“It is both strength and weakness that I am not easily saddened—not prone to melancholia nor bouts of general malaise. As I watched these offerings taking their leisure in the Mahak’s garden, I felt nothing but rage. This sacrifice by fire reeked of eldritch sorcery, but it was a familiar stench, for every culture on the face of Hebdomar still carried foul hints of its sordid bouquet. All manner of blood has been spilled in pursuit of divine favor, but an inordinate share belongs to women—to the young and the pure. Men great and small tremble before the mystique of female sexuality. They seek to squeeze it and bridle it—to see it throttled and, yes, destroyed. I do not deny that some mean spark may be released in its destruction, but to see such a power nourished? To cultivate it? To guide it through its fullest bloom? There lies a power to debase every haughty sorcerer and necromage—to bend every monarch and send crass thaumaturges screaming for their middens.”