Not that he required reminding. Leila had transformed the

sanctuary. His crude sacrificial altar on the pedestal of the old

fountain was gone. In its place, there was now an intricately carved

slab of solid gold, gleaming in the phosphorescent glow of the

bubbling pool that surrounded it. It bathed the area around it in an

eerie green light. Pungent incense burned in the bronze braziers

placed around the underground mall. The dusty, ruined shops and

restaurants, once filled with rats and rubble, were now palatial

chambers, elegantly furnished, hung with tapestries and lit with

torches, with sculpted columns that depicted unspeakable

perversions and acts of grotesque brutality, like the carvings in the

ancient temples of the cult of Kali. That was what the sanctuary

had become—a temple. A temple for a dark goddess. It looked like

some vision out of the Arabian Nights.

The dead woman, her skin as pale as the underbelly of a slug, set

a tray down on the low table before them. The tray had a decanter

of wine on it and two crystal goblets. She brushed against Kanno as

she moved away and his skin crawled. Leila was reclining on a

Roman-style couch. She was barefoot and wearing a robe of dark

green velvet, which clung to the lush contours of her body in a way

that made it obvious she was wearing nothing underneath. One

long, exquisitely shaped leg was exposed almost to her waist.

“Pour the wine, Kanno, ” she said.

He complied. Her fingers brushed his as she took the goblet.

“You’ve done well, ” she said. “I’m pleased with you.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Have you not wondered what my purpose is?” she asked.

“I have, of course, but I knew that you would tell me if you

thought it was appropriate.”

She smiled. “Are you afraid of me, Kanno?”

“No, Mistress.”

She raised her eyebrows. “No?”

“From the moment you appeared, my fate was in your hands, ”

he said. “I have no illusions that I shall outlive my usefulness.”