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'No； but I cannot trust a mercenary in this eternal war between good and evil。 Yours is a selfish request； a plea that you might be saved。'
'No！' Sabat raised himself proudly to his full height。 'I ask not to be saved myself but unless I am spared； the duppy of my brother Quentin will be released to join forces with the Petro gods。 Only by saving me will you prevent this happening。'
'You are cunning； Sabat；' a faint smile flicked briefly across the parchment…like features of the Wednesday god； 'but as your soul is also Quentin's； how can I be certain that you will not reward me with evil； turn on me as you did on Baron Cimeterre。'
'I can make no such rash promise； nor would I attempt to do so；' Sabat replied； 'for at times； Quentin is strong within me。 But I will make one vow here on this bloodsoaked land。'
'You are honest and for that I respect you。 But what vow will you make； what bargain for your life。 You cannot guarantee me your duppy because it is not wholly yours； and after death it may go into the dark unknown。'
'I promise this；' Sabat's voice was loud and clear； shouting because distant thunder was rumbling； an approaching desert storm ing to whip the sand and drive it so that this day's battle would be buried and forgotten； 'that I will kilt he who is known as Royston Spode in the name of Damballah； and that I will destroy his duppy before it can leave his body in the same manner in which 1 did one called Maurice Storton。 And should it by chance elude me； then I will follow it into the black beyond and hunt it down like a savage beast。'
Damballah was silent for a few moments； glancing at Aida Ouedo and the other two in turn as though seeking their opinion。 Heads were nodded； shaken； then Damballah turned back to Sabat。 'It is a terrible vow which you make。 You will be held to it。'
'I vow！' Sabat spoke slowly； dropping his voice to a whisper； 'to destroy the line of evil that has been continued through William Gardiner into the person of Royston Spode。 And if 1 fail then you may take me。'
'No；' Damballah hissed； 'I shall not take you； for the Rada gods will have no use of you then。 The Petro gods will claim your duppy and doubtless Baron Cimeterre will exact a terrible revenge upon you for the manner in which you tricked him。 That is the price of failure。 Now go； return to your body and we； the Rada gods； will do our best。 But even we cannot promise victory； for the evil in that temple is so strong that we may not be able to breach its battlements。'
Sabat bowed； turned away。 The tension which had built up inside him now oozed its way out； droplets of sweat that evaporated at once and a trembling that had him shaking in every limb。 Now that the ordeal was over he wanted to hasten back to his drugged body； to rest awhile in order to prepare himself for whatever lay ahead。 For even Damballah； chief of the Rada gods； was not all…powerful； Baron Cimeterre and other lords of the dark would not concede their evil prize without a terrible struggle。 And Sabat was to be the rope in their tug…o'…war！
With some alarm Sabat realised that the heat of the day had lessened； that the sun had slipped towards the western horizon。 In a world where time stood still he had delayed too long； now he sped earthwards； a hurtling speck that could have been a hunting hawk； being a jinking； twisting bat as he flitted past the ivy…covered vicarage and honed towards that open square in the overgrown； disused adjoining graveyard。
It was the smell he noticed first； stronger than before； a sickening odour of rotting flesh and death； mingled with the acrid； unmistakable aroma of blood。 Terror such as he had never experienced before in astral form； fear that he had been away too long； deserted his physical body and left it totally at the mercy of the evil Royston。
Even as he entered the crypt the scene which he feared most greeted him。 His own body lay there before that black altar just as he had left it； but in the light cast by the twin candles he saw the blood 。 。 。 his features unrecognisable beneath the sticky scarlet fluid； his dark clothing saturated so that the material clung tightly to the body。 Royston Spode had thwarted him； sacrificed him before night fell。
And now that he was dead； Sabat's astral body was trapped in the wilderness of no return。
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROYSTON SPODE gave a final orgasmic shudder and sank his full weight down on the West Indian girl who lay spread…eagled beneath him。 He went limp； gave way to the wave of exhaustion which swept over him。 It had been good。 Very； very good。 He'd needed it in order to prepare himself mentally for this ing night and the terrible risks which he must take to achieve the ultimate in power。
He lay thus for about twenty minutes before finally withdrawing and extricating himself from his partner's embrace。 Alison； the bocor's servant girl whom he had snatched away from her master in Port au Prince； was perfect for his every purpose。 Sexually she was either submissive or aggressive according to his whim at the time； domestically she obeyed his every order without question。 A man could not ask for more than that。
He knelt there staring down at her。 Her features gave nothing away； her eyes closed because after copulation it was forbidden for her to look upon the satisfied body of her master unless he manded her to do so。 Her ultimate desire was to please him because he was her houngan； the one who had the right to dominate her mind and body。 If necessary she would die for him。 Or so it should have been。 He wondered 。。。 if he asked for her love she would give it outwardly but even he was not powerful enough to explore her innermost thoughts。 Just one little thing worried him； her expression earlier that morning when she had e to tell him that Sabat was in the drawing room。 In her wide dark eyes he had read 。 。 。 something。 Something that he had not seen there before and which disturbed him。 She had taken the drugged coffee in as manded； yet if one studied her closely； as Spode was wont to do； then there was a reluctance in her walk； her bearing； as though she would have preferred not to have administered the dope to their visitor。 It could have been his imagination； Royston tried to console himself as he donned the cassock of this false religion。 But； and it had always been a nagging worry since he had brought Alison to England； her bocor in Haiti had been a disciple of Damballah； chief of the Rada gods； not a good god but certainly not an evil one。 Did not other religions throughout the world indoctrinate their subjects from infancy？ Was he； Royston Spode； powerful enough to change her allegiance from Rada to Retro？
'Get dressed。' His abrupt mand had her scrambling up； grabbing for the long multi…coloured dress。 It was ripped in places； when he lusted for Alison's brown body he liked to take her that way。 And she had never once objected。 'It is later than I thought； we have mated too long and Evensong is but an hour away。 Already some of our followers will be there in the church in their eagerness for this long dark night to begin。'
She nodded。 He watched her carefully as she dressed； saw how her smooth flesh trembled and her fingers shook as she tied the sash around her waist。 Again he might be seeing problems that did not exist； for any woman who had orgasmed four times was entitled to tremble a little afterwards。
As he left the room he was reminded of Miranda and her treachery。 But on the most important eve of his creation he had other things to occupy his mind； and by the time he embarked upon the short walk from the vicarage to the church he had dispelled his doubts。 Alison was his mistress； his slave； and it would never be any different。 He could trust her implicitly。
Andy Drew's fears had been mounting throughout the day； and when he learned at lunchtime that his friend Jon Borth had been found dead on the road some miles beyond the village； he'd reported sick to the foreman at the small clothing factory where he worked and gone home。 Jon's horrific accident