"She brought me here. The crystals took care of me. And Deirdre—" He stood up. "She's summoning me. Wait, Steve—I'll be back."
Arnsen put out a detaining hand; it was useless. O'Brien stepped through the portal and was gone. A dozen crystals swept after him.
Arnsen followed, refusing to admit that he, too, wanted another glimpse of the girl. Down the passage he went in O'Brien's trail, till the boy vanished from sight. Arnsen increased his pace. He halted on the threshold of the cavern where the pillar of flame swept up to the roof.
He had thought it thundered. It did not—it rushed up in utter silence, shaking and swaying with the surcharged intensity of its power. The walls were crusted with the dancing, watching crystals. Now Arnsen saw that some were dull gray, motionless and dead. These were sprinkled among the others, and there were thousands of them.
O'Brien paced forward—and suddenly Circe was standing with her back to Arnsen, the gems clustering about her caressingly. She lifted her arms, and O'Brien turned.
A great hunger leaped into his face. The girl did not move, and O'Brien came into the circle of her arms.
So swift was her movement that Arnsen did not realize it till too late. The slender arms slid free; Circe stepped back a pace—and thrust O'Brien toward the tower of flame!
He stumbled, off balance, and the crystals leaped from Circe's body. They were no longer a garment. They pressed against O'Brien, forcing him away, thrusting, pushing. Arnsen cried out and sprang forward—
O'Brien reeled, was engulfed by the flame-pillar. The pouring torrent swallowed him.