The Tower of Bones by Frank P. Ryan

had provoked terrible consequences. Instead Alan now pressed it close against his oraculum. Immediately the pinpoint of light became bright as the sun, flooding the chamber through the substance of his fingers. It was pulsating fiercely in synchrony with his heartbeat. The cowled figures continued their chanting.
    The sense of power about him escalated. But what did it mean? He recalled the light he had once seen in the forest – the spirit guide that had spoken to him as Valéra lay dying. Like the succubus it had also talked about the True Believer. He recalled his own voice, filled with anguish and frustration, demanding answers from the spirit guide: ‘Where is this place?’
    It is all places and all times and therefore nowhere and timeless.To some it does not exist while to others it is the only reason for existing. But take care – for those of good heart are not the only True Believers.
    Oh, man! He was back among the riddles.
    The circle of figures had gathered more closely about him. Their chanting was louder. He sensed their hatred of him, but also their fear of him, or maybe of what it was that he was doing.
    He turned his attention back onto the crystal. His oraculum burst into a cataract of bright red flame. Immediately the focus shifted from the sphere to the absolute dead centre of the chamber, hovering in mid-air as a pulsating source of light and power. In its depths he perceived a wonderful motion, complex beyond easy meaning, as if worlds swirled and beckoned. Then it dissolved into an extraordinary kaleidoscope of waves and arabesques filling his senses before condensing once more to become a new focus of light immediately beneath his feet.
    Alan stared down to see that he was not standing on a paved floor as he had imagined, but within a pentagon of polished quartz. The light expanded to enclose his body, so he became the dead centre.
    A sense of panic grew in him, though he did his best to resist it. Through the oraculum he sensed change, powerful and terrifying. The sense of power, of danger, was escalating at a furious rate. He had to assume that this was the portal.
    ‘Shit!’
    What had the succubus said? Had any of her words been true?
    He had only moments to consider this. She had led him here – and here, he had no doubt, was the test she had talked about. Did she hope that he would die in the act of confrontation? Or did she hope he would pass the test and confront … confront what exactly?
    He sensed that what she had told him had been at least partially true. There was a safe way – a way of life. And there was another way – a way of death. The portal had registered his presence. The sands were running through the hourglass, only it might not be an hourglass at all, it might be a minute glass, or a glass that contained the remaining seconds of his life.
    While he was thinking, the light condensed once more to a pinpoint, where it paused for an instant before expanding to a glowing line. A perfect line, narrow as a razor-blade, which ran perpendicularly through the centre of the pentagon on the floor. Then the line retracted to the pinpoint again before reforming as a horizontal line. Again and again, it traced out lines, following the same perfect angles, until the centre was connected to five different points in space, all etched in brilliant white light. Then they all retracted in one instant to become the pinpoint focus again. This held, for a heartbeat. Suddenly it expanded into a blinding flare and when this faded he found himself standing at the centre of a glowing sphere.
    The sense of danger was awesome. This was the confrontation. A question was being asked of him …
    A riddle?
    The muscles of his back were freezing solid, as if ice had congealed deep within their fibres. He dropped the crystal, which was now inert. The confrontation was set: he faced the two immensities. Get it right and he would live; get it wrong and he was dead.

The Riddle of the Way
    Mo Grimstone sat in