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'My God！' Sabat glanced back at that coffin。 * The meat for this unholy night's banquet is already cooking！ Nevillon has arisen and claimed his victim and his astral body has already fled； leaving behind it a useless shell。 But who cooks in the oven？'
There was only one way to find out。 Those long fingers which had somehow gnarled and cracked this last hour closed over the door handle； yanked it back。 Thick choking steam billowed out； scalding fog that hid the horrors of that dark recess。 Something moved； a bulky blistering roasting shape that had been resting against the door； a monster emerging from its hell…hot lair！
Sabat recoiled； saw smoking hands clawing through the steam； groping for him。 A head； the shape was right but where there should have been features there were only blackened lumps and orijices； eyes that stared pain and malevolence out of charred sockets。 Unrecognisable； a half…cooked thing that wheezed whispered screams of agony amidst clouds of nauseating vapour。 And still lived！
Sabat's brain reeled； he felt terror clutching at his heart； revulsion but not pity because Pierre de Lancre was beyond pity。 The steaming fat on that still…living form thinned； he saw it more clearly。 Breasts that had once been shapely were shrivelled by the heat； nipples scorched but still hard and firm like glowing cinders。 Hairless； a head that bobbed up and down； the mouth twisted into mute shrieks of pain。 A hand found his jacket； clutched at it with roasted fingers that were no longer slender and shapely； tried to drag itself up on him。 He felt the dry hot breath on his face like a gust of wind across an arid desert； even the wounded of Armageddon never suffered a fate such as this！ He lip…read his own name on those moving lips。 'Sabat。。。 Sabat。。。 help me！'
Revulsion powered the short left jab； his bunched knuckles striking that face； throwing it back。 The girl； for it was undoubtedly female； hit the floor； lay there looking up at him； hurt in those eyes； a dog that had been struck by its master when all it sought was affection。 'Sabat。。。 help me！'
Recognition now； physically the girl could have been anybody； any age； that blackened bald head belonging to a horrific hag from an age…old fable graphically illustrated by a twisted artist。 Yet that body； charred but still alive； seductive even in the ultimate agony and degradation； could have belonged to only one person。
'Madeleine Gaufridir Sabat's whisper was loud； a hoarse shout of shocked horror that never made it to full volume。
'Sabat。。。 help me。。。 Sabat！'
'I am not Sabat。 Nor Quentin。 I am Pierre de Lancre； witchfinder。 Would I rescue you from the burning stake？'
She flinched as though he was about to strike her again； fell back。 She knew； oh God； how she knew now！ She saw his features as they once had been in another place； another life。 Her festered lips closed tightly to choke back yet another plea for mercy because she knew the futility of pleading with this terrible man； one who was more malevolent in his own way than even her beloved Louis。
He looked into her eyes； read her silent plea。 'Kill me； Sabat。 Please！ I ask nothing else but that you end this agony for me； if only for what has been between us。'
Sabat stepped back； slid the ？38 out of its holster； its cold steel soothing to his hot hand。 He held it loosely at hip level in the manner of a western gunfighter； his decision was made； all he had to do was to go through with it。 His fingers curled over the trigger； the first pressure。
'So Louis betrayed you in the end。* Sabat wondered if he spoke or whether he just heard his own thoughts； his utter contempt for one who had e back from the guillotine and rejected the only one who was loyal to him。 'You must die； Madeleine； and this time you will not return。 But take this one forting thought to the black beyond with you。 Louis Nevillon has fled to the astral； to skulk there until he chooses to be reborn。 But I shall seek him out there； for only I can follow him to such a place； and then my vengeance will be more terrible than had I found him here。 Goodbye； Madeleine！'
The ？38 crashed once； bucked in his hand。 He saw that burned face disintegrate into a crimson mulch； the squatting body holding upright for a second or two as though it was unwilling to capitulate。 Then； slowly； it fell back； hit the stone floor almost sedately。 In death； as in life； Madeleine of the many aliases bowed out with dignity。
