A dust devil whirled lazily in the heat, spinning in aimless gyrations.

Devils without ... devils within? He scuffed the dirt, watching the dust motes drift across the cave mouth--bright bits of sunlight curtaining the darkness...

Idly, he scuffed his way inside. Only a few steps, from there to here, and his mother would never know. The dirt he'd stirred swirled around him, and he blinked to clear his eyes.

He heard it before he saw it. Behind him, there came a whisper in the dirt, and the first of the incessant rattles began. The dried husk rasp was joined by another, and another.

The boy twisted slowly, his limbs unnaturally stiff. The day was so hot ... yet he'd never felt so frozen in his life. His heart started pounding in racing thuds within his chest.

He wasn't the only one who'd come inside to escape the heat. Gooseflesh danced across his skin as the rattling tempo increased.

Snakes, and more snakes. He'd scuffed his way into a nest...

The biggest snake was in the entrance now, blocking his way. Two smaller ones slithered toward him, and one slid over his shoe. He stood there, trying not to move ... trying not to do anything. Outside, beyond the snake guardian, another dust devil rose, swirled and died.

Like me. Eleven-year-old immortality vanished in an instant, as death rattled at his feet.

One was coiled up near his toes now. When he twitched, its coils tightened, and the head lifted into strike position...

Reason fled. He leapt for a dark gap in the rock, slid in a rain of snakes and dirt and ran for his life. Faster and faster, finding his way by feel alone, panic nipping at his heels with the sharp-fanged tension of a serpent's bite.

Down, through the dark, away...

He was moving far too fast, and he should have anticipated obstacles. But he was only a child, trying to outrun his monsters. When he tripped over the lamp, he never expected to fall ... and keep on falling.

There are things far worse than a serpent's bite...

Zeb was only half-listening, and Randy knew it. When Zeb's eyes strayed back to his computer screen, and he absently shoved another chocolate chip cookie in his mouth, Randy said darkly, "He deals in dirt."

Zeb choked on the cookie, coughed, swallowed, then looked at him through narrowed eyes. Randy Markington's words had conjured up all kinds of nefarious dealings, from drug-trafficking to pornography.

Not Randy's style.

Then Zeb noticed his expression. I've been had...

He returned Randy's amused look with a dubious frown, and another mouthful of cookie. "I'm not into soil science."

Randy grinned. "Right on the money--and lots of it. You wouldn't believe how lucrative dirt can be. In many parts of the world, pica is a way of life. People pay big for their exotic blends."

"Sounds illegal."

"It's not the legalities, so much as the potential for lawsuits. He needs you, Zeb. I've told him you freelance."

"Crock." Zeb turned several cookies over, searching for the one with the most chocolate bits.

"If growing all that mould in your homemade incubator isn't freelancing, what is?" Randy argued. "All he wants is a guarantee, that his 'mother-lode' isn't full of some weird fungus or bacteria. He doesn't want to kill his clients."

"How novel," Zeb said dryly. "A responsible scumbag." He held out the bag. "Sure you don't want one?"

Randy took a handful, but it didn't stop him from scowling. "I think you should trust my judgement. How the hell are we going to fund our little research projects if we don't take a risk?"

Zeb shook his head. "I said one, not ten. What's in it for you, anyway?"

"For us--and it's ten percent."

"This 'test' was your idea, wasn't it?" Zeb asked suspiciously.

Randy looked pointedly at Zeb's rundown living room. "Science isn't 'pure' any more, Sebastian. It's okay to make money at it."

"How would you know? Been consulting your oracle again?"

"Damned slander. You know it's 'Grimms Fairy Tales' or nothing." Randy grinned, and popped two cookies in his mouth. "Truth is, I don't know the first thing about 'science'. That's why we need you."

