Nick leaned on Kaswa and caught his breath. Now and again the snow curtain lifted enough for him to catch a glance of the lamasery. It was perched precariously on a great flat shelf of rock jutting out from the cliff. A clutter of low buildings built of stone and brick, all of which were a dull red-earth color. Ahead of them, perhaps a quarter of a mile, stairs cut into the living stone of the cliff twined upward.
The lamasery was indeed ablaze with light. Must be a thousand butter lamps going, Nick thought.
He went forward to where Hafed was resting by his pony.
He noted that even the guide was blowing hard. Nick gave him a cigarette which Hafed accepted gratefully and lit skillfully in the wind with his glowing punk-cord.
“How could they see us coming in this gale?” Nick asked. “Most of the time I can’t see five feet in front of me.”
Hafed cupped his cigarette against the wind and puffed. “They know, sar. They are She Devils, remember? Much powerful magic!”
Nick only stared at him, saying nothing. He was tempted to tell Hafed that he could drop the simple Tibetan act, now that they were alone, but he kept silent. Let the man play it his own way.
Hafed, with a hint of sheepishness, went on to say, “Anyway they always keep lookouts, the She Devils. They say they look for stray and lost travelers, to help them.” Hafed grinned at Nick, showing black stumps of teeth. “This I do not believe — I think they look for men. I think they would let a woman traveler freeze to death in this pass. Listen, sar!”
The wind brought them a braying of great horns and the resonant clangor of a single huge gong. The myriads of butter lamps flickered through the storm like beckoning candles in the windows of home. Hafed gave Nick an odd glance.
“We better get on, sar. They not like to be kept waiting, the She Devils. Very impatient people.”
As Nick started back to his pony he chuckled. “I’m impatient, too. For a hot bath and a clean bed and some sleep.”
Hafed’s laugh was borne to him on the wind. “Not count on it, sar. Bath and bed okay yes. Sleep I doubt I hope you are feeling stronger, sar. You will need all strength tonight! Also me!”
They found crude stables cut into the rock at the foot of the stairs and left the ponies there. The attendants were all old women in coarse robes of a dirty orange color. Their heads were shaven and they glistened with a pungent oil. They stared at the two men and chittered like monkeys among themselves in some strange Tibetan dialect.
They began the long climb up the rock stairs. High overhead someone was clashing cymbals. It was fully dark now and the stairs were poorly lighted by butter lamps set in niches.
As they climbed Hafed explained. “Most of hard work is done by the old devils. Young devils spend all time keeping pretty and making love.”
“I thought you said there were no men?”
Hafed gave him what Nick could only construe as a pitying look. “Not always need men,” the guide said curtly. “Other ways!”
Nick saved his breath for the climb. It had been a foolish question, he admitted. Naive. Lesbianism was bound to be rampant in a place like this. Probably as second best, he thought. After all, these priestesses, or She Devils, had been sent to this place because they had transgressed with men.
N3 thought he could detect a certain impatience in Hafed’s manner now. Either that or the guide was in incredible shape — he was fairly leaping up the steep stairs. Nick grinned a little sourly. Why not? Hafed carried no dablam with a wife spirit in it. He was looking forward, it seemed, to a hot time in the old lamasery tonight! Nick sighed and struggled upward. Judging by the women he had seen thus far— Hafed could have them.
Their entry into the Lamasery of the She Devils was a triumph played to farce. They were met at the top by a throng of priestesses carrying torches and beating cymbals. They were escorted through a huge gate to an inner courtyard of hard-packed earth. The women stared at them and waved their torches and giggled amongst themselves. Several of them pointed and made suggestive motions with their bodies, but none of them ventured close. They all wore orange robes and tight-fitting yakskin boots with curled-up toes. Their heads were shaven, but nevertheless Nick saw some beauties among them. Mostly, however, he noted the odor that permeated the courtyard and the remote crevices of the lamasery. The smell of a thousand women living in close quarters. At first it bothered him, but in a matter of minutes he found it not unpleasant — a compound of oiled hair and perfumed bodies and a natural femala musk.
Hafed and Nick were immediately separated. Hafed appeared to find this natural. After a short discourse with an elderly priestess who was built like a Sumo wrestler, in a language that seemed to consist of squeals and grunts, Hafed turned to Nick. “You are to go with this old one, sar. She speaks only their dialect, so you will not be able to talk with her. Maybe planned so, I think. Anyway she take care of you and later maybe you will be permitted to see the High Priestess— Dyla Lotti.”
“Permitted, hell!” Nick was tart. “I’ve got to see her — right away. This is no goddamned pleasure jaunt, Hafed.
Hafed leaned close to whisper. Around them the circle of orange-robed women watched and whispered among themselves.
“Better do just like say,” Hafed muttered. “Remember I tell you, sar? Can be dangerous if not handle right. She Devils are own law here. You see big ones around — those with clubs and knives?”
Nick had noticed them, muscular women with red arm brassards and carrying spike-studded clubs and long knives thrust into their girdles. He nodded. “Yes. What are they? MPs?”
Hafed grinned. “Sort of, sar. Much tough. You go now do like they tell — we not want trouble. I think Dyla Lotti come and see you maybe tonight soon!”
So Killmaster followed the fat old priestess down a series of long cold corridors lit by butter lamps. Finally they entered a room where it was actually warm and a great cauldron of water boiled. Here more old women were in attendance. Overcoming his initial resistance with deft skill and much chatter, they had given Nick a bath. Eventually he relaxed and enjoyed it. They bathed his private parts with no more ado than if he had been a piece of meat on a butcher’s hook, though one old crone did tickle him and cackle something that made the others laugh. Nick thought it was probably uncomplimentary.
He managed to retain his weapons, but only after a fierce struggle and much altercation. One of the old priestesses was sent to check — presumably with the High Priestess herself — and came back with word that the weapons were permitted. At least they gave up trying to snatch them from him.
On the lighter side was the awe with which the elderly priestesses regarded Pierre, the little gas bomb he carried between his legs in a metal cylinder. This occasioned as much cackle as a fox in a chicken run! They stared at him and spun prayer wheels at a great rate. Here was a foreign devil with three balls — and one of them of metal! N3 could almost hear the rumors starting, and visualize the clack that would run through the lamasery that night…
Now, as he fretted on the soft bed, he wondered about the barred door. Was he a prisoner, as he had thought at first, or was the barred and locked door to keep the younger She Devils out? He grinned. Once they had heard about his third testicle they might come looking, if only out of curiosity.
He lit another cigarette from his butt, stubbing the butt out on a couple of thousand dollars worth of rug. There were no ashtrays. He stared at the monkey again. Was that a glint of white behind the brass eyes? A watcher? Nick yawned and hitched the orange robe closer around his big frame. It was coarse and scratchy, but it was clean. God only knew what they had done with his clothes. All he had left was the robe and a pair of yakskin boots and his weapons.