I ran, dodging the tall, iron candelabras, and making for the altar.

“Stand and fight me like a man, Evil One.”

Like hell. Putting the massive stone altar between us, I spun to face him, steadying The Mask so it didn’t overbalance me.

“I will crush you,” he said, swinging the sword in wide, hissing arcs as he stalked me, “drive your evil hordes before me,” he stopped across from me, “and hear the lamentation of their women.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how the line goes,” I said.

He growled and swung at my head. I ducked, well, buckled is a better word, and the sword swept past. He advanced to the left, and I skittered to the right, keeping the altar between us. He feinted the other way, and I scrambled back.

We played several more rounds of you-can’t-catch-me, with a fatal twist, before Gor-don grew frustrated and vaulted on top of the altar. I bolted for the door, robes held high, and sneakers slapping hard against the floor.

I heard him hit the ground behind me and follow, gaining with each heavy footfall. More guards poured into the Inner Sanctum and intercepted him, using sheer mass to drag him down.

I could guess what was coming this time. Skidding to a halt, I grabbed one of the candelabras in both hands, and ran back to the pile. Gor-don threw off the guards in a jumble of black leather, chain mail, and tusks. I swung the candelabra with everything I had and clobbered him on the head. Gor-don swayed once, dropped to his knees, said, “Lamentation of your hordes . . .” and fell over.