The House of Hades - Phlegethon

A few steps below her, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold. “So…what is this fire river called?”

“The Phlegethon,” she said. “You should concentrate on going down.”

“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,” she said.

“Just trying to keep things light.”

“Thanks,” she grunted, nearly missing the ledge with her bad foot. “I’ll have a smile on my face as I plummet to my death.”
They kept going, one step at a time. Annabeth’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 stumbled. Percy caught her. She was alarmed by how feverish his skin felt. Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim.

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

We have to hurry, she thought.

“Just to the river,” she told Percy, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “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 could barely talk.

Her throat was closing up from the heat and the acidic air. “The river is used to punish the wicked.

But also…some legends call it the River of Healing.”

“Some legends?”

Annabeth swallowed, trying to stay conscious. “The Phlegethon keeps the wicked in one piece so that they can endure the torments of the Fields of Punishment. I think…it might be the Underworld equivalent of ambrosia and nectar.”

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.

Stupid? Yes, but she was convinced they had no choice. If they waited any longer, they would pass out and die. Better to try something foolish and hope it worked.

On first contact, the fire wasn’t painful. It felt cold, which probably meant it was so hot it was overloading Annabeth’s nerves. Before she could change her mind, she cupped the fiery liquid in her palms and raised it to her mouth.

She expected a taste like gasoline. It was so much worse. Once, at a restaurant back in San Francisco, she’d made the mistake of tasting a ghost chili pepper that came with a plate of Indian food. After barely nibbling it, she thought her respiratory system was going to implode. Drinking from the Phlegethon was like gulping down a ghost chili smoothie. Her sinuses filled with liquid flame.

Her mouth felt like it was being deep-fried. Her eyes shed boiling tears, and every pore on her face popped. She collapsed, gagging and retching, her whole body shaking violently.

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

The convulsions passed. She took a ragged breath and managed to sit up. She felt horribly weak and nauseous, but her next breath came more easily. The blisters on her arms were starting to fade.

“It worked,” she croaked. “Percy, you’ve got to drink.”

“I…” His eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped against her.

Desperately, she cupped more fire in her palm. Ignoring the pain, she dripped the liquid into Percy’s mouth. He didn’t respond.

She tried again, pouring a whole handful down his throat. This time he spluttered and coughed.

Annabeth held him as he trembled, the magical fire coursing through his system. His fever disappeared. His boils faded. He managed to sit up and smack his lips.

“Ugh,” he said. “Spicy, yet disgusting.”

Annabeth laughed weakly. She was so relieved, she felt light-headed. “Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.”

“You saved us.”

“For now,” she said. “The problem is, we’re still in Tartarus.” Percy blinked. He looked around as if just coming to terms with where they were. “Holy Hera. I never thought…well, I’m not sure what I thought. Maybe that Tartarus was empty space, a pit with no bottom. But this is a real place.”

Annabeth recalled the landscape she’d seen while they fell—a series of plateaus leading ever downward into the gloom.

“We haven’t seen all of it,” she warned. “This could be just the first tiny part of the abyss, like the front steps.”

“The welcome mat,” Percy muttered.


- The House of Hades, Chapter 7