Dravidian could listen to no more. Asmodeus had grown drunk on the dust and sought to r**e her! His mind reeled from the realization; it all made sense now: the prefect’s passion and grandiosity during the bulk of their conversation in his cabin ... his gradual mellowing as the dust released its hold—a prefect of the ferryman had become a common addict!
And now Shekalane was in danger not just of torment and death but of the ultimate violation—indeed, of the very thing she feared the most, the very thing which had made service to the Lucitor so repugnant to her. The notion filled him with despair: Was there nothing in Ursathrax that was not decaying? Must the integrity of the ferrymen wane also?
“I would rather open my legs to a snake,” he heard Shekalane hiss, and it sounded as though s
