This Cold Year ― Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase²

―ii. killer cheerleaders

WHEN THEY REACHED THE LEDGE, Naomi was sure they were done for.

The cliff dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: a river of fire cutting a path through a jagged obsidian crevasse, the glowing red current casting horrible shadows across the cliff faces.

Even from the top of the canyon, the heat was intense. The chill of the River Cocytus hadn't left Naomi's bones, but now her face felt raw and sunburned. Every breath and every step hurt.

"Uh..." Percy examined the cliff. He pointed to a tiny fissure running diagonally from the edge to the bottom. "We can try that ledge there. Might be able to climb down." He didn't say they'd be crazy to try—he even managed to sound hopeful.

As hopeless as the plan seemed, it was their only option. If they stayed here, they were dead anyway. Blisters had started to form on their arms from exposure to the Tartarus air. The whole environment was about as healthy as a nuclear blast zone.

Percy went first, and Annabeth and Naomi followed. The ledge was barely wide enough to allow a toehold. Their hands clawed for any crack in the glassy rock.

A few steps below Annabeth, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold. "So... what is this fire river called?"

"The Phlegethon," Naomi said.

"The Phlegethon?" He shinnied along the ledge. They'd made it roughly a third of the way down the cliff—still high enough up to die if they fell. "Sounds like a marathon for hawking spitballs."

"Please don't make me laugh," Annabeth said.

"Just trying to keep things light."

"Thanks," she grunted. "I'll have a smile on my face as I plummet to my death."

"That's always the hope," Naomi said lightly.

They kept going, one step at a time. Naomi's eyes stung with sweat. Her hair was plastered to her neck in a way that made her want to take a four-day-long shower. Her limbs trembled with the effort to keep her balance.

But somehow, they made it to the bottom of the cliff.

When they reached the ground, Annabeth stumbled. Naomi and Percy caught her, and Naomi was alarmed to feel how feverish Annabeth's skin was.

We have to hurry.

"Just to the river," Annabeth said. "We can do this."

They staggered over slick glass ledges, around massive boulders, avoiding stalagmites that would've impaled them with any slip of the foot. Their tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but they kept going until they crumpled to their knees at the banks of the Phlegethon.

"We have to drink," Naomi said.

Percy swayed, his eyes half-closed. It took him a three-count to respond. "Uh... drink fire?"

"The Phlegethon flows from Hades's realm down into Tartarus." Annabeth's voice was hoarse and painful. "The river is used to punish the wicked. But also... some legends call it the River of Healing."

"Some legends?" Percy asked.

"The Phlegethon keeps the wicked in one piece so they can endure the torments of the Fields of Punishment forever," Naomi explained. "It's like the Underworld equivalent of nectar."

Percy winced and cinders sprayed from the river, curling around his face. "But it's fire. How can we—?"

"Like this." Naomi thrust her hands into the river.