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pleasant companionship, reminiscence, and safety as the storm howled outside the gathering place. They were out of harm’s way here. The Roof of the World saw few humans in the best of times, and in the winter was invariably little visited.
    There was more to the gathering than mere camaraderie, however. More to the boasting of accomplishments than a desire simply to impress others of one’s kind. For the gathering and the telling constituted also a competition. For approval, surely, and for admiration, truly. But there was more at stake than that.
    There was the Chalice.
    It hung round Old Kurenskaya’s neck, suspended from a rope thick as a man’s arm woven of pure asbestos fibers. It was large for a human drinking utensil, tiny by the standards of the Kind. The great Berserker Jaggskrolm had taken the prize from the human Gunnar Rakeiennen in 1029, in a battle atop Mount Svodmaggen that had lasted for four days and rent the air with fire and fury. When all had done and the killer Rakeiennen lay dead, his fortress razed, his golden hoard taken, his women ravished (the great Jaggskrolm having been ritually mindful of the traditions), practically nothing remained unburned save the jewel-studded, golden chalice with which the most beauteous of Rakeiennen’s women had bought her freedom (not to mention saving herself from an exceedingly uncomfortable time).
    Ever since, it had been a symbol of dominance, of the most effective and best-applied skills of the Kind. Old Kurenskaya had won it during the last Tatar invasion of his homeland and had kept it ever since, having last been awarded it by acclamation (the only way it could be awarded) for his work among the humans during the purges and famines of the 1920s and ’30s. Admittedly, he’d had human help, but his fellows did not feel cheated. Such assistance was to be welcomed, and cleverly used. As Al-Methzan ras-Shindar had utilized recent events in the Middle East so effectively.
    It seemed truly that because of his most recent accomplishments, ras-Shindar had the inside track on securing the Chalice. Nhauantehotec had been working particularly hard, and the devastating achievements of skillful Mad Sunabaya of the Deep impressed all the assembled with their breadth and thoroughness. Despite his years, Old Kurenskaya wasn’t about to give up the Chalice without a fight, and it had to be admitted that his brief but critical presence at Chernobyl would go down as a hallmark accomplishment of the Kind in modern times.
    When at last all had concluded their recitative, and waited content and with satisfaction for the vote of acclamation, Old Kurenskaya was pleased. It had been a gathering free of discord, unlike some in the past, and had demonstrated conclusively that the Kind could not only survive but prosper in their efforts despite the technical exploits of their old enemy, humankind. He was elated, and ready. All, in fact, were anxious for the choosing, so they could be on their way. Though all had enjoyed the gathering, they preferred to keep to themselves, and by now were growing irritable.
    “If then each has stipulated and declaimed their deeds, and retold their tales, I will name names, and call for the choosing.” He raised a clawed forefoot to begin.
    Only to be interrupted.
    “Wait, please! I have not spoken.”
    Dire reptilian heads swiveled in the direction of the voice. It was so slight as to be barely intelligible, and those of the Kind with smaller hearing organs than their more floridly eared brethren had to strain to make out individual words. But it was one of them, no doubt of that, for it spoke in the secret and ancient language known only to the Kind.
    Something like a small, scaly hummingbird appeared in the air before Old Kurenskaya and hovered there almost noiselessly.
    “What is this?” Videprasa emitted a smoky burst of flame and laughter. “A bird has slipped in among us, to find safety from the storm, no doubt!”
    “No,” Cracuti