O'Brien's gloved hand tightened on the milky crystal. "Deirdre!" he said.
And, in the emptiness above them, a glow brightened.
There was no other warning. Arnsen tilted back his head to see—the incredible.
Deirdre, he thought. Then, unbidden, another name leaped into his mind.
Circe!
Circe of Colchis, goddess of Aea—Circe, Daughter of the Day, who changed men to swine! Circe—more than human!
For this was no human figure that hovered above them. It seemed to be a girl, unclad, reclining in nothingness, her floating hair tinted like the rays of a dying sun. Her body swept in lines of pure beauty, long-limbed and gracious. Her eyes were veiled; long lashes hid them.
There was tenderness in her face, and aloofness, and alienage. There was beauty there—not entirely human beauty.
Rainbow crystals garmented her.
Some large, some small, multi-faceted gems danced and shimmered against the blackness of the sky and the whiteness of Circe's body. Moon-yellow, amber-gold, blue as the sea off Capri, green as the pine-clad hills of Earth—angry scarlet and lambent dragon-green!