Cold-eyed, cold-nerved, Jarl drew himself to his full height. Rigid, he probed for some—for any—last wild gambit.
But Black-Mask, too, was straightening. He cried out fiercely to his helpers.
They shoved Jarl forward.
As they did so, the primitive beside the huge, wheeled tank lifted up the lid.
Jarl glanced down into it.
The vat was full. The awful broth almost lapped the brim. From it, in sickening waves, rose the sweetish, cloying fumes Jarl had come to associate with the primitives.
Black-Mask leaned forward. Shouting again, he lashed out. His jet-gloved fist raked at Jarl's face.
Instinctively, Jarl rocked back. New tides of black despair washed through him. What could he do, locked in his captor's grasp, hemmed between tank and torch-bearer, black-masked fiend and blood-drenched altar?
Tank—and torch-bearer—!
That link ... in an instant it grew to a searing, surging flame, hotter even than these creatures' own hell-fire brew.