Zenaor lay there, sleeping. Yet even at rest, the lean, high-boned face showed no trace of slackness. The muscled hands still curled to fists.
"My knife!" Vydys whispered again, close to Craig's ear. "You promised me his head, Earthman!"
Craig stared down at her.
The dark eyes glowed like twin coals now, and the skin of her face seemed suddenly to have stretched tighter, replacing curves with planes and hollows. The fingers that strained towards the dagger trembled with a naked urgency, somehow obscene, as if in the blood-lust of this moment the woman's very soul were spread out to the viewer, dark and evil.
Craig turned away ... looked again at the sleeping Zenaor.
"Curse you, Earthman—!" Vydys panted. She clawed for the knife.
For an instant their bodies strained together in silent struggle. Then, suddenly, Vydys ceased to writhe and twist. Her body pulsed against Craig's.
His heart pounded. He clutched the woman to him.
A voice said, "If you move, you die!"
Craig froze. Ever so slowly, he brought his head round.