"Out of space. Out of time. In the abode of the god. Soon now, we shall see Stasor."
A bright point of red glowed faintly, as a pinhead might gleam when heated in a fire. It grew swiftly to the size of a fist, to the size of a head.
The red glow burst, and sent streamers of flame out into the darkness.
Where the red had been was Stasor.
His face floated in a white mist, ancient and wise and sorrowful. The dimly veined lids were shut. The forehead was high, rounded, surmounted by snowy hair. On either side of the great hawk-nose, high cheekbones protruded. The eyelids quivered, slowly arose.
Angus stared dumbly into living wisdom. He wondered deep inside him how old Stasor must be, to know what those eyes knew; how many worlds he must have gazed on, how many peoples he must have seen grow to statehood, to degeneracy, to death.
"You entered the pool. I felt your emanations. What do you wish?"
Moana said, "I am your priestess, Stasor. I have brought a man to see you."
"Let the man speak."