"In other words," said Hildaborg coldly, "you will have yourself anointed Theocrat."
"The Moons have seen fit thus to honor my unworthiness," said Therokos. "But it would still be well if we should unite our forces. You have many loyal friends, my lady, myself not the least of them. If you will but wed me, we can together unite the factions in the city and build the Empire anew."
She smiled, almost a sneer. "Yours was a strange courtship."
"I have told you how the necessity grieved me," said the priest. Suddenly his voice came hard as steel, cold as winter and death: "It is now my duty to offer you a choice. Call on your troops to surrender, your followers in the city to desist from their treasonous activities, and wed me this night, or—" he paused—"burn at the stake for blasphemy and witchcraft. But first you will be tied down and every slave in the Temple have his way with you."
"That might not be worse than leading my men into your hands," she flared. But her face was suddenly bloodless.
"You will be surprised how much worse it will be—especially since your men will die anyway. But I will offer you this, too: if you call on them to surrender, those who do may go into exile."
She stood a moment in silence, and Alfric knew what a horror must be clawing her heart. Then she nodded toward him: "What of my protector here?"
"The heathen bandit must die in any case, that the city may know itself safe from him and the prophecy," said Therokos. "He still has his choice of easy hanging or slow torture. But if you refuse me, Hildaborg, he will no longer have the choice; he will go to hell by inches, cursing you for it."
The lovely dark head bowed. It was as if a flame had gone out. Alfric felt ill at seeing her thus broken, given over to a lifetime's prisoning—golden chains they would be, but no less heavy and galling. "Goodbye, my dear," he whispered. "Goodbye, I will always love you."
She made no reply, but said to Therokos, tonelessly: "I yield me, lord."