Blood ran down her face. Her features were drawn to a mask of anguish. When she stumbled, one of the raiders caught her by the hair and jerked her upright. In the stand, Sark rocked with laughter. Then she was standing, swaying, in the crewmen's grip, beside Haral. Sark's laughter died. He leaned forward, thick lips working. His fat face was a study in sadistic fury. A hush fell over the crowd. He cried: "So, _chitzas_! Now you die!" The silence rolled like thunder. Haral stood wordless. He could barely see Kyla, out of the tail of his eye. She did not move. She did not speak. Only the way her breasts rose and fell too fast whispered of the conflict that churned within her. Or was it exertion, sheer weariness, that made her breathe so hard? Now, savagely, Sark turned on the blue man. "You, warrior!" He spat, and his face contorted. "Warrior? I'll teach you to call yourself a warrior, _starbo_! You talked bold, you _zanat_, when you rode in here with your _hwalon_ and your armor and your light-lance. But there's _kabat_ in your veins instead of blood. Now you'll learn to crawl, and beg for death!" Haral stood very still. A haze seemed to hang over the leering crowd, the blood and dirt, the yellow sky. How had Sark said it, that other time? "_Why have you come so long a way to die?_" Here it had begun. Here it was ending. This was his destiny. And here was Kyla. Here was Xaymar.... Xaymar, most beautiful of women, with a body to tempt a man to hell. Paradise, and infinite evil. His chance for power and glory. Xaymar, in a clinging scarlet gown. The smile still lingered on her lips. How had Sark lured her here, after all his treachery? But then, hatred made strange partners. And they were waiting for him to crawl. Recklessly, then, he laughed aloud. With a twist and a jerk, he tore free from the grasp of the raider crewmen and strode forward. He could see Sark's web-fingered hand knot convulsively on the cymosynthesizer switch. He laughed again, and made his voice ring: "Bring on your torture, _stabats_! I'll show you how a warrior dies!" * * * * * A spasm of rage shook Sark's gross body. His face grew purple as Ulna's peaks. "You _chitza_--!" His voice rose crazily, shrilly. "Throw him in the ring! Let the beetles tear his flesh from his bones! Stake him out and let them feast upon him before he dies!" A clacking of mandibles rose, a hideous, castaneting rattle. A thousand protuberant, multi-faceted insectile eyes drew into focus. In spite of himself, Haral felt the hair on his nape go stiff. The crewmen moved in to seize him. "Die with this thought, you fool!" Sark shouted. "Xaymar has pledged herself to share her secret with me! I'll have the lightning for my weapon! Die thinking of me with the universe in my power, Haral! Die! Die--" And then, for the first time, Xaymar spoke: "No, Sark." Her tone was flat, decisive, final.