The darkness was complete. The air was warm and thick and still. Ward felt detached from his body, a brain floating in black embalming fluid, and the only sound was the thudding of his heart. The place smelled of dust and stone and dry antiquity, and something sinister he couldn't place. Death, he thought, remembering the figure on the face of the die. The meaning he had sought in it had not been death though. It had been deeper than that – he had needed to dive for it. Underground. Yes, that was it. He wondered if it was possible to make a mistake with the dice. Could they send you anywhere? To the bottom of the sea? To the moon? Into the centre of the earth? If he had had time to think about it he might have baulked at leaping through the ring. And now he was buried alive.

The other symbol had been the Donkey. As he had dived down through the layers of meaning he had found humility and poverty, and although these were close, they were not quite right. Further down he had found what he was looking for. Endurance.

At first he remained where he was, unmoving, listening, waiting for something to happen, for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness so he could begin to make out some detail of this place he was in. But nothing changed.

His first thought was that he was back in the cave on Eblis Island. For a while he reassured himself with this fantasy, though he knew deep down that it couldn't be true. This place didn't smell of the sea, and there had been a gentle rush of air through the cave. And the sea cave had been quiet, sure, but not as quiet as this.

His next thought was that he was somewhere beneath Bareheep, in the tunnels. But even down there you could hear things: running water, scurrying snokeys, distant echoes. Here there was nothing.

He knew he couldn't stand here forever, waiting for something to happen. He had to move.

He crouched down and felt the ground first, discovering that it was paved with large blocks of stone, upon which lay a blanket of fine dust that rose into the air under his searching fingers, making him cough. His coughs echoed away through what sounded like miles of empty halls and corridors, dissipating into the silence at some great distance. His last and most desperate hope: that he was in the dark space beneath the storeroom cellar on Devil's Island, dissolved like the echoes had. Whatever this place was it was enormous.

Fidelma had stirred in his pocket at the sound of his coughing. He thought momentarily of letting her out, then changed his mind. He might stand on her in the dark. And he had no idea what lived down here.

He stepped gingerly forward, his arms held out before him. His fingers soon found a stone wall. The stones were flat and regular. He felt along it and found a ledge at about the height of his chin. A shelf? He felt about on the shelf, hoping desperately for a lanthorn or some other source of light, and his fingers touched something that clacked faintly and rolled away. He relocated the clacking thing and lifted it off the shelf with both hands. It was about the size of a melon, smooth and hard and rounded. It was not heavy: he held it in the palm of one hand while he felt over it with the other.

Then he felt the teeth, and he dropped it with a cry.

Where do you think Ward is? Ridiculous answers only please.