"I give blood. I demand it in return. I make no apologies for what I am."
Sometimes gods go wrong. They become grumpy, forgotten, and afraid. Manners are abandoned, and fear comes to occupy the love of the people who once worshiped them.
Syrox was such a god.
The wind rolled in like a ghostly train. No one heard it save a young woman, awake at an ungodly hour. Were she more practical, she would be safe in bed, but as most romantic heroines, lacked sense. She kept vigil by a temple window, clad in a simple white shift.
The words from her dreams echoed in the empty corners of the vestibule wherein she sat. Her rear ached, as she had lacked the common sense to bring a pillow and blanket. She paused a moment to scratch it.
"Woe betide this night," she murmured. "It is an ill-cold about my rosy flesh."
