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Running.  Pounding feet, pounding heart, lungs bursting for air. And yet more running.  The wind was chilly, freezing his face – he didn’t stop, couldn’t, mustn’t.  He plunged headlong through narrow twisting streets pushing aside anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.  He couldn’t stop, had to push on.  He had to.  To stop was to die, and to die was unthinkable.  He ran on through the cold rain, sliding on slippery cobbles, with death at his heels, laughing at him.

That laugh.  It sent chills down his spine, that mad, giggling shriek winding its way through the city after him as he fled.  And the voice!  That gloating, mocking voice, promising death, whispering poison in his ears.  There was no doubt; if he stopped, it would be the last thing he did.

He rounded a corner, came to a four-way crossroads.  He panicked, felt his heart almost shattering his ribs.  In his mind he heard a rich, amused chuckle and a sigh, almost a moan.  Then that strange, throaty voice again.

“A choice!” it said with a giggle.  “Oh what to do, what to do, what to do?  Which way?  Quickly now, not much time left, you must choose!  Choose!  Eeeny … meeny … miney … moe!”

He twisted, flung himself down the leftmost road and collided with an old man who was pushing a handcart.  Old man, cart and cargo of apples went flying, but the runner didn’t give them a second glance, only winced at the pain where his shin struck the cart.  He couldn’t slow down, mustn’t slow down.  The old man picked up his apples, cursed youngsters everywhere and felt a sudden shiver, as if someone had walked over his grave – walked or ran.  He shook his head and went on his way.

The runner pressed on, completely lost now.  He looked around him as he went, cursing.  He’d gotten turned around somewhere.  He knew he was somewhere south of the Temple of Lorre, God of Mischief and Lies, because that was the general direction he’d been running in.  His legs ached with exertion; he hadn’t stopped moving since he’d slipped out the temple’s back door, his prize burning a hole in his pocket.  That had been fifteen minutes ago, but it felt like eons.  He ducked down an alleyway and pressed himself against a wall, panting.  Just a few seconds, that’s all.  He’d be safe if it was just a few seconds, surely.

A heap of dirty rags stirred by his feet and he jumped, ready to flee.  A hand emerged clutching a bottle, which was thrust at him expectantly.

“’rink?”

The runner shook his head and the pile shrugged.  The bottle disappeared to the noise of gurgling and slurping.  The runner rubbed his legs, willing his muscles to recover so he could set off.  He didn’t have much time, he could already feel the temperature dropping around him, freezing his breath in his throat.