Bernard lay like a broken toy, all the tension, all the life, gone from him. His arms hung dead on the coffin bottom, his legs lay dead, one bent, tilted against the sarcophagus wall. His head lay still on his flaccid neck, his eyes open, staring, his mouth open.

Love, he thought distantly. Love has the human form divine.

“You think now,” Iago went on, “that you’ll quail at the letting of blood, at the killing of your own children. But I promise you, you will not quail. More than that, I promise you the act will free you, will give you a power over your own life—and a joy in that power—you can’t even imagine now. Any beast can give life to its offspring. But only we can give life to ourselves, over and over.”

Bernard lay motionless, lay limp. Lay staring into nothing, seeing nothing. The human form divine, he thought.

“It will become your nature, Bernard, I swear. It is your nature now, if you would only confess it. You can’t help but feel it as I speak. You can’t help but imagine it: lifting the knife over the infant’s body, unafraid of capture, unafraid of sin. Taking its blood for your own life. You can’t help but imagine it and feel how exciting it is to you. It is exciting to you, isn’t it, Bernard? Isn’t it?”

Bernard lay barely breathing; staring. Arms dead, legs dead, eyes open. Love has the human form divine.

Then, slowly, as on a rusty hinge, his mouth moved.

“Yes,” he said distinctly.

He thought he heard Iago sigh.

“You see, it can be done,” came the smoke of the voice above. “We can be honest with each other about who we really are. Now,” he went on, his tone growing more charged. “Now—will you let me release you? Will you let me free you from your coffin? Will you travel with me for a while—just a little while—and mix your life with mine, and give me my fair chance to prove my case to you?”

Love, thought Bernard senselessly. Lying, staring, not even aware of the tears that had started to run down his cheeks.

“Will you agree?” said Iago.

And Bernard, at last, said, “Yes.”

At once there was a thick, scraping sound. Bernard’s head remained where it was, but his eyes moved slightly. He looked upward. The deep grind of stone on stone came again. He let out a silent sob of relief. The lid of the sarcophogus was shifting.

Now he heard other voices, murmuring. A grunt of effort. Another deep scrape. A long grating rumble.

Suddenly, a line of gray light slashed across his face like a sword. He shut his eyes, but the light throbbed red behind his lids. The cool air poured down over his cheeks, and his body seemed to seize it, drag it in.

“Oh,” he whispered.