Sabat turned away； holstered his smoking weapon。 Already the tragedy of a young girl possessed was pushed from his mind； his puter…like brain devouring data for the next move。 He looked down into the coffin again。 There was no doubt that only a dead physical body reposed there； flesh which would begin to depose now that its evil soul had departed for another world。 He could have destroyed it but there was no point because when Nevillon returned he would use a different body； just as Quentin had until Pierre de Lancre had proved his superiority。
There was no time to be wasted。 Sabat groped in his small breast pocket； plucked out a half…length of white chalk which always reposed there and which he had only remembered now。 It had had its uses before just as it would again someday。
He would have liked more time to prepare the room but time was never a plentiful modity on Walpurgisnacht。 The floor should have been swept clean to remove any particle of dirt which might have hid an evil entity； he had neither silver chalices nor charged water。 Everything in this place was evil。
He must rely solely on the crudely chalked pentagram to protect his mortal body。 Symmetry was overlooked； the huge five…pointed star within the circle merely symbolic。 It might not be enough but that was a chance he had to take。 There was no point in undressing； no means to seal the nine openings of his body。 He had to place his total reliance upon himself； his faith； and Pierre de Lancre。
He lay on that pile of blankets where he had copulated with Madeleine。 They were still damp； he prayed that the wetness was from his own spilled seed and not the cold semen of the risen dead； the veritable spawn of evil。 So much was against him that he had to disregard it all。 Never before had he ignored so many precautions； taken such a multitude of risks when departing for the astral plane。 A universe of hiding places lay ahead of him； a billion secret refuges for one who sought to escape him。 His task was an impossibility； but he still had to try and he had no guarantee of returning。
He tried to relax。 It wasn't easy。 The darkness outside the pentagram was alive； forces that gathered like swarming bees scenting honey in a closed hive； they just had to find the way in。 Shouting； screaming； Quentin's voice loudest amongst them； but Sabat ignored them； for if they broke through his defences there was no way he could stop them。
His breathing became rhythmical。 He told himself that he was not Mark。 Nor Quentin。 He had bee Pierre de Lancre the witchfinder called from the dark past to inhabit a willing body and to live again。 He felt tired； a pleasant drifting sensation mat left those screaming demons from the dark beyond behind。
Floating in a night sky； a million stars and he could have gone to any he chose。 Time came and went but Sabat had to go back； retrace the centuries。
Floating through a dark starless void and he knew he was on the right trail。 Somewhere ahead he made out a faint grey light。 Dawn。。。 not a new day but an old one。 Very old。
He could even smell the rotting vegetation of a place where decay had its own stranglehold and time had stood still。 Waiting for those who dared to return。
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SABAT GOT the feeling that he had been to this place before and accepted it unquestioningly； for he was Pierre de Lancre and he must follow where the witchfinder led。 As Sabat he could have hunted in vain for eternity； as de Lancre he stood a chance of finding that which he sought reasonably quickly。
A land that was old and would remain so until the end of time。 Again it was vaguely recognisable。 Labourd perhaps。 It did not really matter for this was the second astral plane。
He changed form； a small bat flitting insignificantly through the night sky； a creature that was monplace enough； weaving and jinking against a silvery moon。 Below him was a wooded landscape； interspersed with muddy cart…tracks。 The whole countryside slept； peasant hovels with no lights showing。 Rural desolation。
He flew on； mile after mile； letting his instinct take over； plete faith in Pierre de Lancre； not knowing what he was searching for but trusting in the witchfinder。 And then at last he saw the chateau on the hillside and found himself homing in on it。
Once it had housed aristocracy； now it was a shambling shell of its former edifice。 Creeping ivy had taken over to the detriment of the stonework； three of the four turrets already having crumbled。 The extensive grounds stretched up to the surrounding forest； a mass of thic