Slowly, the color drained from Kyla's face. A spark close akin to panic lighted in her eyes. She did not speak.
"Why do you blanch so, priestess?" Sark prodded. "I only seek to help you. Tell me where your goddess lies and I'll find her for you, in spite of the coleoptera. I'll bring her here, revive her, let her reign again among you—"
"You talk nonsense!" the girl cried. But her voice broke. Her whole body trembled.
Now, suddenly, Sark seemed to grow within the riding-chair, till he loomed like some gross giant. His lips drew back from his stained reptilian fangs. His eyes gleamed like burning coals. The mock-benignity, the gentleness, fell from him like a mask. His words slashed, low and savage: "Tell me where your bitch-goddess lies, you she-sabar! Tell me now, while you still have a voice to speak!"
"No, no—"
"So, virgin priestess—?" Sark's laugh rang like the mirth of hell. And then, with furious, fiendish passion: "You'll tell, or you'll not stay virgin long! There are mutants among my crews who have strange lusts. Press me too far, and you'll be the one to sate them! I'll turn them loose with you here in this arena as a show for the rest of us to see! What's left of your tender flesh when they are through will make a tasty morsel for the coleoptera!"
Sheer horror flooded Kyla's pale, lovely face. Convulsively, she tried to tear free from the grip of the two Pervods who held her.
But they laughed aloud and jerked her back; lifted her upright before their chief, panting and struggling.
Haral sucked in air. In spite of himself, he dug his knees hard into the hwalon's horny flanks. It took all his effort to hold himself otherwise immobile and fight down the fury that surged within him.
"Which shall it be, Priestess Kyla?" Sark now mocked with savage malice. "Do you talk and live, or meet my men? The choice is yours!"