They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of steps into the Temple dungeons. Alfric had been in enough jails before not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildaborg shuddered and pressed closer to him. A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell and died raggedly into the echoes. The priest smirked. "A heretic is being shown the error of his ways," he said unctuously. "He blasphemed against the Moons and swore he would abide by the Empress." "Then the gods abide by him," said Hildaborg defiantly. The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill's heart, and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few scant inches between--miles between, a world between, thought Alfric wearily--he would never kiss her again-- The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildaborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: "What can we do?" "Nothing, now." The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity, and relaxed. "Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise--die." "I don't want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and feel the wind and bear your sons." "I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to Aslak--" "But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should die too--" Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark. He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence. Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest. * * * * * He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering-cold. When he spoke, his voice was wondrous, a deep organ which he played like a master musician. "So we meet again, your majesty," he said, and bowed. There was little mockery in his tones; he seemed straightforward and businesslike. Hildaborg did not answer. She stood with her beauteous form in its ragged soldier's tunic pressed against the wall. Her sweat-dampened black hair clung to her forehead, fell down her shoulders in a shining wave. In the restless torchlight, her face was white and drawn, streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears, but she gave the High Priest glance for glance and her lips were steady. Therokos looked Alfric's tall form up and down. "And so you are the conqueror of the prophecy," he murmured. "A mighty man--but just how did you think you could do it? Who are your allies in the city? What was your plan?"