Padway frowned at Julia's large bare feet. "Just— hic— just a minute, my bounding hamadryad. Let's see those feet." The soles were black. "That won't do. Oh, it absolutely won't do, my lusty Amazon. The feet present an insur—insurmountable psychological obstacle."
"Huh?"
"They interpose a psychic barrier to the— hic— appropriately devout worship of Ashtaroth. We must lave the pedal extremities—"
"I don't understand."
"Skip it; neither do I. What I mean is that we're going to wash your feet first."
"Is that a religion?"
"You might put it that way. Damn!" He knocked the ewer off its base, miraculously catching it on the way down. "Here we go, my Tritoness from the wine-dark, fish-swarming sea . . ."
She giggled. "You are the nicest man. You are a real gentleman. No man ever did that for me before . . ."
Padway blinked his eyes open. It all came back to him quickly enough. He tightened his muscles seriatim. He felt fine. He prodded his conscience experimentally. It reacted not at all.
He moved carefully, for Julia was taking up two-thirds of his none-too-wide bed. He heaved himself on one elbow and looked at her. The movement uncovered her large breasts. Between them was a bit of iron, tied around her neck. This, she had told him, was a nail from the cross of St. Andrew. And she would not put it off.