Needs must when the devil drives. Samlor’s great shoulders braced the pole
against the cliff face, not the shelving bottom. Foam echoed back from the rocks
and balanced the surge that had tried to sweep him inward with it. In that
moment of stasis, Samlor shot the punt forward another twenty feet. Then the
surf was on him again, his muscles flexing on the ten-foot pole as they
transferred the sea’s power to the rock, again and again.
Samlor had launched the punt at sunset. By now, he had no feeling for time nor
for the distance he had yet to struggle across to his once-glimpsed goal. He had
a pair of short oars lashed to the forward thwart, but they would have been
totally useless for keeping him off this hungry shore. Samlor was a strong man,
and determined; but the sea was stronger, and the fire in Samlor’s shoulders was
beginning to make him fear that the sea was more determined as well.
Instead of spewing back at him, the next wave continued to be drawn into the
rock. It became a long tongue, glowing with microorganisms. Samlor had reached
the tunnel mouth while he had barely enough consciousness to be aware of the
fact.
Even that was not the end of the struggle. The softer parts ofth& rock had been
worn away into edges that could have gobbled the skiff like a duckling caught by
a turtle. Samlor let the next surge carry him in to the depth of his pole. The
phosphorescence limned a line of bronze hand-holds set into the stone. The
powerful Cirdonian dropped his pole into the boat to snatch a grip with both