Again, the liveried Baemae's head moved in silent affirmation.
A light gleamed deep in Vydys' eyes, all dark and evil. Once more, she ran the small, pink tongue along her lips, as if savoring the tension of the moment.
"You—you will spare her—?" The youth's words came out a hoarse, cracked whisper.
"Spare her—and spoil the evening's entertainment?" The Lady Vydys' ripe lips curved in a small, slow smile that was straight from hell. "Surely, serf, you would not ask that of me!" And then: "Place my helm upon me."
A new tremor ran through the serving-serf. Wordless, he slid the shining metal casing down over the jet hair, seated it carefully upon the woman's head.
Approvingly, she nodded. "Now, seat yourself before me—here, where I can watch your face."
Stiff-lipped, the youth obeyed.
Vydys laughed softly; turned to Zenaor. "You see, my lord? Down there in the ring will be the wench, pitting herself against my roller; while here close by me sits her brother, suffering with her. It offers a new kind of titillation!"
Zenaor shrugged. "As you will it."