NEVER BE THE SAME . . . percy jackson

eighty nine: the good river.

WHEN THEY REACHED the ledge, Brooklyn knew that this was where her life would end. Probably.

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 Brooklyn's bones, but now her face felt raw and sunburned, and she never got sunburned. Every breath took more effort, as if her chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The cuts on her arm bled more rather than less. She wrapped her bandanna, which was miraculously untouched throughout this entire adventure, albeit wet from the Cocytus, around her arm.

"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 managed to sound hopeful. Brooklyn didn't know how, but hey, he's the optimist in this relationship.

Of course if they stayed here, they would die 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.

Brooklyn went first, because she's better at climbing than anyone due to her practice on the climbing wall, and she has no regard for her own life. She had to keep stopping, precariously balancing as she wiped her hand on her shorts.

She reached for another handhold, gritting her teeth as she had to hang off on one foot to reach it. "So . . . what is this fire river called?"

"The Phlegethon," Annabeth said. "You should concentrate on going down."

"The Phlegethon?" Percy asked from between them. 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."

Brooklyn snickered.

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

"Just trying to keep things light," Percy said.

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

They kept going, one step at a time. Brooklyn's eyes stung with sweat. Her arms trembled. But to her amazement, they finally made it to the bottom of the cliff.

When she reached the ground, she nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but forced herself not to. She helped Percy down, and was alarmed by how feverish his skin felt. Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim. Annabeth, who they also had to help down, looked pretty much the same as Percy.

Brooklyn's own vision was blurry. Her throat felt blistered, and her stomach was clenched tighter than a fist.

"Just to the river," Annabeth told them. "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," Annabeth 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 croaked. "The river is used to punish the wicked. But also . . . some legends call it the River of Healing."