‘I’ll handle this,’ Sephrenia said. ‘Just don’t say anything, any of you, and try to look menacing.’

The approaching Zemochs reined in. Some of them had those unfinished-looking Styric features; some could easily pass for Elenes, and some appeared to be an unwholesome mixture of the two.

‘All glory to the dread God of the Zemochs,’ their leader intoned in bastardized Styric. The tongue he spoke was a mixture of that tongue and Elene, combining the worst features of both languages.

‘You did not say his name, Kedjek,’ Sephrenia said coldly.

‘How did she know the fellow’s name?’ Kalten whispered to Sparhawk. Kalten obviously understood more Styric than he could pronounce.

‘“Kedjek” isn’t a name,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It’s an insult.’

The Zemoch’s face went even more pale, and his black eyes narrowed with hate. ‘Women and slaves do not speak so to members of the imperial guard!’ he snapped.

‘Imperial guard,’ Sephrenia sneered. ‘Neither you nor any of your men would make a wart on any part of an imperial guardsman. Say the name of our God so that I may know that you are of the true faith. Say it, Kedjek, lest ye die.’

‘Azash,’ the now-uncertain man muttered.

‘His name is fouled by the tongue which speaks it,’ she told him, ‘but Azash sometimes enjoys defilement.’

The Zemoch straightened. ‘I am commanded to gather the people,’ he declared. ‘The day is at hand when Blessed Otha will stretch forth his fist to crush and enslave the unbelievers of the west.’

‘Obey then. Continue with your work. Be diligent, for Azash rewards lack of zeal with agonies.’

‘I need no woman to instruct me,’ he said coldly. ‘Prepare to take your servants to the place of war.’

‘Your authority does not extend to me.’ She raised her right hand, her palm towards him. The markings about her forearm and wrist seemed to writhe and surge, and the image of the snake’s head hissed, its forked tongue flickering. ‘You have my permission to greet me,’ she told him.

The Zemoch recoiled, his eyes wide with horror. Since the ritual Styric greeting involved the kissing of the palms, Sephrenia’s ‘permission’ was an open invitation to suicide. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess,’ he begged in a shaking voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said flatly. She looked at the other Zemochs, who were goggle-eyed with fright. ‘This piece of offal has offended me,’ she told them. ‘Do what is customary.’

The Zemochs leaped from their saddles, pulled their struggling leader from his horse and beheaded him on the spot. Sephrenia, who normally would have viewed such savagery with revulsion, looked on with no change of expression. ‘Adequate,’ she said flatly. ‘Display what remains of him in the usual fashion and go on with your task.’

‘Ah – um – Dread Priestess,’ one of them faltered, ‘we have no leader now.’