Through an interminable moment, the woman within sagged inert as any corpse. Then, almost imperceptibly, her lips quivered. The bare breasts stirred as she drew a shallow, sobbing breath.
In the same instant, it seemed to Haral that he could see her lids open beneath the veil. But he could not be sure.
She tried to lift herself; fell back.
Fiercely, Haral slashed at the crystal with his elbow.
The heavy copronium elbow-piece of his armor tore through the globe—puncturing, not shattering. Haral stabbed at the bubble again, and it ripped, in the manner of some flexible, transparent plastic. Forcing a hand into the gash, the blue man tore a great chunk loose, clear to the floor: then another.
Stepping inside, he bent over the woman—gripping her shoulders; straining for her whisper.
"Quick! The flagon—!" Her hand stretched out in a feeble gesture.
Haral followed the movement to a holder beside the cot. It held a flask. Snatching up the container, he tore away the seal, then lifted and held the woman while she drank in great, greedy gulps.
When at last the flask was empty, she sank back once more. But now color was flowing to her face. Her breathing steadily grew deeper and more regular.
Haral let his weight rest on the edge of the cot. Very gently, he reached to lift the goddess' veil.