‘No!’ Sparhawk’s voice was a harsh rasp. He raised his sword above the Bhelliom. ‘I’ll destroy it!’ he threatened, ‘– and you along with it!’

The idol seemed to recoil, and its eyes were suddenly filled with amazed shock. ‘Why hast thou brought this ignorant savage into my presence, Sephrenia?’ The voice was hollow, and it echoed throughout the temple and in Sparhawk’s mind as well. Sparhawk knew that the mind of Azash could obliterate him in the space between two heartbeats, but for some reason Azash seemed afraid to bring his power to bear upon the rash man who stood menacing the Sapphire Rose with drawn sword.

‘I do but obey my destiny, Azash,’ Sephrenia replied calmly. ‘I was born to bring Sparhawk to this place to face thee.’

‘But what of the Destiny of this Sparhawk? Dost thou know what he is destined to do?’ There was a kind of desperation in the voice of Azash.

‘No man or God knoweth that, Azash,’ she reminded him. ‘Sparhawk is Anakha, and all the Gods have known and feared that one day Anakha would come and would move through this world committed to ends which none may perceive. I am the servant of his Destiny, whatever it may be, and I have brought him here that he may bring those ends to fruition.’

The idol seemed to tense itself, and then an irresistible command lashed out, overpowering and insistent, and the command was not directed at Sparhawk.

Sephrenia gasped and seemed almost to wilt like a flower before the first blast of winter. Sparhawk could actually feel her resolve fading. She wavered as the force of the mind of Azash peeled away her defences.

He tensed his arm and raised his sword higher. If Sephrenia were to fall, they were lost, and he could not know if there would be time to deliver the last fatal stroke after her collapse. He drew the image of Ehlana’s face in his mind and gripped his sword-hilt even more tightly.

The sound was not audible to anyone else. He knew that. It was in his mind only; only he could hear it. It was the insistent, commanding sound of shepherd’s pipes, and there was a very strong overtone of irritation to it.

‘Aphrael!’ he called out in sudden relief.

A small firefly spark appeared in front of his face. ‘Well, finally!’ Flute’s voice snapped angrily. ‘What took you so long, Sparhawk? Don’t you know that you have to call me?’

‘No. I didn’t know that. Help Sephrenia.’

There was no touch, no movement, no sound, but Sephrenia straightened, brushing at her brow with lightly-touching fingers as the idol’s eyes burned and fixed themselves on that firefly spark.

‘My daughter,’ the voice of Azash said. ‘Wilt thou cast thy lot with these mortals?’