The knife is colder than the forge air. Fear is a curious and aggravating thing. Sherlock can muse in a detached way that death and injury mean nothing in this part of Taxon, which is set up like some sort of hyperrealistic video game. But it is hyperrealistic. So is the knife. So is the primal terror of having something sharp pressed to one's eye.

"Yes, he says, holding still, "and no." He is not accustomed to having to hold very still. "Those are two questions. I do not imagine that this story has an ending, no. But I don't believe that's because you're playing a trick."

He lets that statement lie, not choosing to elaborate, because the only idea he has for leaving his predicament is something like Scheherazade's. Without breaking eye contact with Nuada he slowly raises his hand towards his face.

"Let me go, Prince Nuada," he says without rancor. "You'll better like my answer if I give it willing."