Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd

warlord’s plaything until he tired of her, or until the end of her life, and those two events might coincide closely.
    There had to be a way out of here. No self-respecting wacko would leave himself without an escape route.
    He’d placed the tent high on a platform against a cliff. Warlord was too canny to have done that by accident.
    She lifted the heavy tapestry that covered the back wall, and examined the weather-resistant tent fabric.
    There.
    A seam snaked up from the floor to a spot about halfway up the wall. Karen knelt and ran her fingers along the length. The work was done as an afterthought, the seam basted together by clear, strong nylon thread. She tried to tear it—impossible. A knife, something sharp . . . She ran to the holster strapped to one of the uprights on the headboard.
    Empty.
    Glancing around, she grabbed a gold-plated serving tray off the table and used the edge to saw through the thread above the knot, then slipped the stitching free. She spread the material and looked out.
    As she suspected, the platform jutted out a few inches beyond the tent, and just beyond in the cliff she saw the beginning of a path that wound into the mountains.
    Yet . . . she looked down. The path was six feet from the platform, and the drop was twenty feet onto sharp rocks—a fall guaranteed to break her bones.
    Warlord couldn’t jump that. Could he? He had to have some sort of temporary bridge. She knelt and groped under the platform, looking for something to span the distance.
    Nothing.
    She glanced inside the tent for a loose board that would hold her weight.
    Nothing.
    She didn’t dare wait any longer.
    Mingma would be back soon to try to convince Karen to dress in the harem clothes and play the coy maiden to Warlord’s conquering warrior.
    Bullshit.
    Karen wouldn’t do it.
    Again she measured the span with her gaze. She stood on the edge—and almost jumped.
    But like a sliver of glass, some sharp, bright thought cut her concentration.
    The icon. She had to take the icon.
    And her coat, of course. It was stupid to think of escaping into the Himalayas, even in the summer, without a coat.
    Hurrying to the camouflage parka, she slipped her arms into the sleeves and belted it around her waist. Irresistibly she slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out the icon.
    The Madonna stared solemnly at her.
    ‘‘I’ll save you,’’ Karen vowed, and walked back to the hole in the tent. She slipped through and stood there, the breeze lifting her hair. She stared at the lip of the path six feet away.
    She’d done a lot of climbing in her life. She’d jumped crevasses with raging streams below. She knew the length of her legs, and she knew her limits.
    From a standing start . . . this jump was impossible.
    She wrapped her arms around her waist and swallowed the bile that built in her throat.
    She would fall.
    She’d dreamed this a million times.
    She would be horribly hurt, crippled, her bones shattered, her internal organs bleeding uncontrollably.
    Her breath hitched, and her eyes filled with tears.
    She was being dramatic. She was a coward.
    But she was afraid .
    On the other hand, if she stayed here, she’d be the plaything of a monster.
    Jump.
    So she jumped.
    She stretched out like Superman, hands forward, trying in midair to propel herself onto the path.
    She missed. She landed with a bone-crunching thump on her face and chest. Her legs dangled, wheeling madly. She slipped. Grabbed at the grass. Caught herself. The clump of grass broke. She slipped again. She was going down. . . .
    Her foot found a rock lodged solidly beneath the overhang.
    One hand caught the branch of a shrub.
    She wanted to scramble up.
    She forced herself to slow down, to balance herself, to concentrate. . . .
    Gradually she inched her stomach onto the path. She flung her leg up onto the ledge. She rolled . . . and she was safe. Safe.
    She took a long breath, the first one since she’d jumped.
    Safe? No way. Somehow, some way, Warlord would