‘I doubt that, Otha,’ Sparhawk called back. ‘Azash wants Bhelliom, but he doesn’t want me to deliver it to him, because he doesn’t know what I’m going to do with it.’

‘Very good, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia murmured. ‘Use your advantage. Azash will sense Otha’s uncertainty, and He’ll feel the same way.’

The temple echoed with the noise of blows, shrieks and groans as Sparhawk’s friends systematically slaughtered the green-robed priests. They chopped their way through the tightly-packed ranks until they reached the foot of the first terrace below the altar.

In spite of everything, Sparhawk felt tightly exultant. He had not expected to make it this far, and his unexpected survival filled him with a sense of euphoric invincibility. ‘Well, Otha,’ he said, looking up those stair-stepped terraces at the bloated emperor, ‘why don’t you awaken Azash? Let’s find out if the Elder Gods know how to die as well as men do.’

Otha gaped at him, then scrambled from his litter and crumpled to the floor as his puny legs refused to support him. ‘Kneel!’ he half-screamed at Annias. ‘Kneel and pray to our God for deliverance!’ The notion that his soldiers could not enter the temple obviously frightened Otha considerably.

‘Kalten,’ Sparhawk called to his friend, ‘finish up with the priests, and then make sure that those soldiers don’t break through and rush us from behind.’

‘That’s not necessary, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said.

‘I know, but it should keep them back out of harm’s way.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Here we go, then.’ He shook off his gauntlets, tucked his sword-blade under his arm and took the steel-mesh pouch from his belt. He unwrapped the wire which bound the pouch shut and shook Bhelliom out into his hand. The jewel seemed very hot, and light, wavering like heat-lightning on a summer’s night, seethed among its petals. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he said sharply. ‘You must do as I command!’

Otha, half-kneeling, half-squatting, was babbling a prayer to his God – a prayer made almost unintelligible by his fright. Annias, Lycheas and Arissa also knelt, and they stared up at the hideous face of the idol looming above them. Their eyes were filled with horror as they more closely beheld the reality of that God they had so willingly chosen to follow.

‘Come, Azash!’ Otha pleaded. ‘Awaken! Hear the prayer of thy servants!’

The idol’s deep-sunk eyes had been closed, but now they slowly opened, and that greenish fire blazed from them. Sparhawk felt wave upon wave of malevolence blazing at him from those baleful eyes, and he stood, stunned into near-insensibility by the titanic presence of a God.

The idol was moving! A kind of undulation rippled down its body and the tentacle-like arms sinuously reached forth – reaching towards the glowing stone in Sparhawk’s hand, yearning towards the one thing in all the world which offered restoration and freedom.