Zeb looked at the map once more, then up at the layered rock in the highway cut. When Randy had enthused over the find yesterday, then plopped the map on his coffee table with a dramatic, "It's up to you, Zeb," he'd felt a glimmer of excitement. By the time Randy had left, Zeb had been almost as enthusiastic about this venture as Randy himself. He'd tried to hide it, but Randy knew him too well. His whispered "I'll tell him you're 'in'," hadn't even seemed melodramatic, any more than his "Let me know as soon as you get back. I want to see it."

"You're in for ten percent and you haven't even seen your 'product'?"

Randy had frowned. "I'm the idea man--" he began.

Zeb gave a rude snort and went back to studying the map. "What's this one?" he asked, holding up a second piece of paper.

"Detailed instructions. He figured you might have trouble with 'X marks the spot'."

"Doesn't 'he' have a name?"

Randy clapped a hand on Zeb's shoulder. "'course he does," he said kindly. Then, without another word, he sniggered and strolled out the door.

Skulduggery. Pirates. Thieves. Zeb left the highway and followed a dirt track for what seemed like miles. Hell, it was miles. How had the man ever found his "motherlode" in the first place? A glance in the rearview mirror revealed only dust. Clouds of dust trailing behind him as far as he could see. How damned discreet.

He pulled to a stone-crunching halt as he realised he'd nearly overshot his mark. Once again, he studied the rocks overhead. Two big holes, behind what could have been a vulture's beak.

Charming. There was a comical rendering of a vulture's head on the print-out. At least Mr. X had a sense of humour. This had to be the place.

Feeling a little foolish, Zeb started pacing off the distance. He re-thought it, decided that he couldn't afford to make a mistake at this point, and retrieved the tape measure he'd tossed in the trunk.

He repeated his measurements five times, but there was no way around it. Cautiously, he yanked the tumbleweed out of the way, and rolled a mini boulder to one side. He peered into a gaping hole in the damned vulture's belly.

A cave. No one said anything about a cave.

Zeb rechecked the "detailed instructions" sheet.

Minor omission. Don't bother mentioning your "product" is underground.

If I were smart, I'd turn around right now...

But of course he wouldn't.

All I need now is another complication. Their last effort had nearly hung them all, and they were still trying to live down the notoriety. They needed to let things sit for a while, and wait for the dust to settle. How appropriate, Zeb thought wryly, wiping grit out of his eyes.

He squinted down at the map. "Non-involvement" might not be an option, now that he'd seen the map. He didn't know who the hell this Mr. X was, but he might not take too kindly to having his mother-lode revealed, without some kind of payback.

Dirt? Hardly seemed lucrative enough to worry about. Zeb was having a little trouble swallowing Randy's claims about pica.

Maybe it's really uranium, Zeb thought. Maybe Mr. X doesn't want to do the radioactive dirty work himself...

Excuses. If there were a uranium deposit, someone would have picked it up on an assay a while back.

Get your butt in there, scoop up some soil, and get out. Ten feet in, ten feet out. Easy. No reason to go any further...

Zeb scuffed through the dirt and watched warily for snakes. He hated the things. Years ago, when he was a kid, he'd been trapped in a cave, much like this one. He hadn't known he was visiting a snake den until he was surrounded. Terrified, he'd headed for the hills--which, in that case, had been synonymous with the bowels of the Earth.

It was a nearly forgotten memory: suppressed by time, delirium, and the horrifying events which had followed. He had only a dim recollection of that seventy-two-hour ordeal, and no memory at all of the rescue. All he knew for certain was that it had changed him--one of those formative events after which he could never be the same.

He'd been terrified of snakes ever since.

This little trek would have been easier with a flashlight. That hadn't been on his "detailed" instruction sheet, either.

He shook his head as he recalled Randy's expression. Bet he didn't know it was a cave. If he had, he would never have let me come alone...

Sending him out to do some boring dirt collection was one thing--a thing good ol' Randy no doubt wanted to avoid.

He'll casually "turn up", after I'm finished with the nitty-gritty...