“ All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Prologue It was not the dry air or the slicing sand tossed by the cruel wind that made it hard to breathe. This was the realm of the god of the smoking mirror, bringer of death. The special poza of Quatros Cienegas, the one called Lago Muerte, was haunted by the spirits of all the god’s brides who had died giving birth. It was dangerous place, a forbidden place—especially for men. But it was al...so a place of tributes, of gold. It was a desperate man who would steal from a god. But that was what he was. Desperate. And it was like a drug, the longer desperation was with you, the less you listened to your sensibilities. The unthinkable and impossible had finally become his last resort. The man, not a pure Indio, staggered over the crest of a pale gypsum dune crowned with stunted conifers and came across the small pond—a poza—colored the deep brown of coffee because of the runoff and rimmed with dead golden grass that curved away from the water, as if it had died while fleeing something in the poza.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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