the demonic twistings of the fiery cone which resisted quenching that made her
hair stand on end.
She was more conscious of Molin than she should have been. Perhaps that was the
reason for the superstitious chill she felt: she was about to be indicted for
attempted assassination and what-have-you, and she was worried about what the
priest really felt in his heart-about how she looked and whether he believed her
and what he thought of her… about whether anyone of her lineage ought to be
thinking infatuated thoughts about anyone of his.
It wouldn’t work; he was a worse choice for her than Critias. But, like Critias,
it was impossible to convince Molin of that.
It was nothing he’d said-it was everything he did, the way their bodies reacted
when their flesh touched. And it frightened Kama beyond measure: she’d need all
her wits now just to stay alive. Her father would take Crit’s word over hers
without hesitation; oath-bond and honor outweighted any claim she had on the
Riddler.
If she’d been born a manchild, it might have been otherwise. But things were as
they were, and Torchholder was her only hope.
He’d said so. He knew it for a fact. She didn’t like feeling weak, being
perceived as vulnerable. And yet, she admitted, she’d spread her legs on the
god’s altar for the man now coming up behind her, who slid his arm round her
shivering shoulders and kissed her ear.
“It’s wonderful, the timely workings of the gods,” he said in an intimate
undertone. “And it’s a good omen-our good omen. You must… Kama, you’re