For an instant, then, they struggled, toe to toe, fighting for possession of the stool.
But only for an instant, for Burke knew without question what the outcome would be; must be. No ordinary man could stand against this hideous freak of nature. It simply was too much to hope for.
Yet unless he won, what would happen to Ariadne?
Fiercely, he threw all his weight onto the stool, swinging by it, completely clear of the floor.
Then, savagely, he slashed a foot down, so that the edge of his shoe raked his opponent's shin from knee to ankle before it hit the instep with smashing force.
The Minotaur half doubled over. A hoarse gust of pain burst from its throat.
Burke let go the stool. With all his might, he struck straight upward, between the monster's outstretched arms to the great bull-jaw.
New sounds of anguish—almost human, this time. The creature lurched forward flat-footed, off balance.
Burke leaped back. Catching the huge horns, he gave them a tremendous wrench, with all his weight behind it, the way he'd seen bull-doggers handle steers at rodeos.
Something cracked, so loud Burke could hear it even through the tumult. He wrenched again, harder.