The river slammed closed over Perun's head as if he'd fallen backwards through a window of clear, glassy ice.  

Slimy, slick cold that tasted of rotten wood and bitter weeds invaded his mouth and nose. For the crucial few moments in which he could have escaped what grabbed him, uncontrolled panic arrested his mind.  What felt like webbed claws had already found their way into his bootlaces and the seams of his trousers, using them to pull him along. Perun's muscled arms flailed uselessly in an attempt to grab onto something, anything, that would stop the powerful drag. The back of his shirt ripped open in several places as he was raked over pebbles, stones and river debris half-submerged in the mud of the shallows. 

Under the surface was just as dark as above it. Only the lights of Vyšehrad shimmered down through the water in vague, smeary swaths.

When his back lost touch with the mud and pebbles, Perun realised that whatever had caught him was dragging him away out of the shallows along the shore and into the deeper part of the river, where splintered, gnarled tree trunks, lost oars and the occasional dead animal floated past.  Out to the swiftly running part where, if he couldn't free himself and make it to the surface – or if one of those things crashed into him – he'd be deader than dead within a matter of seconds.

Through the panic clouding his mind flashed an even more powerful image: the small-time hoodlums, mere boys from the slums who fancied themselves gangsters, laughing at his demise. The Hammerfist, dead! Drowned in the Vltava! The grimy snotnoses shouted and pointed at their own scrawny chests that they were the one who'd personally done him in. He saw the little bastards drinking his brandy, squeezing his whores, selling his drugs and claiming his empire for themselves.

A murderous rage overrode the cold, the fear, the night and burned through his nerves like the forked bolts of lightning that danced in the sky above. He was Perun Hammerfist! And he wasn't about to let whatever had grabbed him do him in like an old, feeble dog going to his death without a whimper.

Perun began to struggle, kicking and twisting his legs and lower body like a man gone insane. Doubling over against the force of the moving water mass, he punched at the thing, landing fist after fist on it, beating it senseless. 

To no avail. The grip on his leg didn't loosen. 

The blade in his boot. Could he get to it and cut himself free? What about the pistol? Would it work underwater?

He fumbled at his belt, found the gun and pulled it out. But before he could even take aim, it was knocked from his hand by a powerful blow. The pistol flew into the darkness as shockwaves of pain rocketed up his arm. He struggled to keep his mouth shut, but the grunt of agony caused more precious air to escape through his nose. 

At that moment, lightning zig-zagged across the sky, showing how shockingly distant the surface of the river had become. 

In the split second in which the lightning bathed everything in a stark, white intensity -- as if a patrol beam had been turned on directly over his head -- Perun looked down and finally caught a glimpse of what had wrapped itself around his legs. And wasn't letting go.

Through the flecks of floating muck, decaying leaves and a few dirt-brown carp with their shock-wide eyes and thin, trailing moustaches, a monster with whitish-blue skin grinned up at him, showing off two rows of triangular shark teeth. Its hair was like long strips of black rags, floating wildly around its humanoid face. Its arms were thin, but long, the muscles standing out clearly from the bone underneath and its slim, webbed hands were capped with sharp, black claws that dug into Perun's trousers and boots. A thick, blue-scaled tail swirled and beat against the water. 

Perun stopped struggling. 

The light vanished as quickly as it had appeared, plunging the scene into darkness again. An angry clap of thunder followed on its heels, its echo distorted by the thickness of the water.  Perun and the monster sank faster and faster towards the bottom.

Rage was now washed away by a deep, existential fear, and Perun began fighting again. He reached out blindly to grab the monster's hair, but the few strands he was able to capture slipped through his fingers like wet algae. He used his fists -- his famous fists -- but it was like punching sand. He could feel the resistance of the muscles and flesh absorbing the blows, but they had no effect.  

The more Perun fought, the harder the monster clamped down until it felt like both of his legs were going to break.

And then -- nothing. 

The pressure was gone, as if it had never been there. Perun felt himself drift unanchored, suspended in the movement of the river for a few seconds. 

This time, he didn't make the same mistake. Kicking for where he thought the surface was, Perun raised his arms and cupped his hands to scoop water and swim, frog-like, as best he could. His chest was starting to ache from a lack of oxygen.

He managed two surges upwards before the monster's arms wrapped themselves around his chest from behind, pinning his arms to his sides in a grip that felt like iron bands.

Perun kicked in the darkness, his boots hitting river debris and passing fish.

Don't struggle, hissed a voice, directly into Perun's ear. It will only hurt more.

