Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [79]
“And,” the demon added, “there is one other very real danger.”
He made the mistake of looking down, and stumbled. The ground is solid only when I perceive it to be. He forced himself to look ahead, to take his footing for granted. It took enough effort that for long minutes he could not respond to the demon’s warning, could only concentrate on his immediate physical need. When at last he felt sure of his balance once more, he asked him, “What?”
“Time is your enemy,” the demon warned him. “In the shadow of the real world its passage is easy enough to define; we still have the sun and the fae-tides to go by, as well as the actions of living creatures surrounding us. But what happens when we leave those things behind?” Even as he spoke, the walls about them seemed to grow mistier, less substantial, as if responding to his words. “Your perception will be our only timepiece, my friend. And human perception is notoriously subjective.”
“So what? Say my time-sense gets stretched out for a while, or whatever. What difference does that—”
And then he knew. He realized what the demon meant. The knowledge was a cold knot inside him, that clenched even tighter as he contemplated how easy it would be to fail in this arena, and what the cost would be.
His body still lay on the bed, helpless now that he had abandoned it. It would require certain things to maintain its viability, so that he might return to it. Air and energy, food and water ... how long could a body survive without some kind of liquid? It seemed to him that three days was the maximum, but perhaps that was only when it exerted itself. Was there a wider margin when flesh was thus suspended, requiring little maintenance to keep its minimal processes working?
Three days. Not measured by a clock, but by his own internal sense. Three days in the real world might seem to be minutes here, or an eternity. And once that time had passed, his body would wither and die, and the soul that it anchored would follow.
“I see you understand,” Karril said quietly.
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.” They were moving through a different kind of neighborhood now; the shadow houses were farther apart, the sinewy tree shapes more common. “So what should I do?”
“Only be careful. That’s all I know how to tell you. No other human has willingly gone where I’m about to take you. And those who went unwillingly ...” he shrugged stiffly. “They had other problems.”
He looked at Karril. “Tarrant never came here?”
For a moment the demon said nothing. “Not willingly,” he answered at last. Refusing to meet Damien’s eyes.
The demon turned toward an arching form, and motioned for Damien to follow. Sparks glittered overhead as they passed beneath what must have been a door frame, and over a smoky threshold. If being in the street had been disorienting, being inside this building was a thousand times more so. Damien had to stop for a moment to get his bearings, sorting out the path ahead from the lights and objects that bled in from adjoining rooms. There were people here, and their images seemed almost as solid as Damien’s own. “Self-perceptions,” Karril muttered, in answer to his unspoken question. They passed beneath a glowing disk incised with glittering lines—a quake-ward, it looked like—and then another, with