It echoed with avarice, with deep dislike and ambition long denied. Suddenly Morg realized he was in danger. He thought his mind would twist apart then, so frantically did he try to break the stuporous bonds holding him prisoner. With outraged astonishment he recognized the acid emotion: fear. Fear? When was the last time he’d felt such a thing? Had he ever felt it? He couldn’t remember. No, no. It wasn’t possible. Morg—the supreme power of the world—afraid? Never. Or… never before now. But now he was helpless, trapped, at the mercy of this man who stank of a desire for death. Durm’s death. His death, for so long as he remained in Durm’s body. He’d thought to house himself in Jarralt next. In a day or two, once Durm was finally free of drugs and he could act unhindered. But here was the vessel now, fattened with plottings of its own and suddenly there was no time… There came the sound of timber scraping tile as a chair was pulled closer to the bed.
