The shaman stepped forward, examined the doors. He set his assault rifle down at his feet, then pulled one of the many fetishes from his belt. Clutching the bone-and- feather item between his clenched fists, he began to sing quietly under his breath. The melody, what there was of it, seemed to tell of wilderness and solitude. As I watched in fascination, the shaman's face changed its appearance. His already aquiline nose extended, hooking further down until it resembled a beak. His eyes grew larger, became more piercing, and his skin took on the color and texture of golden feathers. For an instant, I realized, I was looking at the face of Eagle. The line where the two halves of the door met was limned in faint electric-blue light, and I smelt the tang of ozone in the air.