“I’ll do whatever you want, if you just leave me alone.”

“Give me the key of your own will. Come here, place it in my hand.”

Of her own will, she thought. That was the trick. He couldn’t take it, even now. “If I give it to you, you’ll kill me.”

“If you don’t . . .” He let the threat lie unspoken. “But if you give it, put it from your hand into mine, I’ll spare your soul. Do you know what it is to live without a soul? To lie frozen and empty for millennia, while your . . . essence is alive and trapped and helpless? Will you risk that for something that has nothing to do with you?”

She took one step forward as if beaten. “Rowena and Pitte said you couldn’t spill our blood, but you did.”

“My power grows beyond them. Beyond all.” His pupils seemed to whirl with color as she took the next step. “The king is weak and foolish, hardly more than a mortal in his grief and pain. The war is nearly won. Today it’s finished, and I will rule. All who have fought against me, all who have sought to stop me will pay dearly. My world will be united again.”

“It’s pain that gives you power. And grief. Is that your soul?”

“Clever, for a mortal.” he acknowledged. “Dark will always smother the light. I choose its strength, and while those who strive to preserve that light are distracted in battle and politics, in diplomacy and rules of combat, I use the dark. So I am here and do as I will until it is done. What little you, or they, do to stop me is no more than a delay. Now the key.”

“You can’t have it.”

Rage exploded through him. She braced as he lifted a hand, prepared to try to duck the blow.

Brad leaped through the curtain of snow. She saw the glint of a knife, saw it strike, but couldn’t see where. She hurtled forward, then flew back again as Brad was flung out against her.

“You dare.”

She saw blood on Kane, bright red against the black. Then Brad shoved her behind him.

“Do you?” he countered. “Do you dare to fight a man, or can you only take on women?” Brad turned the knife in his hand.

“Or mortals,” Pitte said and moved through the snow. “Will you battle one of your own, Kane, power to power, god to god?”

“With pleasure.”

“Stay back, woman,” Pitte snapped at Rowena even as she moved to stand beside him.

“Yes.” Kane lifted his arm. “Back.”

A shock wave struck the air. Zoe was lifted off her feet to tumble through it. She landed hard on her back by the riverbank. Jarred, she rolled over painfully. She saw Brad a few feet away, his mouth bleeding as he crawled toward the knife that had flown out of his hand.

Nursing her throbbing arm, she pushed herself to her knees. She saw Rowena now, lying still, perhaps dead, in the dirty snow. Whatever force Kane had thrown out, Zoe realized, had been aimed at her.

Pitte was still on his feet, bleeding, battling. The air sparked and smoked with power, sizzled with light, streaks of dark, and a terrible sound of rending.

“Stay down,” Brad ordered, and he spat blood, gripped the knife.

Though he hurled himself at Kane, the wall of snow and mist repelled him. “Get to the Peak!” he shouted at Zoe. “Get it done.”

“There’s no time.” Dark smothers the light, she thought as she crawled toward Rowena. She could feel it weighing down, feel it winning. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed Rowena’s hand. It was so cold, but she felt the beat in the wrist.

A god could breathe, she thought. A god could die.

She gripped the hand frantically, looking back to where Pitte fell to one knee, spun, and avoided a killing blow by inches.

“Help me,” Zoe demanded. “Help me stop him.” She dragged Rowena’s head up from the snow, shook her while Brad battered against the wall.

If she could revive Rowena, and Rowena could add her power to Pitte’s, they could still win. Unwilling to use the snow that Kane had created, Zoe crawled to the river, dipped her hands in for water.

She saw the reflection in its surface, the young warrior goddess with her face. “Help me,” she said again, plunging her hand into the water.

And drawing out a sword.

It gleamed silver in the dull light, and in the wind that whistled over it, it sang. Power, clean as water, ran down its length.

Gripping the hilt in both hands, Zoe struggled to her feet. And hoisting the sword over her head, she charged. A warrior’s cry ripped from her throat—a sound not completely her own—had Kane spinning toward her.

There was a jolt, a kind of electric snap, as she burst through the wall. Sparks shot out from the shock of light. There were a thousand screams in her head, the singe of burning along her skin. As Kane threw up his arms to strike, she plunged the blade through his heart.

The ground heaved under her feet, and her arms shook from the sudden blast of cold. She saw his face change—the fury, the shock, even the fear drowning away as his eyes went red. His jaw lengthened, his cheeks hollowed as the illusion of beauty died.

His hair grayed and changed into thin coils, and as his lips peeled back she saw teeth as sharp as sabers.

Though she staggered from the strain, she kept her grip tight on the sword when he fell. Panting, she stood over him and watched a god die.

He faded into the mist, or it into him, until there was nothing but the shadow of him on the snow. Then the shadow melted and she stood holding a sword with its tip dug into the ground.

“Well fought, little mother.” His voice riddled with pain, Pitte knelt in front of her, took her hand and kissed her fingers. “I owe you more than my life.”

“Rowena . . . she’s hurt.”

“I’ll tend her.” With obvious effort, he got to his feet, then simply smiled when she held out the sword to him. “It belongs to you now,” he said and walked over to cradle his woman.

“Zoe.” His face smeared with blood, with smoke, Brad touched her hair, her cheek, then with a strangled sound wrapped his arms tight around her. “Zoe.”

“I’m all right. You’re hurt. Are you hurt? Simon.”

He tightened his hold as she tried to shove away. “Safe. I promise. I made sure he was safe before I came after you. Trust me.”

She let the sword drop to the ground and locked her arms around him. “With everything I’ve got.”