The Pythia plants her feet. She smiles, opening her eyes widely so as to take in the method of the upstart’s defeat. Then she throws a black bolt of the Dark toward the girl, lashing herself wildly to the hope that it will strike; but her eyes do not lengthen their gaze and afford her their passage. Instead, the girl catches the black dart of light in her hands, like a butterfly and, with a smile, stuffs it down her throat.
“I am Flamina, who was Tzipporah, who was Lilea, Mehgudi,” the girl tells her as she begins to grow taller beneath the Master’s fingers, her toes lengthening, leg bones rising, torso stretching until her long arms and subtle breasts are safely beneath his grasp. He straightens, then backs away as her back muscles split into two white fluffy wings the length and breadth of three men. “... I am the Pythia.”
Even as his hand massages her tender new skin, he screams it.
Mehgudi stumbles back into the void of her absent throne, unable to find footing on the slick stone of the Panopticon floor.
The metalic gleam plays closer on the walls; she can feel the cold of that glint stretching to eternity behind her. Her fingers clench out for one last bolt, her grasping hand straining for Flamina and her lover.
But then someone’s pale, dark-veined hand wearing charred gold ring tosses a silver-tipped cane out from the left like a thrown dagger. The spinning stick strikes with violent force across the backs of Mehgudi’s skull-ringed ankles, shocking those delicate tendons and sending her tumbling over herself, open mouthed and backward into the silvery slabs of the standing Mirrors.