Greave had often told the joke, smugly implying that he was that very master. An inveterate seducer, he prided himself on his self-possession, but it eluded him now. The irony did not. Go on, then. Complete the deed. Not for anything could Greave continue, and now he felt the young woman grow cool beneath him. Then cold. Then freezing; the god had frozen her solid. Her fate will be echoed by every woman you touch, said his god, K’nacka, until you have paid for your crime and redeemed yourself. To ensure you do, I hold hostage your little sister, the one person you care about more than yourself. ‘What must I do?’ said Greave, fighting to remain calm despite the absurdity of his position. He glanced over his shoulder. The god had the form of a round-bellied man, a plump, jolly little fellow, save for the agate in his eyes. In the High Temple, on the Altar of the Seven Gods, there is a Graven Casket. Spikes closed around Greave’s fluttering heart. ‘The most precious treasure of the temple.
