Her first glance at his face was a shock. His eyes were light--a true gold that shone like a wedding ring. His skin was reddened by the sun but obviously was usually very fair. His hair was black though, black as any midnight that had ever been, and grew past his shoulders. All his features -- eyes, ears, lips -- had an exotic upward tilt. Cyra had never seen anyone like him.

"Help me," he whispered again. His voice was weak, but he somehow did not seem pathetic.

"I am," she said quickly, and held the bottle to his lips, trying not to spill any of the fluid. She only had one more bottle and was still almost a hundred miles from where she needed to be.

"Thank you," the soft voice whispered when he was done swallowing. Then: "Who are you, pale stranger in the wasteland?"

"I'm Cyra Delphin," she answered, surprising herself.

"Delphin? Then you are of the sea fey." He nodded slowly. "But you are far from home."

"Huh? From where?" She shook her head. "I'm not from Santa Fe. I'm from Monterey. In California. Look, I think you've been out in the sun too long. I've got to get you to a doctor. Somehow."

The golden eyes looked at her, staring into the back of her skull where they rummaged around in her chaotic thoughts. Something touched the base of her brain and Cyra went into shock. The man didn't look dangerous. He was, in fact, rather waif-like. But something about him made her want to shiver, in spite of the heat. She wanted to shiver, but couldn't.

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" she asked, beginning to frown. A small headache was starting to pinch between her brows. She felt dizzy. Cyra quickly swigged some water.

"It doesn't matter now. I am sorry, daughter of the sea, but as they say needs must when the devil drives. I am Thomas Marrowbone, the quiet man." He drew a slow breath and then ordered: "Say my name. Now."

Her ears began to buzz and her heart to beat erratically.

"What?" she whispered. It was as thought adhesive had glued her mind shut and her eyes open, so that she was forced to see but could not comprehend.

"Say my name."

"Thomas Marrowbone," Cyra heard herself repeat obediently, rubbing at her temples where her brain seemed to be trying to escape the confines of her skull. It was pressure, like a storm-front, making the tympanic membrane throb.

"Thomas Marrowbone, the quiet man," he said again. Thomas also raised a shaking hand and began to rub his own temples.