Tiny beads of sweat stood out on O’Keefe’s forehead, and I knew he was thinking not of himself, but of Lakla.

“What do you want with me, Yolara?” he asked hoarsely.

“Nay,” came the mocking voice. “Not Yolara to you, Larree⁠—call me by those sweet names you taught me⁠—Honey of the Wild Bee-e-s, Net of Hearts⁠—” Again her laughter tinkled.

“What do you want with me?” his voice was strained, the lips rigid.