By fire, this gift of light, no?

He had explored the newfound sorcery within him, with far greater alacrity than he had led Syntara to believe. Enough to know that the woman pleasuring herself beside him in this bed was nothing but a husk. And this in turn amused him greatly, as the secret spark within the maid – Syntara herself – now struggled to bring life back into that body’s benumbed carcass.

Go screw yourself, Syntara. Or, rather, go on screwing yourself. We have all night, after all.

He recalled that flicker – the meeting of his gaze with hers – and the faint unease in the maid’s once pretty eyes. I imagine you first crowed at my seeming impotence. But now, do you begin to wonder?

I may be base. A drunk. A man standing in the middle of a river of blood. But I won’t fuck a corpse, woman. Take your voyeur games elsewhere.

When next we meet, over fine wine and decent food, we’ll talk of… oh, I don’t know… how about this as a worthy topic? Yes, why not? We’ll speak of desecration. A topic on which, I’m sure, you’ll have plenty to say, High Priestess.

Tell me again, won’t you, of those artful gutters beneath the floors of the temple?

And I might speak to you, perhaps, of sorcery beyond the reach of any god or goddess, beyond the reach of every temple, every church, every priesthood with all its strident rules and lust for the butchery of the blasphemous.

A magic unfettered. Natural worship, if you will.

Of what, you ask?

Why, the same as yours, High Priestess. The worship of power.

This power – and I dare you to take it from my hand.

He drank down another mouthful of wine, sluicing it as was his habit, while beside him – making the bed creak – the maid went on and on, and on.

* * *

Sharenas strode into the tavern. After a moment, she could make out a figure seated at the back, shrouded in gloom. She crossed the chamber, threading between tables where townsfolk were seated, welcoming both the sour heat and the furtive glances. Even the faces of strangers offered a kind of comfort – too long riding alone, camping in wild places, abandoned places. And other nights, as guest in a household, she had felt the pressure of her hosts’ unease, their mistrust. Urusander’s Legion, once elevated so high, honoured and respected by all, had stumbled fast.

The truth, which in better times was happily ignored, was that the sword always cut both ways. Valiant defence, brutal attack, it was all down to the wielder’s stance, the direction chosen. The saved could become the victim in an instant.

Sharenas disliked the notion: that she, too, was dangerous, unpredictable, with the weapon at her belt ever ready to be unsheathed. But the world made its demands, and she too must answer them.