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requests. Should she
fail to do so, we will know that you displeased her,” the first priest replied.
    “And your mate’s life will be forfeit,” the second priest
remarked, his voice as hard and cold as the stone floor at his feet.
    “I will do as you wish,” Navarre said.
    The three priests nodded. “We will pray for your soul,
Navarre,” they said, their voices blending as one. “May the goddess Shaylyn
accept your sacrifice, that your death will not be in vain, that the people of
Kenn may prosper.”
    One of the priests offered him a goblet filled with wine. “May
your death be as sweet as the fruit of the vine.”
    Navarre stared at the blood-red liquid for a long moment
before he lifted the jewel-encrusted goblet to his lips.
    When he had drained the cup, the priests stepped forward,
one by one, and placed their hands upon his head, and then they left the room,
and he was alone.
    A short time later, two men clad in black came to escort him
to the sacrificial chamber.
    It was in Navarre’s mind to resist, but his body felt
strangely heavy. Only then did he realize that the wine had been drugged.
    The Temple of Shaylyn was located in a large building across
the river behind Stone Hall Keep. He was hardly aware of the hands that grasped
his arms as they led him across a narrow, wooden bridge.
    The night air was warm, fragrant with myriad scents. A
million stars twinkled high above. He heard the questing call of an owl, the
song of a cricket, the rush of water beneath the bridge. The wood beneath his
bare feet was cool and damp.
    The Temple was made of finely hewn black stone. Narrow
windows were set high in the walls, the glass black and empty, like sightless
eyes. A single torch, set in an iron holder, sent shadows dancing across the
building’s façade.
    The thick iron-barred door opened without a sound, and they
stepped into darkness.
    “May the goddess bless you,” said the guard on his right.
    “May the people prosper,” said the guard on his left.
    He felt a whisper of air as they closed the door behind him,
heard the harsh clang as the heavy iron locking bar was dropped into place, and
then he was alone in the darkness.
    It was his nightmare come true.
    He swallowed hard as a hundred candles suddenly burst into
flame, and he saw the statue of the goddess, just as he had seen her in his
dreams. She was dressed all in white, seated on a white marble throne. Her hair
was as black as the night, her skin as smooth and pale as the marble itself. He
shuddered with dread when he saw the long black altar located to the left of
the throne, and behind the altar, an open casket made of dark oak lined in
black silk.
    And then, very slowly, the goddess opened her eyes. She
stared at him for a timeless moment, and then she was drifting down the stairs
toward him.
    He heard the whisper of her silken robes swishing across the
cold stone floor, the frantic beating of his own heart. He wanted to run, to
hide, but he couldn’t draw his gaze from her face. She was a being of
incomparable beauty, tall and slender, her movements filled with quiet grace as
she glided toward him.
    Her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. “Come to me,
my Navarre,” she whispered. “Come, quench my thirst.”
    He wanted to refuse, but he could not speak.
    He wanted to run, but he lacked the power of movement.
    And then she was reaching for him, lifting him in her long,
slender arms as though he weighed nothing at all. The touch of her skin was as
cold as a tomb. The expression in her fathomless black eyes chilled him to the
marrow of his bones.
    “Please…” Navarre forced the word past the terror in his
throat. “Please…”
    “Yes,” she said, “you please me very well.”
    She placed him on the altar and removed his cloak.
    He shivered at the touch of her hands on his chest, gasped
when her nails dug into the muscle of his left arm. She trailed her fingertips
over his shoulders, across his belly, along the inside of his