“I had it in mind to use those words. Once before it was done, ages ago, and the Dweller rose from the depths. The Curupuri died—all but a few, who fled.”
She shrugged, and her knife flashed, slicing through the last thongs that bound Mason. He stretched cramped muscles.
“Tell me,” he said curiously, “have you ever seen any white men not of your tribe? Like me?”
“No. Never. I did not think any existed. Our priestesses had golden skin, not as white as yours.” She watched Mason speculatively. “You must wait. It will be dark soon. If you leave the hut now you will be killed.”
The hard anger was gone from Yana’s eyes; they were strangely tender. “You are not like the Curupuri. And—since I became a priestess—I have not known—love…”
Suddenly her arms were about Mason’s neck, her breath hot against his cheek as she strained against him. Mad torrents of passion seemed unleashed in the priestess. She whispered softly, “I have not known love. And—”
Mason tried to free himself. The girl drew back, her face hardening. She said, “No? Remember—you have not freed the white girl yet. If I should summon aid—”
Mason grinned wryly. Then Yana was in his arms once more. It was not easy to resist—no! Under the thin cloth of her garment he felt the alluring curves of her body.
Shrugging, Mason bent his head, touched the girl’s lips. He did not draw back. The moist inferno of her mouth quickened his pulses. Within the priestess was the hot soul of flame, breath of the searing Zonda that blows across the pampas—hungry passion that surged through Mason like a rushing tide.
She shuddered, moaned. A noise came from outside the hut. Instantly Yana pulled away, a finger at her lips.
“Wait…”
She disappeared outside. Mason heard her voice raised in dispute with a deeper one; then the two died slowly in the distance. He crept to the entrance, peered out. No one was visible nearby, though a few Curupuri moved aimlessly about the village in the distance. The sun was already low.
He would not have to wait long.
Two hours later it was dark enough to make the venture. The guard had not returned. He slunk out of his prison. The moon had just risen, and he kept in the shadows of the huts. A heavy club discarded by a dying fire caught his eye, and he confiscated it.
He moved toward the pyramid, a muffled chanting waking ominous apprehensions within him. He caught a glimpse of motion on the summit, and he thought he saw Alasa’s bronze hair, though he could not be sure.
Glancing aside at the lake, Mason involuntarily shuddered. What had Yana said? A Thunderer in the depths—a monster-god to whom the Curupuri sacrificed. In this dawn of history, could some strange survival actually exist beneath those sullen waters? Even in his day there had been legends of the South American swamps and jungles…
Chapter XI
Blood on the Pyramid
Mason halted near the base of the pyramid. On the structure’s flat top gleamed a golden throne, and on it was the mummified corpse of the former priestess. In the moonlight Mason saw Zol, the squat priest, standing there, and beside him a group of other natives.
And Alasa was there, wearing the feather robe, in the grip of two natives. The low chant grew louder. Abruptly Zol turned, removed the breast-plates and girdle from the corpse, and lifted the mummy from the throne. He swung the body thrice around his head—sent it arcing down till the black waters of the lake broke in a silvery spray.
The mummy floated briefly; then there was a brief commotion, and the thing was dragged down. It vanished. The chanting swelled to a triumphant roar.
Mason moved forward cautiously, the cudgel in his hand, as Zol lifted the feather cape from Alasa’s bare shoulders. She stood nude in the moonlight, a glorious statue of loveliness. Vainly she struggled as she was dragged to the throne, seated within it, her arms and legs bound securely. Zol beckoned, and a Curupuri
She shrugged, and her knife flashed, slicing through the last thongs that bound Mason. He stretched cramped muscles.
“Tell me,” he said curiously, “have you ever seen any white men not of your tribe? Like me?”
“No. Never. I did not think any existed. Our priestesses had golden skin, not as white as yours.” She watched Mason speculatively. “You must wait. It will be dark soon. If you leave the hut now you will be killed.”
The hard anger was gone from Yana’s eyes; they were strangely tender. “You are not like the Curupuri. And—since I became a priestess—I have not known—love…”
Suddenly her arms were about Mason’s neck, her breath hot against his cheek as she strained against him. Mad torrents of passion seemed unleashed in the priestess. She whispered softly, “I have not known love. And—”
Mason tried to free himself. The girl drew back, her face hardening. She said, “No? Remember—you have not freed the white girl yet. If I should summon aid—”
Mason grinned wryly. Then Yana was in his arms once more. It was not easy to resist—no! Under the thin cloth of her garment he felt the alluring curves of her body.
Shrugging, Mason bent his head, touched the girl’s lips. He did not draw back. The moist inferno of her mouth quickened his pulses. Within the priestess was the hot soul of flame, breath of the searing Zonda that blows across the pampas—hungry passion that surged through Mason like a rushing tide.
She shuddered, moaned. A noise came from outside the hut. Instantly Yana pulled away, a finger at her lips.
“Wait…”
She disappeared outside. Mason heard her voice raised in dispute with a deeper one; then the two died slowly in the distance. He crept to the entrance, peered out. No one was visible nearby, though a few Curupuri moved aimlessly about the village in the distance. The sun was already low.
He would not have to wait long.
Two hours later it was dark enough to make the venture. The guard had not returned. He slunk out of his prison. The moon had just risen, and he kept in the shadows of the huts. A heavy club discarded by a dying fire caught his eye, and he confiscated it.
He moved toward the pyramid, a muffled chanting waking ominous apprehensions within him. He caught a glimpse of motion on the summit, and he thought he saw Alasa’s bronze hair, though he could not be sure.
Glancing aside at the lake, Mason involuntarily shuddered. What had Yana said? A Thunderer in the depths—a monster-god to whom the Curupuri sacrificed. In this dawn of history, could some strange survival actually exist beneath those sullen waters? Even in his day there had been legends of the South American swamps and jungles…
Chapter XI
Blood on the Pyramid
Mason halted near the base of the pyramid. On the structure’s flat top gleamed a golden throne, and on it was the mummified corpse of the former priestess. In the moonlight Mason saw Zol, the squat priest, standing there, and beside him a group of other natives.
And Alasa was there, wearing the feather robe, in the grip of two natives. The low chant grew louder. Abruptly Zol turned, removed the breast-plates and girdle from the corpse, and lifted the mummy from the throne. He swung the body thrice around his head—sent it arcing down till the black waters of the lake broke in a silvery spray.
The mummy floated briefly; then there was a brief commotion, and the thing was dragged down. It vanished. The chanting swelled to a triumphant roar.
Mason moved forward cautiously, the cudgel in his hand, as Zol lifted the feather cape from Alasa’s bare shoulders. She stood nude in the moonlight, a glorious statue of loveliness. Vainly she struggled as she was dragged to the throne, seated within it, her arms and legs bound securely. Zol beckoned, and a Curupuri
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