But images of charring trousers, smoke, blisters, and fire, screaming, stubbornly filled her mind.

And as the day faded into stifling darkness, the thirst returned. Her blistered mind collapsed in on itself and her knees buckled. She dreamed of mountain lakes and crystalline streams…

…cool, refreshing water, a gentle current pushing her along. She floated on her back, then face down, then she finally dove under the surface. The soft, all-encompassing pressure of the water was like being wrapped in a thick blanket. But why am I so thirsty? she wondered suddenly. I'm swimming! But then it became hotter and hotter. Finally, as she swam within the aquamarine depths, it began to boil. Hot bubbles filled her vision and tickled her burning skin as she screamed in silence. Then she heard an alarm, high-pitched, almost like a scream…

"SCREE-EE-EE!!! Shee shee sherrrrrrrr shrrrt!" It was Scarab hovering over her face, flapping his wings frantically, the lapels of her coat grasped tightly in his little hands. Shalazan's mind was suddenly hammered with images of herself rolling around in the sand crying out, arms and legs thrashing about.

She rose to her feet, suddenly feeling the oppressive weight of the mid-morning sunshine pushing at her from all sides. She looked around, wondering at the flattened plain that now spread outward before her. Behind were the dunes she had traversed yesterday. She passed her clawed fingers through her hair and held her throbbing head, which was also abnormally hot. Her shoulder-length mane of wavy hair was messy and full of dusty tangles, grabbing at the slender digits like brambles.

Scarab took his place on her shoulder, for from now on there would be no shade to shelter him from the sun. He put his small muzzle in the mass of hair behind her jaw. They sighed almost in unison, though for vastly different reasons, before Shalazan continued on her way. She stumbled as she went, somehow unable to walk in a straight line. They would have to find an end to this desert sometime, but she seriously wondered if they had somehow landed in the middle of the Sahara.

The hours passed on into delirium. When Scarab had begun to collapse on his return-flight from even brief scouting missions, Shalazan would approach the little creature, pick him up by a wing or foot, drape him over her shoulder, and continue on. Finally, she no longer sent him into the sky.

Long before the hallucinations came, she had forgotten what had happened before. Her desperate craving for water became as incomprehensible as her determination not to stop. She knew not why they traveled, nor where to, or even where from for that matter. They lost all sense of "I," or "we." To Shalazan Scarab had become that little black weight that lay over her shoulder like a shiny, leather stole. And Scarab thought of himself as floating on a shifting, jerky cloud; he had no energy to find a more comfortable one.

He did however make the effort to return when Shalazan began to strip.

She did not understand the purpose for this long, heavy wad of clothing called a trench coat. All she knew was a large, weighty creature had draped itself across her back. Growling, she slid out of its grasp, and off came the long coat, which sent poor Scarab tumbling through the air before he could right himself and clumsily return to his perch. Then she became distracted by a large brown python until, distantly, she remembered: That's right, I have a tail… and suddenly it was of no consequence. Her weaponry (all of which were heavy and metallic, conducting the heat with horrific faithfulness) came off. Off came the two big black caimans (her calf-high boots), who apparently liked the taste of her feet and legs. Off with the black shirt. The tank-top underneath and the trousers remained, for by that time she was utterly exhausted, staring weakly at the small, translucent creatures swimming leisurely before her eyes.

On her knees, she swayed, hands lying palms-up on the ground. From deep within her subconscious came a voice that manifested itself as a smoky green face with a bulbous nose and pointy ears; it instructed her to rise and continue on. Why? came her weak reply, left unspoken while her cracked and bleeding lips barely parted, her tongue thick and swollen within her mouth. But true argument was beyond her capabilities anyway. She rose like a marionette, limbs feeling weighty, arms swinging like pendulums. Scarab moaned, sickened by the motion, but Shalazan paid no heed, for all of her energy and concentration had to be focused on that one task.

Shalazan and Scarab did not make it much further. She did not notice at first the dark blurriness encroaching on the edges of her vision, but by the time it registered it was far too late. On a very basic level she knew what was happening. Her tongue had long ago refused to peel away from the roof of her mouth, and she had ceased to argue. There was no point in moving it anyway, there was nothing to say and nothing to swallow; her salivary glands had "dried up."

