With the wind rushing in his ears, Abraxas did not hear the expletives flying behind him, but his quick glance backward showed him a glimpse of his rival's determined face. Already the other young stallion was gaining quickly. Grinning, Abraxas looked forward, his hazel eyes squinting in the sun. There — a stone's throw away, where the blue edge of the lagoon curved like a hook, there was a huge, sun-bleached arm of driftwood protruding from the tide.

"To the log!" Abraxas called, and then he put his head down and channelled all the power he could into reaching it. He had not run this way since childhood, and his heart sang as he propelled himself, as each strike of hoof on sand sent ripples up through the muscles of his legs, as his lungs burned and the wind brought tears to his eyes.

Then there was a crunch, and Brax's front hoof landed wrong. Each step sent sharp daggers of pain up through the frog of his foot. Jerking his head up with a cry of frustration and anguish, Abraxas's reckless gallop collapsed into a shambling, awkward canter and then, abruptly, to a halt. As seafoam lapped at his three remaining legs, he lifted his foreleg for inspection. He'd trampled a sizeable conch shell; a brown-striped shard had lodged itself into the bottom of his hoof. There was no blood, but Abraxas knew better than to put his foot down again.

"Shit on a stick," he said through laboured breaths, and looked up, fully expecting the other stallion to have snatched his easy win.