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corded muscles of his throat. His lungs were afire; a red haze thickened before his eyes. The Negro leaned close, his thick lips spread in a lurid grimace that exposed yellow teeth filed to fang-like points. His hot breath, sickly-sweet with the effluvium of the drug, fanned Conan’s brow.
    The black’s face came closer still. Now the combatants swayed cheek to cheek, as the Kushite strove to reach Conan’s jugular vein with his fangs.
    Suddenly, Conan released his grip on the Negro’s wrists, planted his palms against the other’s chest, and shoved, as once, unaided, he had pushed against the spokes of the Wheel of Pain. His massive thews stood out in bold relief beneath the bronzen hide of his huge arms; for long years of toil at the Wheel had hardened them, as iron is hardened under the hammer of the smith.
    Amazement flickered across the black’s visage when, despite the enormous power of his own solid arms, he was slowly thrust away, until his fingers slipped off the corded muscles of his opponent’s neck. In that instant, Conan seized the black’s wrists again and, bending double, pulled the man over his back. The giant Negro flew over Conan’s shoulders to thud heavily against the packed earth.
    The Kushite regained his feet almost at once. But during that brief respite, Conan had sucked precious air into his starved lungs. Now the two circled warily, knees bent, legs spread, and clutching arms wide. Blood trickled down the Cimmerian’s chest from punctures in his throat made by the black’s sharpened nails. Sweat ran down his forehead and seeped, stinging, into his eyes. He shook his head, causing his matted mane to lift as he tried to shake the sweat away.
    Blood lust flamed in the black man’s eyes. Grinning his fanged smile, he sprang catlike at Conan. But the young Cimmerian was ready. He twisted lightly aside and, as his opponent flew past, brought one balled fist down on the nape of the other’s neck. Half stunned, the black fell to his knees, while the throng yelled hoarsely. Some shouted in amazement; others in anger, as they saw their wagers fade away. Still others roared encouragement; for never had they seen such a fight between an untried youth and a proven champion.
    Conan ignored the crowd. For him the world had narrowed to one Pit and one antagonist. As the lust to kill welled up within him, he hammered the dazed Negro again and again, smashing his nose into a smear of red and closing an eye with a swelling bruise.
    Then the black sprang back and, bending nearly double, hurled himself at his adversary. His bullet head slammed into Conan’s belly, driving the youth back against the boards that lined the wall of the Pit. The Negro’s partisans went wild with cries of “Junga! Junga!”
    As Junga closed with the Cimmerian, Conan seized one ebon arm. Ignoring the pain in his belly, he wrenched that arm behind its owner’s back and pulled up with all his might. The black screamed like a speared stallion as sinews tore from their moorings and the bone was twisted from its socket. He slumped to his knees, his dislocated arm hanging uselessly.
    Then Conan got his hands under the black’s armpits mid slammed his head into the wall of the Pit. The onlookers fell silent with tension; and in the silence they heard a sound like the snapping of a stick. Conan had broken the Negro’s neck. Swaying with exhaustion, Conan let the twitching body slide to the ground. He staggered away, bracing himself against the Pit wall, and gasped for air.
    The crowd went mad. Chieftains ripped off golden armlets and broaches and hurled them into the Pit, at Conan’s feet. But the weary Cimmerian ignored the glittering bounty. Just being alive was treasure enough for a Pit lighter.
    Toghrul lowered himself into the Pit and slapped Conan’s bruised and aching shoulders. The Hyrkanian grinned and gabbled incoherent praise while stooping to gather up the golden offerings.
    “Come, boy!” he said at last, his hands