Perun's eyes shot open in fright, and he struggled even harder again the muscular arms that held him, squeezing out what little air he still had in his lungs.

Relax. Relax and breathe, hissed the voice again, in a soft, gentle tone as if it were lulling a worried child to sleep. Relax and breathe.

Perun had managed to keep his mouth closed, his face in an iron clench of resolve, since he'd gone under, but with the pressure the monster was putting on his rib cage, he realised he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. Breathing in a lungful of water was starting to become inevitable.

Breathe. You remember how. It wasn't that long ago.

The arms tightened their grip another notch and Perun felt himself going weak, the last lungful of air slowly bubbling out of his opening mouth.

His legs had gone numb and refused to obey, twitching when they should have been kicking. Red streaks and points of exploding red began to dance in front of his eyes and his hands . . . he couldn't feel his hands anymore.

Relax. You've died before. Remember. Remember how easy it is and breathe . . .

The words echoed into his ears, but they sounded hollow and distant, as if they were being spoken through a funnel.

But, no. This was wrong. 

He wasn't the one who was supposed to die, it was . . . it was . . . A fleeting image of Krovac drifted through Perun's mind, but he couldn't put a name to the picture. Krovac disappeared and random scenes, images from the past days and snippet of dreams, took his place, appearing and disappearing in no logical order. 

Finally, the face of the old woman crystallised, bold and life-like.

She smiled at him from behind her steepled fingers, and a spasm of desire, regret and grief shook the dying body of Perun Hammerfist. She had never touched him. And now she never would. He'd waited too long.

Breathe, hissed the voice again, lovingly, calmly. I won't let go until you brrreeeeeeathe.

Perun struggled one last time, a weak, defiant jerk before his body gave up and refused to obey anymore. His legs bobbed and floated almost straight in front of him, moving with the layered streams of invisible current as he descended lower and lower, safe in the arms of the monster. 

His head swayed and turned to rest itself against his left collarbone. 

His jaw slackened and his mouth fell open by itself. 

No bubbles escaped.

His eyes remained open, but were nothing more than dead flesh, unseeing and unknowing. 

Perun Hammerfist's lifeless body was pulled down, the swish and drag of the monster's powerful tail guiding both of them to the very bottom of the river.  

Finally, the monster circled and angled Perun's feet so that they touched the sandy floor and he was standing upright. For a very long time, the monster continued to hold him, its black, shiny eyes watching the fish pass as it counted the minutes. 

But Perun was aware of none of that.

He was listening to music.

A jazz orchestra was playing somewhere . . . somewhere. . . A dance number. One he'd heard in the Sudetenje Ballroom on the nights he'd gone there to enjoy the company of his more affluent business associates and customers. And to see The Women, of course. 

Hadn't he danced with the youngest of them to that song? Or had it been with . . . His mind pushed the memory away and concentrated on the tones coming from the saxophones, bass and drums. A trumpet and a clarinet joined in and slowly, painfully slowly, the darkness around him began to fill with small circles of light.

That's long enough. Time to come back. 

The voice mixed in and over-shadowed the music. Perun did what it asked on reflex. The music began to recede and the lights grew larger.  

His head floated up from its resting place on his shoulder, and he breathed in without needing to be prompted.

And out.

In and out.

In and out.

Then he began to feel his body again. His fingers responded more and more, wiggling lightly when he asked them to. His shoulders rose and rolled back. His nose itched. His skin felt warm. Or was it the water? Had the water become warm?

Then he attempted to open his eyes – and jolted in pain, as searing brightness attacked his sight like electric stun needles. He lowered his head, bringing a hand up to cover them.

"Too fast," said the voice, no longer a hiss, but a clear, deep masculine reverberation. "Give yourself time to adjust. Feel the water. Feel how different it is from the air. You've been up there for a while, but if you try, you can remember what it's like here. " 

Perun frowned.

The voice was right, he could feel the water, but it was no heavier or more powerful than air. The currents that pressed against his body were like gusts on a windy day. 

The arms released their hold on him, sliding away and allowing him to breathe fully. He found he could stand on his own. He was a little unsteady, but he wasn't concerned he would fall. 

"Music," Perun mumbled, his mouth still sluggish. "I could hear music."

"Aural hallucinations. Normally of cherished memories. You saw images, too, didn't you? The same."

The circles on the other side of Perun's shut eyelids had finally formed themselves into one strong blanket of light. He risked opening them again, this time without pain, and began to look around.