52

The second awakening for the Anmar princess was even worse than the first. She woke up on the altar, her hands chained. Stalactites hung precariously from above, like the fangs of ancient monsters. Nearby loomed a sorcerer. Deya went cold when she saw in his hands a wide knife that looked like a cleaver.

"Let me go, old man," Deamara said in a low voice. - Why do you need it?

He looked at her nervously. The broad knife quivered in his gnarled hands, momentarily blinding with a gleam of flame. For a moment the princess thought she saw the swift shadow of a tiger on the wall. The flame flickered and she was gone.

“If the Reaper does not want this power, I will take it myself,” his voice did not sound too confident.

He touched his hand to the girl's stomach, and she almost turned inside out from disgust. The old man withdrew his hand, as if frightened.

"I'll get ten years of life, maybe a lot more," he said.

A low, furious growl was the best sound Deya could hear here. A swift red-haired