"Mahra! Mahra!" Her body was faintly stirring beyond the now singing and vibrating filaments.
Between peals of piercing whistling laughter, Alhone was shrieking, "She will go to the seventh plain! The she-devil!"
Moljar could destroy the Matrix, but only a burning cataclysm could result from such an act. At least, even in the seventh plain, she would be alive for awhile, and perhaps he could bring her back.
Mahra was on her knees, now on her feet, swaying. She turned. Moljar flinched. Those eyes. They blazed, and held. She had gone mad. With a savage roar of pent up blind hot rage, Moljar clutched Alhone's neck and began squeezing it slowly. All his suppressed hate, his frustration, the years and perils of his long, long quest, his longing for revenge, was in the terrible strength of his fingers ... but, without any logical reason, a thought entered his mind, restrained his hands ... a faint far sound, but one of screaming urgency....
Don't, Moljar. Let her live.
He sobbed in frustrated rage. It was deviltry. He tried again to squeeze that throbbing neck, but his fingers remained frozen. Then the mental voice in his brain repeated, Let her live, Moljar. This is Mahra. Let her live. She knows the Matrix. Mahra....
He staggered back, blinking, shaking his head. He dropped Alhone. Her body thudded on the crimsoned floor. She raised up stiffly, her eyes staring widely, her arms trembling. She walked stonily to the Matrix and turned a dial. The Matrix's shrill humming, now almost beyond his auditory range, died slowly as the glow of the filaments faded.
Alhone adjusted some other part of the complex panel. The filamented threads lifted slowly until Mahra could crawl beneath them. She ran sobbing, and Moljar took her easily into the folds of his red dripping arms.
Alhone had turned. She looked at Mahra with that indescribable hatred burning a raw-edged flame in her eyes.