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r thighs； a mockery in death of the way she had lived。
Sabat hesitated； hovering close to the bowing ceiling of the crypt。 In some ways he doubted the wisdom of leaving his body。 It still lived and the Reverend Spode had only to return and administer some unspeakable physical attack and Sabat would be prevented from returning to it。 Yet if he lingered within himself then they could trap his astral in the short blackout following death when he was helpless； and give only Quentin his freedom。 Surely Royston Spode realised that once Sabat slumbered his astral would be able to escape； or was there some ulterior motive behind it？
Certainly Sabat could not harm the living in his astral form； he could only attack Royston if the latter chose to join him on one of the planes and it was obvious that the evil vicar was going to be far too busy throughout the day…fight hours to do that。 In which case Spode had allowed Sabat astral freedom knowing that in this form he was relatively harmless and when night fell he would instinctively rejoin his body in the hope of somehow being able to avert death。
There was nothing to be achieved by remaining in this place of death and mutilation any longer。 He soared with a sense of relief down that wet cold passage； shot out into the open like a bat emerging at dusk from its daytime roost。 Almost with reluctance he entered the vicarage； now sensing the atmosphere of latent evil which he had failed to notice earlier because he had been blinded to it by his faith in a country vicar。
The hall and drawing room were empty so he made for the stairway； knew only too well that Royston Spode was here somewhere。 The landing was wide with several doors leading off from it。 He hesitated； almost turned back because there was no time to waste in idle curiosity。 But it would only take a few seconds and he had several hours left before nightfall when the coven would converge on their temple of worship to carry out the ultimate act of depravity。
The Reverend Royston Spode was in the third bedroom which Sabat entered； his spreading quivering body virtually hiding the girl who writhed beneath him。 Sabat's first sensation was one of revulsion； those rolls of fat which had possibly once been solid muscle were obese； the wobbling bottom reminding him of his oft…quoted quip about clergymen who grew fat arses by sitting on other people's sofas and drinking scrounged cups of tea。
Sabat moved lower； intent on seeing who it was with whom the clergyman copulated。 Of course； it was the West Indian girl； radiantly beautiful in her nakedness。 Her eyes were closed as she writhed and gasped and almost certainly Royston would not be venturing on to the astral plane in the near future。 Sabat left them to it； pitied the girl in spite of the fact that she had given him doped coffee； she'd had her orders and it would be more than her life was worth to disobey her master's demands。 Just as she could not refuse him now。
Sabat soared up into the summer sky； saw some diving swallows and envied them their freedom。 Below him the village resembled a toy model； growing smaller as he gained height； and he found it hard to believe that dangerous evil could be spawned in such a tranquil setting。 There was no sign of the Daimler where he had parked it； they had wasted no time in disposing of it。 Sabat's trail was already obliterated。
In due course he came to that barren wasteland which was his intended destination； that arid expanse where the final battle between the dark and light…skinned races had been fought。 Here he changed his form； a bearded； sweat…soaked warrior clad only in a tattered loincloth； experiencing the rigours of the merciless sun； scuffing blistered feet in the powdery silver sand。
Water holes beckoned and then mocked him by fading into the shimmering haze； palm trees that turned out to be stunted cacti when he approached them。 Sabat knew it was self…torture； masochism； that he could have used the shape of a desert bird to traverse the distance so much quicker； but this was the way it had to be； a pilgrim on his way to worship at the shrine of the gods； humble and beseeching his gods to grant his request。
The sun was past its zenith when he spied the battle scene； bloated vultures waddling amongst the slain。 Their cruel beaks speared dead eyes； their crops bulging with a glut of these delicacies。 Tomorrow； when they had digested their optic banquet； they would return for the deposing flesh。 Days later they would be gleaning the whitening bones and then there would be no way of identifying the slain forces of good from the corpses of evil。
Slowly Sabat wound his way between the bodies。 Eyeless sockets seemed to follow his every movement； the smell of death and flesh which was already beginning to putrefy hung heavy in the still atmosphere。 The slain stretched as far as the eye could see； rigor mortis capturing the final throes of agony。 Then a sudden movement halted him and he shielded his eyes； saw human forms； a hundred yards or so away。 Four of them； huddled cloaked figures； bowed with grief as they surveyed the carnage around them。
Sabat experienced a sudden chill； a shiver running through him in spite of the intolerable heat。 He turned； began to make his way towards them； a feeling of guilt causing him to avert his eyes。 For he had no right to be here； a trespasser in the land of the gods； one who came only when the final conflict was over。 But it was not over； an eternal struggle in which the forces of good struggled to repel the armies of evil； a battle won today would be lost tomorrow； and so it would be for always。
He raised his head； saw that all four of them were watching him intently； yet their expressions were impassive。 Three men and a woman； at least those were the forms in which they showed themselves to him； robed and cowled so that they might just have been desert wanderers who had happened upon the slaughter like himself。
'You came too late； Sabat。' The oldest of the men spoke with a heavy nasal accent； one that could not be likened to any race anywhere in the world。 'This day has been long although it is far from finished。 Warriors have been slain by the thousand but there is neither conqueror nor conquered。 And so it will always be； eternal strife and suffering。'
'That is why I e； my Lord Damballah；' Sabat spoke humbly。 'Greetings to you and your woman Aida Ouedo。 Had I a white cock and hen 1 would sacrifice them to you but all I see around me are vultures。'
'So be it。' Damballah waved a hand in the direction of his three panions。 'Today is Wednesday which is my day； Damballah's day。 Yet you may also address Papa Legba； the giver of opportunities； and Maitre Carrefour； the Lord of the Crossroads。 See； they even pay homage to him in this land of death。'
Sabat's eyes followed the pointing finger； saw a crude wooden cross some seven or eight feet high on which had been draped a tattered tail…coat； above which hung the remnants of a top hat。 The Lord of the Crossroads； indeed； was represented here but today it was Damballah； chief of the Rada gods； who manded worship。 Sabat was fortunate； any other time he might have happened upon the evil Petro gods and surely Baron Cimeterre would not have forgiven him for his treachery； first in the cemetery and later when he had put Maurice Storton's body beyond the reach of the Lord of the Cemetery。
'You risk your soul； Sabat；' Damballah warned。 'It is only the foolish and the brave who dare to tread this blood…soaked battlefield from which there is no escape except by the benevolence of the ruling god on that day。'
'I came because it is Wednesday；' Sabat kept his eyes on the ground； saw a scorpion scuttle beneath a dead body； 'otherwise I would not have done so。 I e to ask your help。'
'Even Damballah is wary of your treachery now。'
'My treachery concerns only Baron Cimeterre。 Surely you do not despise me for what I did to your sworn enemy； a Petro god。'
'No； but I cannot trust a mercenary in this eternal war between good and evil。 Yours is a selfish