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Achamoth scowled down upon Perscors, who grinned savagely back up at her from the surface of the rock and scrambled to his feet, prepared for a death grapple if need be. She shook her head, with an expression of distaste for his bog-stained body. As she turned away from him, a single disdainful gesture indicated that he was to follow.
Perscors hesitated as he watched her walk south along the lake. Northward lay the fire and Saklas, whose mother was now seeking to defer the end. A frenzy of desire for her, mingled with hatred, fought in Perscors with his own weariness of the quest, with his need to make an end of it, any end. Desire, the deeper need to lacerate the woman, to annihilate her disdain, won in Perscors, to his chagrin. Strength, which had enabled him to refuse Ruha and to evade Nekbael, seemed wholly lacking in him. Lack, he dully sensed, was his center as he followed Achamoth. He felt humiliated that he had no impulse to turn around and attempt the tower again.