It wasn't till he'd worked his way through half-a-dozen pitch-black chambers that two things dawned on him:
First, the solution to the problem of his scorched, seared wrists was oil; and such was available in the jars that flanked almost every lamp-stand.
Second, the quickest way to the Minotaur was to follow his nose. Once he'd located the source of the strange, acrid smell, odds were he'd also have found the monster.
Doused liberally with oil, Burke's wrists felt better. And it was no feat at all to choose his path by odor.
Yet time still seeped away ... he had a bare fifteen minutes left now, if his watch and calculations proved right.
How big could this cursed maze be?
Too big, apparently.
Then, just when despair was about to overtake him, a thin line of light gleamed far ahead.
A sheen of cold sweat came to Burke's palms. He moved forward more warily, more silently, than ever.
The light, it developed, shone from the crack beneath a door.