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and the sword fell from her hand.
    Chavi grinned in satisfaction and triumph through the hideous mask of his brother's blood. He raised his sword for the fatal stroke.
    She watched that ascending blade, seeing her end on its keen edge. Yet, she was not ready to quit. Though her left hand was useless her right found Demonfang and jerked it from its silver sheath.
    A horrible shrieking rent the air, echoed through the inn, intense and demanding .
    Horrified, Frost realized the dagger was the source and nearly dropped it. Yet, Demonfang tingled in her hand, and her fingers curled more tightly around the hilt.
    So close to revenge, Chavi stared, frozen in fear of the sorcerous dagger. She saw his sword waver, his hand tremble.
    The Stranger's words rang in her head. It must taste blood. Either your enemy's or your own .
    Chavi's smooth chest offered itself to her. Her hand drew back, and she realized that, for fear of the blade, Chavi would make no move to save himself. Wide-eyed, he watched entranced as she plunged Demonfang through his heart.
    The dagger went abruptly silent. A moment of quiet, then Chavi's mouth opened. The same demonic shrieking issued from his lips as he crumpled to the floor.
    Frost gaped at the little weapon, trying not to panic. It had made her kill. And now the blade gleamed with a peculiar sheen even through the blood that stained it.
    Her first thought was to fling it away and run. But as the excitement of battle passed so did her fear. A witch's instinct and a warrior's reason took hold. The Stranger had given her the dagger for a purpose. Demonfang could not be abandoned. She returned it to its sheath.
    Demonfang. A fitting name, she thought.
    There was a groan. It seemed Than still lived. The innkeeper knelt by him, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his apron, no doubt from fear of what the governor would do if both sons died in his tavern.
    The old man, the original cause of all the trouble, was quickly at her side, handing back her sword, throwing her cloak over her shoulders.
    â€œWe'd better leave,” he whispered. “They have two more brothers and a father just as bad-tempered. We'll not get away without a chase."
    She made for the door, saying a farewell to thoughts of a soft bed. It would be the hard ground for her if she got any sleep at all this night.
    â€œWait!” shouted the innkeeper. “The damages..."
    Darkness had swallowed Shazad. A crowd had gathered in the street to investigate the disturbance. She pulled up her hood, searching for an opening through the mob. People pressed from all sides, assailing her with questions. Yet, no hands were laid on her for she was only a woman and her sword was hidden beneath her cloak. Frost knew she must get away, and quickly.
    Then, from up the street came the cries of frightened men and women. The sounds of panic and flight reached the crowd gathered at the Woeful Widow causing them to forget her. A fleeing throng poured around a corner, casting terrified backward glances.
    Eyes blazing, Ashur charged around the same corner, ebony horn alive with moonlight and stars, driving the frightened mob before.
    The old man whispered, “Don't worry, they see only a wild horse and fear being trampled—nothing more."
    The street emptied rapidly as the crowd sought safety from the rampaging animal. Ashur stopped long enough for her to swing up. Leaning close to his neck, she tangled her hands in the mane. The unicorn flew over the cobbled streets, sparks leaping from his hooves. Then, they were through the gates and Shazad faded behind.
    Breathless, she looked over her shoulder. The old man followed on one of the horses she'd seen tethered at the inn.
    Down the westward length of the Gargassi Plain they sped in full moonlight. Only slightly faster than a normal horse, Ashur's endurance was supernatural, and the little brown nag that carried the old man strove valiantly to keep the pace. Long into the night they rode without