crawling over him.
    In the dim moonlight, he watched in horrified fascination as thick white hair began to sprout from his sweat-drenched skin. It sprang out, creeping over him and tickling his flesh until he writhed and thrashed, forcing the rope deeper into his arms, legs, and torso. Only then