For no peace offer was granted him now. With deadly fury Steve went to work on his opponent. His blows cut like the bite of an axe in heartwood: right and left to the body until Rodrik's mouth gaped like an angry wound, his knees sagged beneath him, his guard pawed futilely at the battering rams which bent him double ... then lefts and rights to the unprotected face, hard knuckles raising great welts on his fair cheeks, welts which tore and bled....
Then:
"This one," rasped Steve, "is on the house!" And he let it go. A hay-maker from the floor that caught Rodrik on his way down to meet it. Rodrik sighed once, wearily—then his eyes rolled back in his head. His legs seemed to melt beneath him; he sprawled on the floor like a flayed carcass.
Steve Duane bent over him, not again trustful.
"Had ... enough ... sweetheart?" he puffed.
Rodrik answered nothing. He had had quite enough. Too much. He was deep in the arms of Morpheus....
It was then Beth the priestess broke from her place beside Chuck to throw herself on her knees before Steve. Her dust-gold hair tumbled to the floor; beneath its shimmering veil she took one bruised hand and touched it tenderly, reverently, to her lips.
"Now canst Thou no longer deny Thy godhood, O Mighty Dwain!" she cried raptly. "For surely none but a living god could wage so fierce a battle!"
At another time, Steve might have laughed. But this fight had done something to him, too. It had filled him with an impatient fire which swept him free of all inhibitions.