It's not real! he raged inside his mind.

"Kill me, witch!” he croaked. “I am not afraid of you. You will not-"

The dreadful sensations surged and multiplied again to an impossible intensity, and Grimm gasped, only remaining on his feet by a supreme effort of will.

"I think we'll try this with a touch of self-loathing this time.” The Prioress sounded as if she were a physician prescribing a course of medication. “Let's see how you like this!"

Every fibre of Grimm's being clamoured for attention, a screaming chorus of anguish.

I can't beat her! She's too strong…

No! I am stronger! I am a Questor! I won't surrender!

"No!” The single, hoarse word tore its way through his vocal chords.

"I expected no less from the grandson of Loras Afelnor,” Lizaveta said. “Your resistance and strength are refreshing. However, I am in my sphere of power, and I can call on as much energy as I need to defeat you. I do wish I could spar a little longer with you, Grimm, but time is pressing.

"Let us try this."

Grimm closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, expecting more pain, but his eyes flew open and his jaw slackened as the spell hit him. He gasped, and tears ran down his cheeks as he felt his bones turn to water.

Joy! Pure, unalloyed ecstasy flowed through the mage, threatening to unman him as he rolled over onto his side, drooling and groaning in sheer rapture.

Grimm could not stop this new sensation from flooding through his embattled soul, and he found himself accepting his domination, welcoming it. The lone, faint spark of defiance, his only link to what he was, who he had been, surged briefly, guttered and died.

The past was unimportant; all that mattered was now. He might be thrashing around like a pig in ordure, but he no longer cared. He let the feuding emotions run through him, accepting that he was a worthless, despicable person and enjoying the fact.