“I wondered when you’d feel it,” giggled the sorceress.

Geralt tensed his muscles and, clenching his jaw until it hurt, strained his entire will. It didn’t help. He was paralyzed, like a stone statue, like a post which had been dug into the ground. He couldn’t even wiggle a toe.

“I knew you could deflect a spell thrown straight at you,” said Yennefer. “I also knew that before you tried anything, you’d try to impress me with your eloquence. You were talking while the spell hanging over you was working and slowly breaking you. Now you can only talk. But you don’t have to impress me anymore. I know you’re eloquent. Any further efforts in that direction will only spoil the effect.”

“Chireadan—” he said with an effort, still fighting the magical paralysis. “Chireadan will realize that you’re up to something. He’ll soon work it out, suspect something any minute now, because he doesn’t trust you, Yennefer. He hasn’t trusted you from the start—”

The sorceress swept her hand in a broad gesture. The walls of the chamber became blurred and took on a uniform dull gray appearance and color. The door disappeared, the windows disappeared, even the dusty curtains and pictures on the wall, splattered with flies, vanished.

“What if Chireadan does figure it out?” She grimaced maliciously. “Is he going to run for help? Nobody will get through my barrier. But Chireadan’s not going to run anywhere. He won’t do anything against me. Anything. He’s under my spell. No, it’s not a question of black sorcery. I didn’t do anything in that way. It’s a simple question of body chemistry. He’s fallen in love with me, the blockhead. Didn’t you know? Can you imagine, he even intended to challenge Beau to a duel. A jealous elf. That rarely happens. Geralt, it’s not for nothing that I chose this house.”

“Beau Berrant, Chireadan, Errdil, Dandilion. You really are heading for your goal as straight as you can. But me, Yennefer, you’re not going to use me.”

“Oh I am, I am.” The sorceress got up from the bed and approached him, carefully avoiding the signs and symbols marked out on the floor. “After all, I did say that you owe me something for curing the poet. It’s a matter of a trifle, a small favor. After what I’ve done, what I intend to do here in a moment, I’m leaving Rinde and I’ve still got unpaid accounts in this town. I’ve promised several people here something, and I always keep my promises. Since I won’t have time to do so myself, you’ll keep those promises for me.”

He wrestled with all his might. In vain.

“Don’t struggle, my little witcher.” She smiled spitefully. “It’s pointless. You’ve got a strong will and quite a bit of resistance to magic but you can’t contend with me and my spell. And don’t act out a farce for me; don’t try to charm me with your hard and insolent masculinity. You are the only one to think you’re insolent and hard. You’d do anything for me in order to save your friend, even without spells at that. You’d pay any price. You’d lick my boots. And maybe something else, too, if I unexpectedly wished to amuse myself.”