As Hawksworth watched, he began to sense some alien power growing around him, enveloping him and his despair, just as she had said. Kamala seemed to be gradually merging with an energy far beyond herself, almost as though she had invoked some primal rhythm of life into existence. And as he watched the growing intensity of her dance he began to experience a deep, almost primitive sense of fear, a stark knowledge of life and death beyond words.
He found himself fighting to resist the force of some malevolent evil settling about the room, beginning to possess it and all it contained. He felt its power begin to draw out his own life, hungry and insistent, terrifying. And still she danced on, now only rhythms, her body dipping and whirling, her arms everywhere at once, her smile frozen in an ecstatic trance.
Forcing himself at last to turn away, he looked toward the musicians. They seemed entranced by her as well, captured by the delirium of her dance. He finally caught the eye of the drummer and weakly signaled him to stop. But the man stared as though not comprehending, spellbound. Her dance had now grown to a frenzy, surpassing human limits.
Summoning his last strength, he tried to pull himself up off the bolster, but he discovered his legs were no longer his own. The room had become a whirling pattern of color and sound, beyond all control.
Uncertainly he turned and began to feel about the carpet for his boots. His grip closed about a sheath of soft leather and he probed inside. There, strapped and still loaded, was his remaining pocket pistol. Shakily he took it in his hand, checked the prime, and began trying to aim at the long drum resting between the musicians. Now the drum seemed to drift back and forth in his vision, while the players smiled at him with glazed eyes.
He heard a hiss and felt his hand fly upward, as though unconnected to his body. Then the world around erupted in smoke and flying splinters of wood.
The shot had been timed perfectly with the end of a rhythm cycle, as the drum exploded into fragments on the sum.
The smoky room was suddenly gripped in silence. The musicians stared wildly for a moment, then threw themselves face down on the carpet, pleading in unknown words needing no translation. Hawksworth looked in confusion at the smoking pistol in his hand, not recognizing it. Then he threw it onto the carpet and turned toward Kamala.
She was gazing at him with open, vacant eyes, as though awakened suddenly from a powerful dream. Her breath was coming in short bursts, and her skin seemed afire. She stood motionless for a moment, then tried to move toward him, holding out her arms. After two hesitant steps, she crumpled to the carpet.
When he bolted upward to reach for her, the servants were there, holding him back.