I fell back.
"Another kiss," she said. "Unless I wish, there is no escape for you. Yet you may return to your home, though my power over you shall never wane. Once more—lip to lip."
I crouched against the wall like a terrified dog. She grew angry; her eyes darted fire.
"A kiss," she cried, "for the penalty!"
My poor Master s head, ugly and cadaverous, glared from the loom. I could not move.
The Crimson Weaver lifted her skirt, uncovering feet shapen as those of a vulture. I fell prostrate. With her claws she fumbled about the flesh of my breast. Moving away she bade me pass from her sight. . . . .
So, half-dead, I lie here at the Manor of the Willow Brakes, watching hour by hour the bloody clew ever unwinding from my heart and passing over the western hills to the Palace of the Siren.
