"Everyone agrees that you are the world authority on Ugarite cuneiform script, Dr. Soureid."

Dr Lilah el Soureid studied the tablet with knotted brows, her right hand moving aimlessly about inn search of a pen or cigarette. "Good grief" she muttered, "will you look at that thing."

"We believe it represents Dagon, who was patron god of the city."

"It's certainly Dagon. Text looks like a pretty standard devotional. I'll go through it, of course. But you have to wonder, don't you? Half human, holding ears of corn, half fish."

"My own theory is that it represents the food supply, over which Dagon had total control."

"And the severed heads?"

"He also granted victory in war, Dr. Soureid."

"He's sure a cheery-looking fellow."

"Of course, no interpretation we make today can really tell us what the ancient people believed."

"Of course." Dr. Soureid's eyes lingered over the script. "Never fear, Mr. Feldham," she said at last, "I'll have the world's most authoritative translation for you in the morning."

Once Feldham was gone, she got up off the uncomfortable stool and wandered round until she found some coffee. Guy gave her the creeps. Then again, anyone with that mind of money who'd use it to sponsor a dig into the backwoods of Syria and fly in experts like her would have to be just a little creepy.

Like all really ancient things, the tablet seemed somehow incredibly real to her. It had lain deep in the earth for three millennia. We can't even make buildings that hold together for more than a decade, she thought. The tablet lay against the white laminated surface, surrounded by all of the accouterments of modern archeology. Truth be told, it was the face that disturbed her. Eyes, mouth and nose distorted into a grimace that seemed so... miserable, yet glad at the same time. Glad that he could share his suffering. It was a superb piece of craftsmanship.

But the little chisel marks below the sculpture held the real story.

"Dagon, creator of life and bringer of death," she read, "Spare us that we may serve thee." Yeah, pretty standard for the whole region pre-Christianity. They believed human beings had been created as slaves for the gods. "We bow to you and cut our hands to you and bring unto you our parents and children, the old and the young, and - who's there?"

She spun around, nearly tipping herself over, but the room was empty. She had been absolutely certain that Feldham was behind her, repeating her words in the faintest whisper. But the door was closed, the room empty. After an uneasy couple of moments, she turned back to the idol.

"You who salt the water, making it... undrinkable, you who salt the fields, making them barren-"

She was hearing something. Maybe a whisper of air through the ducting, or the rasp of her clothes because it seemed close. If it had been Feldham, he'd have to be pressed against her, whispering as he leaned over her shoulder staring at the hideous idol, whispering.

Dagon, who -

A chill raced down her spine. She could hear the voice in her head. For the first time in three thousand years, a mortal was hearing one of the lost tongues of Mesopotamia and she somehow understood each and every word.

Lord of thy life and thy death. Bow to me and cut thy hands to me and bleed to me -

Without thinking, she reached a trembling hand for her coffee mug, but her fingers, directed by a will not her own, closed on the diamond saw instead.