"By what right should you take it from her?" There is a cold sweat rising beneath the cheap linen of his shirt, and he must fight the urge to recoil, to flee as she draws nearer. But she is a predator, and if he flinches, if he shows weakness, then there is no doubt that she will fall upon him. Nor is running an option: not only is she undoubtedly swifter than his frail human body, but he has no guarantee, if he ceases to preoccupy her, that she will not find the woman again. Or some other prey, equally innocent.

No, he must stand firm, even as all animal instinct cries out to run and hide. If he falters, all is lost. He must stand firm, and he must forget the doom that no doubt awaits; fear will not serve him.

Pity will not serve him, either; and yet, he does feel it. He could not call her weak - he is certain, having felt the strength of her grip, that the creature before him could tear him limb from limb if she wished - but he can hear a desperation in her voice, see the hunger in her face, and that face is human enough still to bring a pang of sympathy. Once, he is sure, she was a living, feeling woman; that woman is still part of the creature, even if she is no longer living. There is a tragedy in it, that he will not deny. He wonders whether creatures such as her still fear death. He would fear it more, he thinks, knowing that her soul must be damned.