"He is safe enough," said Berild, answering Stark's unspoken question. "I drugged his wine so that his mind was opened to mine, and he is my creature as long as I will it."
Hypnosis, Stark thought. His nerves were beginning to do strange things. He wished desperately that he were back in the cell facing Freka's sword, which at least would deal with him openly and without guile or subterfuge.
Berild set her hands on Stark's shoulders, and smiled as she had done that night by the ancient well.
"I offer you three things tonight, wild man," she said. Her eyes challenged him, and the scent of her hair was sweet and maddening.
"Your life—and power—and myself."
Stark let his hands slip lightly down from her shoulders to her waist. "And how will you do this thing?" he asked.
"Easily," she said, and laughed. She was very proud, and sure of her strength, and glad to be alive. "Oh, very easily. You guessed the truth about me—I am of the Twice-Born, the Ramas. I hold the secret of the Sending-on of Minds, which this great ox Kynon pretended to have. I can give you life now—and forever. Remember, wild man—forever!"
He bent his dark face to hers, so that their lips touched, and murmured, "Would I have you forever, Berild?"
"Until you tire of me—or I of you." She kissed him, and then added mockingly, "Delgaun has had me for a thousand years, and I am weary of him. So very weary!"
"A thousand years is a long time," said Stark, "and I am not Delgaun."