lures men across the desert to die. And the golden god, the king of evil djinn!”
Abruptly the old Bedouin lifted his camel-stick, shouted at his mount, turned in panic flight.
Drawing himself back from the apparition in the sky, Price drew his automatic and called to the Arab in a deadly voice:
“Stop! You aren’t going to run off. I can kill you quicker than all the ’ifrits in Arabia!”
Fouad sputtered and cursed, but he brought his white camel to a halt. His dark eyes, wide with fear, went back to the pass.
A tiger had appeared in the sky, above the spreading rays of rose and topaz. Huge as a cloud, its image was incredibly vivid and real. A sleek, powerful beast, magnified incredibly, floating above the jagged peaks. Its sides were barred with bright, rufous gold. Vast muscles bulged its thick, massive limbs. It looked down from the sky with tawny, terrible eyes, narrowed to black slits.
A curious, box-like saddle of black wood was strapped upon the back of the uncanny beast, like a howdah on an elephant. In it were two persons.
One was a man, golden-bearded, yellow-skinned, clad in red robes and wearing a crimson skull-cap. His face was sullenly cruel, marked with the stamp of sinister power. Balanced on his knee was a great spiked mace, of yellow metal.
The other was a woman, green-robed, reclining in an attitude of voluptuous ease. Her skin, also, was yellow; and her long hair, flying free, was red-golden. Slim, green-cased, her body was lithely graceful, and on her face was a perilous beauty.
Her slightly oblique eyes were tawny-green, oddly like the tiger’s. Their lids were darkened, as if with kohl. Her lips were crimsoned, her golden cheeks touched with rouge, her slender fingers henna-reddened. Hers was a loveliness exotic and sinister.
Fouad’s furtive movement called back Price’s eyes. He saw that the whole caravan had stopped. Even the tank’s clatter had ceased. He sensed the fear that ran electric along the line, from man to awestruck man, fear that might readily become disastrous panic.
The old sheikh had been edging his camel away.
“Keep still,” Price warned him, “or I’ll kill you!”
He was certain that the danger was not immediate, and he knew the Arabs would not desert without their leader.
His eyes went back to the picture in the sky, silent and awful in its magnitude, infinitely appalling for its eldritch strangeness. The yellow man’s crafty, leering eyes scanned the caravan. And the woman was smiling down, Price saw, at him.
No kind smile was it. Mysterious, enigmatic, mocking. Its evasive challenge raised in Price a vague and nameless anger; yet somehow the exotic golden beauty stirred faint awakenings of desire.
The oval, aureate face was lovely, alluring, yet subtly malicious. The greenish, tawny eyes hinted of hot passion, of burning desire and withering hate, of caprice unchecked by fear or law. They were wise with an ancient knowledge not all of good. They were bold with power unlimited and carelessly held. They watched Price, speculatively, tauntingly…
The yellow-beard moved. In both great hands he raised the spiked golden mace, flourished it over the pass, in a gesture definitely hostile, menacing. On his harsh face was warning… and hate.
The woman smiled down at Price, with a challenge in her tawny eyes, and ran slim, reddened fingers through the golden masses of her hair.
“See, Howeja!” Fouad hissed. “He warns us to go back!”
Price did not answer. His gaze was still upward, meeting the woman’s enigmatic orbs, giving challenge for challenge. His own eyes were hard. Abruptly, to the old Arab’s manifest surprise, he laughed, laughed long and harshly, jeeringly, at the woman, and turned away.
“A modern Lilith, eh?” he muttered. “Well, strut your stuff. We can play the game.”
Then, slowly as the picture had appeared, it faded, dissolved in the darkening amethystine sky, vanished. The fan of narrow rays died beyond the pass.
The
Abruptly the old Bedouin lifted his camel-stick, shouted at his mount, turned in panic flight.
Drawing himself back from the apparition in the sky, Price drew his automatic and called to the Arab in a deadly voice:
“Stop! You aren’t going to run off. I can kill you quicker than all the ’ifrits in Arabia!”
Fouad sputtered and cursed, but he brought his white camel to a halt. His dark eyes, wide with fear, went back to the pass.
A tiger had appeared in the sky, above the spreading rays of rose and topaz. Huge as a cloud, its image was incredibly vivid and real. A sleek, powerful beast, magnified incredibly, floating above the jagged peaks. Its sides were barred with bright, rufous gold. Vast muscles bulged its thick, massive limbs. It looked down from the sky with tawny, terrible eyes, narrowed to black slits.
A curious, box-like saddle of black wood was strapped upon the back of the uncanny beast, like a howdah on an elephant. In it were two persons.
One was a man, golden-bearded, yellow-skinned, clad in red robes and wearing a crimson skull-cap. His face was sullenly cruel, marked with the stamp of sinister power. Balanced on his knee was a great spiked mace, of yellow metal.
The other was a woman, green-robed, reclining in an attitude of voluptuous ease. Her skin, also, was yellow; and her long hair, flying free, was red-golden. Slim, green-cased, her body was lithely graceful, and on her face was a perilous beauty.
Her slightly oblique eyes were tawny-green, oddly like the tiger’s. Their lids were darkened, as if with kohl. Her lips were crimsoned, her golden cheeks touched with rouge, her slender fingers henna-reddened. Hers was a loveliness exotic and sinister.
Fouad’s furtive movement called back Price’s eyes. He saw that the whole caravan had stopped. Even the tank’s clatter had ceased. He sensed the fear that ran electric along the line, from man to awestruck man, fear that might readily become disastrous panic.
The old sheikh had been edging his camel away.
“Keep still,” Price warned him, “or I’ll kill you!”
He was certain that the danger was not immediate, and he knew the Arabs would not desert without their leader.
His eyes went back to the picture in the sky, silent and awful in its magnitude, infinitely appalling for its eldritch strangeness. The yellow man’s crafty, leering eyes scanned the caravan. And the woman was smiling down, Price saw, at him.
No kind smile was it. Mysterious, enigmatic, mocking. Its evasive challenge raised in Price a vague and nameless anger; yet somehow the exotic golden beauty stirred faint awakenings of desire.
The oval, aureate face was lovely, alluring, yet subtly malicious. The greenish, tawny eyes hinted of hot passion, of burning desire and withering hate, of caprice unchecked by fear or law. They were wise with an ancient knowledge not all of good. They were bold with power unlimited and carelessly held. They watched Price, speculatively, tauntingly…
The yellow-beard moved. In both great hands he raised the spiked golden mace, flourished it over the pass, in a gesture definitely hostile, menacing. On his harsh face was warning… and hate.
The woman smiled down at Price, with a challenge in her tawny eyes, and ran slim, reddened fingers through the golden masses of her hair.
“See, Howeja!” Fouad hissed. “He warns us to go back!”
Price did not answer. His gaze was still upward, meeting the woman’s enigmatic orbs, giving challenge for challenge. His own eyes were hard. Abruptly, to the old Arab’s manifest surprise, he laughed, laughed long and harshly, jeeringly, at the woman, and turned away.
“A modern Lilith, eh?” he muttered. “Well, strut your stuff. We can play the game.”
Then, slowly as the picture had appeared, it faded, dissolved in the darkening amethystine sky, vanished. The fan of narrow rays died beyond the pass.
The
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