Both! This was too much. His own fury roused. He detested being invaded; hehated being an instrument, a pawn, the butler of one murder god, the batman ofanother.
He fought the heaviness in his limbs which demanded that he sit, still and popeyed, like Theron across the table from him, and meekly submit to whatevermanifestation was in the process of coalescing before him. He snarled and cursedthe very existence of godhead and managed to get his hands on the stout edge ofthe plank table.
He squeezed the wood so hard that it dented and formed round his fingers likeclay, but he could not rise nor could he banish the babble of divineinfringement from his head.
And before him, where a cup had rolled, wheels spun- golden-rimmed wheels of awar chariot drawn by smoke-colored Tros horses whose shod hooves struck sparksfrom the stones of the palace floor. Out of a maelstrom of swirling smoke itcame, and Tempus was so mesmerized by the squealing of the horses and thescreech of unearthly stresses around the rent in time and space through whichthe chariot approached that he only barely noticed that Theron had thrown upboth hands to shield his face and was cowering like an aged child at his owntable.
The horses were harnessed in red leather that was shiny, as if wet. Beyond theblood-red reins were hands, and the arms attached were well-formed and strong,brown and smooth, without hair or scar above graven gauntlets. The'driver'storso was covered by a cuirass of enameled metal, cast to the physique beneathit, jointed and gilded in the fashion chosen by the Sacred Band at itsinception.
Tempus did not need to see the face, by then, to know that he was not being