The Singer blinked at Tayan. ‘I need them all the time,’ he repeated, and then he pulled a beautiful, pale-bladed knife from his belt and rammed it into the ejab torso, out and back in, again and again, his arm pumping up and down with sickening regularity. The warrior behind him fell back and Tayan scrambled away as far as the rope would let him. The song spun out of control, growing in power until it seemed the individual stones of the pyramid were in danger of vibrating apart. With the song came emotions, pouring through them all like a storm: need and desire and lust combining until Tayan shook with the force of it, until he wanted nothing more than to feel Enet or the Singer or both of them writhing beneath him.

There was blood everywhere and the Singer shoved his face into the gushing red font. His jaw moved, but he wasn’t speaking. He was chewing his way into the woman’s belly, enlarging the knife wounds, his sharp nails digging through cotton and flesh and muscle to soft, stinking innards, hot and pulsing. His skin burst with golden light.

Gasping with need, fists clenched against it, Tayan shuffled back towards him as the other ejab shuddered and hunched in place, overwhelmed with sensation and distant horror. The shaman groaned and then swallowed hard and knelt at the Singer’s side in the blood, willing himself not to vomit at the warm sticky stench of it all, at the sight of the slobbering, chewing monstrosity. Willing himself not to lean forward and bury his face as the Singer was doing.

Tayan put his hands on the man’s back, the shock of contact sending a thrill throbbing into his belly and balls that nearly undid him. The Singer sat back on his heels, red from nose to waist, panting.

‘I can fix this,’ Tayan lied. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t need … people? Because you have all this power, don’t you, lord, but in this you are powerless. You are in its grip. I can break that grip. I will do anything for you.’ If you will take me in your arms. He clenched his jaw, trapping the words behind his teeth.

The Singer’s eyes were a strange, light amber colour and Tayan wanted to drown in them. He was foul and terrifying and quite, quite insane, and in the hurricane of desires moving through the room, Tayan put his hand on the Singer’s cheek, leant in and kissed his bloody mouth.

‘Yes,’ the Singer whispered against his lips. ‘Yes, I want that. I want – I need – my power back.’ He put his hand in the neck of Tayan’s tunic and twisted. ‘Everyone out.’