But this....
For while he watched, thin lines of fire were racing along the doomed sacrifice's writhing body. In a spreading network, the flesh itself was bursting open, flames leaping up in a thousand places.
In a searing flash, the truth came to Jarl: The creature's blood was burning!
He sagged in his escort's grip, and retched—shock-stunned, sick with horror.
But the primitives who flanked him jerked him upright. An open hand stung his face with brutal slaps.
The spell that gripped Jarl broke. Numb, tight-jawed, he forced himself to look again upon the altar.
The shackled creature lay there still, a charred, contorted horror.
While Jarl watched, the monster in the ebon mask stepped back and passed the torch to the altar-crewman who had brought it. Other primitives unclamped the gyves and dragged the corpse away.
Again Black-Mask brought up his hands. Again the crowd's tumultuous hubbub faded.
Black-Mask's hands came down. He swung about till he faced Jarl. Imperiously, he gestured.