"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 7 - The Seventh Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

shivering uncontrollably. She and Hugh clung to each other for support, his arm saving her from
more than one sliding fall, her arm steadying him.

Halfway across, an eardrum-shattering crack split the ice, almost beneath their feet. A fur-covered
clawed hand and arm shot up from the gurgling water, tried to grab hold of Marit. She grappled for
the hilt of her sword.

Hugh the Hand stopped her.

"It's only a corpse," he said.

Marit, looking more closely, saw he was right. The arm was flaccid, sucked down by the current
almost immediately.

"The spell's ending," she said, irritated at herself. "We have to hurry."

She continued across. But a thin layer of water was now seeping over the ice, making it even more
slippery. Her feet slid out from underneath her. She grabbed at Hugh, but he, too, had lost his
footing. They both fell. Landing on her hands and knees, she stared into the horribly grinning
mouth and bulging eyes of a dead wolfen.

The black ice split right between her hands. The wolfen popped out, lunged straight at her.
Involuntarily, Marit shrank backward. Hugh the Hand caught hold of her.

"The ice is breaking apart," he yelled. "Hurry!"

They were at least two body lengths from the shoreline.

Marit scrambled toward the shore, crawling since she could not stand. Her arms and legs ached
with the cold; the pain was intense. Hugh the Hand slithered along beside her. His face was livid,
his jaw clenched so tight it resembled the ice. His eyes were wide and staring. For himтАФborn and
raised on a waterless worldтАФ drowning was the worst possible death imaginable. Terror had very
nearly robbed him of his senses.

They were close to the bank, close to safety.
The Labyrinth was intelligent evil, cunning malevolence. It permitted you to hope, let you imagine
that you could make it to safety.

Marit's numb hand clutched at a large rock, one of several lining the riverbank. She struggled to
grip it with unfeeling fingers, pull herself up.

The ice gave way beneath her. She plunged to her waist in frothing black water. Her hand slid off
the rock. The current was carrying her down . . .

A terrific boost from strong arms propelled Marit up and onto the bank. She landed hard, the breath
knocked from her body. She lay, gasping, until a gurgle and a wild yell caused her to turn around.

Standing precariously on an ice floe, Hugh clung with one hand to the trunk of a scrub tree growing
out of the bank. He had thrown her to safety, then managed to grab hold of the tree.