Caquipilli stumbled many times on the climb to the peak of the great Citlaltépetl, but moved still with an unnatural fleetness, carried by forces beyond him. He had not eaten in many days, and his bones quaked with each violent beating of his heart.
The sun set in the last hour of his trek, and at the peak he fell to his face, smashing the clay pot in which he had carried a heady liquer. Jagged shards cut into his right hand, leaving blood to drain from him onto the snow and rocks.
"You are not finished," a smoking voice urged. "Not nearly."
Caquipilli's eyes drifted to the blood red fingers of his hand, and saw in his palm a piece of tlaxcalli. He raised the bread to his mouth, and, without hesitating, devoured it hungrily.
"Go to the sea, and find the ruins of the peoples from before."