The woman who was the living goddess Xaymar, queen of storms, stared coolly down at her slim young priestess, Kyla.
"You are of the Shamon, are you not?" she interrupted, and open condescension was in her tone.
"Yes, my goddess—"
"A race of stuffy fools, the Shamon."
"My goddess—!"
"You prove my point. Who but a race of stuffy fools would try to pass off a sleeping woman as a goddess? That is, unless they were knaves, instead, seeking some gain by their deception."
"But these aliens would destroy us—"
"And why not, if the best you can do is pray to me for succor? The blue one spoke true. Power is the only thing in all the void worth seeking—for without it, man and race alike are doomed!"
Kyla stood very still. But, watching her, Haral could see her lips begin to tremble. The color was draining from her face again. Her features had taken on a stiff, unnatural set.