Dune: The Butlerian Jihad by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson Page A

Selim had already managed to survive longer than he had ever hoped, the outcome was by no means assured. What was he to do now?
    Beneath him, the worm made peculiar, agitated noises, an invertebrate sound beyond the loud whisper of hot sand. The weary beast shuddered, and a tremor ran down its sinuous body. Selim could smell flint and an overpowering aroma of spice. Friction-induced furnaces burned inside the worm’s gullet, like the depths of Sheol itself.
    As lemony dawn tinged the sky, the worm became more unruly and desperate. It thrashed about, trying to dig itself into the sand, but Selim wouldn’t permit that. The monster slammed its blunt head into a dune, smashing a dust spray into the air. The youth had to throw all of his body weight against the spear, digging into the raw, exposed worm segment.
    “You are as sore and exhausted as I am, aren’t you, Shaitan?” he said in a voice as thin and dry as paper. Almost exhausted unto death .
    Selim didn’t dare let go. The moment he dropped off onto the barren dunes, the sandworm would turn about and devour him. He had no choice but to keep driving the creature. The ordeal seemed endless.
    As daylight grew brighter, he noticed a faint haze on the far horizon, a distant storm with winds bearing flakes of sand and dust. But the disturbance was far away, and Selim had other concerns.
    At last, the demon worm ground itself to a halt not far from a ridge of rocks, and refused to move. With a final convulsion, it slumped its serpentine head onto a dune crest and lay like a slain dragon, quivering . . . then went utterly still.
    Selim trembled with absolute weariness, fearing this was some kind of final trick. The monster might be waiting for him to drop his guard so it could swallow him up. Could a sandworm be devious? Was it truly Shaitan? Or did I ride it to death?
    Gathering his energy, Selim straightened. His cramped muscles trembled. He could barely move. Joints were numb; nerves prickled as they awakened with the creeping fire of restored circulation. At last, risking all, he yanked the metal spear from the pink flesh between the callused segments.
    The worm didn’t even twitch.
    Selim slid down the rounded bulk and hit the sand running. His boots pumped up little dust clouds as he raced across the undulating landscape. The far-off rocks were black mounds of safety protruding from golden dunes.
    He refused to look behind him and ran on, gasping. Each breath was like dry fire in his throat. His ears tingled, anticipating the hiss of sand, the rippling approach of the vengeful creature. But the sandworm remained still.
    Filled with desperate energy, Selim sprinted for half a kilometer. Reaching the rock barricade, he scrambled up and finally allowed himself to collapse. Drawing his knees against his chest, he sat gazing out into the wash of daylight, watching the worm.
    It never moved. Is Shaitan playing a trick? Is Buddallah testing me?
    By now Selim was very, very hungry. He shouted at the sky, “If you have saved me for some purpose, then why not offer a bit of food?” In the extremity of his exhaustion, he began to chuckle.
    One does not make demands of God .
    Then he realized that there was food, of a sort. In his flight to the rock sanctuary, Selim had crossed a thick ochre patch of spice, veins of melange like those the Zensunni sometimes found when they ventured onto the sands. They gathered the substance, using it as a food additive and stimulant. Naib Dhartha kept a small stockpile within the cave warrens, occasionally brewing from it a potent spice beer, which the tribe members consumed on special occasions and traded at the Arrakis City spaceport.
    He sat in the uncertain shade for nearly an hour, looking for any sign of movement from the monster. Nothing. The day became hotter, and the desert lapsed into a sluggish silence. The distant storm seemed to move no closer. Selim felt as if the world itself was holding its breath.
    Then, growing brash