“No one knows the full measure of anyone else’s powers,” he’d said countless times over the centuries. “You survive the attacks of others when you fight! Fight and flee. Do you hear me?”

But Benedict was no natural warrior. In that short span of his mortal life on Earth, he’d been a prayerful scholar, only tempted by the sensuality of the natural world all around him to abandon his Christian god. He’d been a being made for monastery libraries and royal courts, a lover of gorgeously illustrated manuscripts and books, of flutes and drums and lutes playing, of blended voices in song, of the love of men and women in silken beds, and in perfumed gardens.

Not a warrior, no, never. He’d only sinned against his Christian god because he couldn’t see the harm in loving passion. And the satisfaction of his rampant desires had always been easy, harmonious, pleasant.

A deep chill passed through Rhosh. Perhaps he had done the very wrong thing bringing Benedict here, but was he not infinitely more vulnerable miles away, even in the crypt, to some trickery on the part of the Voice?

Well, there was no time to go over a plan now, not when Maharet was returning to her fortress and when she might, with those preternatural ears, hear what she could not hear telepathically.

“Put on your shoes, we’re going now.”

Finally, they stood like dark shadows in the open window. Not a single mortal eye saw them ascend.

And only moments passed before they came down silently into the jungles surrounding Maharet’s compound.

“Ah, you are here and not a moment too soon,” said the Voice, fearlessly inside Rhosh’s head. “And she is here. She comes and she leaves the gates open behind her. Hurry before she presses all her magical electric buttons and closes me off in this prison!”

He stepped inside the great wire-mesh enclosure, and walked quietly towards the lighted archway.

“The machetes. Do you see them?” said the Voice. “They are against the wall. They are sharp.”

Rhosh was tempted to say, If you don’t shut up, you’re going to drive me mad, but he didn’t. He clenched his teeth, lifted his chin slightly.

And yes, he did see the long wooden-handled machete lying on the wooden bench among the pots of orchids. He did see the blade glinting in the light from the arch, though it was caked with mud.

“She dreams of Pacaya,” said the Voice. “She sees its boiling crater. She sees white steam rising to the dark sky. She sees lava flowing down the mountain in fiery fingers of light. She thinks nothing can live in that inferno, not her, not her sister—.”

Oh, if he could only shut out the Voice.

“And I dare not seek to deter her for I am what she fears above all things!”