The chill of the river Cocytus hadn’t left Annabeth’s bones, but her face felt raw and sunburnt. Every breath took more effort, as if her chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. Of course, if they stayed here, they would die anyway. Blisters had started to form on their arms, from exposure to the Tartarus air. A few steps below her, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold.

“So, what’s this fire river called?”

“The Phlegethon,” she said.

“The Phlegethon?” He shimmied along the ledge. “Sounds like a marathon for hacking spitballs.”

“We have to drink,” Annabeth said. Percy swayed, his eyes half closed. It took him a three-count to respond.

“Uh, drink fire?”

Annabeth swallowed. “Try to stay conscious. The Phlegethon keeps the wicked in one piece, so they can endure the torments of fields of Punishment.”

Percy winced as cinders sprayed from the river, curling around his face.

“But it’s fire, how can we-”

“Like this.” Annabeth thrust her hands into the river. Her eyes shed boiling tears and every pore on her face popped. She collapsed, gagging and wretching, her whole shaking violently.

“Annabeth!” Percy grabbed her arms and just managed to stop her from rolling into the river.