Her last conscious thought was this: Water…

* * *

Her nightmares seemed to last an eternity between great blissful periods of abyssal darkness. These nightmares were filled with horror.

Once she had a dream that someone was trying to saw her arm off. Oddly, she realized, it was the arm that the hydra had bitten. More than once she thought detachedly that it must be hurting while she slept, so that in her dream it was bad enough to amputate. Scarab was in a rage and dive-bombed them, scratching and biting and stinging with his poisoned tail. She tried to fight too, but from the horizontal, as if she were lying on the floor, a bed, or perhaps even a table. It was hard on her back, whatever it was.

All of "them" were dressed in white, as if doctors in an insanity ward. She could never focus on the room to confirm whether she was; it was all she could do to focus on those people. Whatever; she was certain they were trying to saw her arm off. No! she screamed, don't take my arm! People looked at her in shock, then rushed forward yelling. Apparently Shalazan was not supposed to see all this.

Darkness came quickly, but seemed to end almost as fast.

She had another dream. The pain in her arm was dreadful, nausea probably from the medicine. But it was mostly her arm. Damn the arm, she felt almost betrayed by the pain. Or maybe it was something else? Somehow she knew it had something to do with her arm…

Someone told her they had had no choice, and that they were sorry. They were also out of their minds! My, how the tables have turned... Had she said that aloud, or had she merely thought it? There was an answer. Your arm, we had to. What are you talking about? I can still feel it, damn you…

Wait …!

NO!

Screaming. There was always the screaming. The feeling of falling, sometimes retching. And always, always, the men and women in white. They swarmed around her like an angry hive of bees; hovered over her like hummingbirds. They never treated her like a head case though, always… always… sympathetic.

What's wrong with me? she would wonder. Why can't I get up? She always felt paralyzed. They assured her that she should not be up. She had been very sick and needed the time to heal. Heal? No…I have to go…somewhere. But where did she have to go? She couldn't remember. I shouldn't be here… But where was "here?" Here? "Here" is a place called Serpent's Reach. Serpentss? Are you mocking me? I'll rip your armss off…

Arms. "Arm," in plural form. The nurse (a nurse! Ah yes, a nurse, not a shrink…) wore a pained expression, seemed about to cry. She left quickly.

What happened? What is it I have to remember? Ah, Scarab. What's going on? At least you're here, with me…

* * *

The first things she noticed were the sounds. Soft, shuffling noises; quiet, gentle voices, soothing voices; whimpering and moaning sometimes; the soft clatter of jars and bowls; slippers on the floor, approaching…

"I think she's coming around."

"Shh, give her time."

And the smells... Medicine. A… "Hospital!" she gasped, sitting bolt upright with her eyes ablaze.

"Easy, easy. You're okay." It was a kindly voice that spoke, belonging to a soft-eyed, middle-aged man. Beside him was a younger woman about Shalazan's age. "I remember you…" she murmured, staring at the nurse with her piercing, unblinking gaze. The woman broke eye contact and studied something on the floor.

Presently, Scarab fluttered down onto her lap, making quiet, scratchy, whirring noises. His eyes glittered with joy, body squirming, practically hopping about. "Let's get going!" he seemed to say.

She smirked and reached forward to scratch his cheeks, chin, the wiry crest running down his neck, but only one arm moved. It hurts… Eyeing it, she hissed, eyes burning once more. She took a deep breath. "So it wasn't a dream," she murmured, putting her hand to the lonely shoulder.

The man responded, "No." It was a wasted comment.

She bowed her head for a moment, eyes shut tight. She didn't cry. What would be the point? But she clenched her fist and took several steadying breaths. The feeling of desolation was suddenly heavier than the weight of the world.

"Tchirrr." Scarab nosed his way past the curtain of brown hair. He peeked up at her and glared disdainfully. His thoughts went clearly: and this is supposed to keep you down?

What kind of assassin has but one arm? An assassin can blend in with the night, carries weapons the average man couldn't dream up, and… Wait. That technology… She looked up and stared at him. Why should this keep me down? I'll just attach a new arm, a cybernetic one!