Ismeddin seized one of the torches that flared smokily at each side of the copper image, and plunged into the depths, three steps at a time.
"Snick-snick-snick!" whispered the slender knife as Zantut continued the ceremonial whetting.
"Christ on the mountain tops!" despaired Rankin. "Sharpen that knife and be done with it!"
Rankin sighed, and relaxed as the diabolical whisper of steel against stone ceased, and Zantut, pacing about the altar, passed his hands and knife through each of the five streamers of violet flame. The Dark Prince would this time be victorious without even stepping from his throne. And this was the last chance....
From the depths came the ever-increasing volume of a beaten drum.
"Abaddon in the darkness beats his black drum triumphantly!" intoned Zantut. And then he uttered a word of command, at which the assembled devil-worshipers knelt about the altar.
Zantut, knife in hand, stepped forward.
"Malik Taûs, Lord and Master, accept the sacrifice that Thy servants offer!" he intoned, timing his words so that the last syllable would be coincident with the final stroke of the gong. "Malik Taûs, the Night of Power is at hand. Malik Taûs, the broad moon rises——"
"Halt!" commanded a voice that rang like sword against sword.