la is
old--centuries old. She renews her life and her youth by the sacrifice
of beautiful young women. That's one thing that has reduced the clan to
its present state. She will draw the essence of Valeria's life into her
own body, and bloom with fresh vigor and beauty."

"Are the doors locked?" asked Conan, thumbing his sword edge.

"Aye! But I know a way to get into Tecuhltli. Only Tascela and I know,
and she thinks me helpless and you slain. Free me and I swear I will
help you rescue Valeria. Without my help you cannot win into Tecuhltli;
for even if you tortured me into revealing the secret, you couldn't work
it. Let me go, and we will steal on Tascela and kill her before she can
work magic--before she can fix her eyes on us. A knife thrown from
behind will do the work. I should have killed her thus long ago, but I
feared that without her to aid us the Xotalancas would overcome us. She
needed my help, too; that's the only reason she let me live this long.
Now neither needs the other, and one must die. I swear that when we have
slain the witch, you and Valeria shall go free without harm. My people
will obey me when Tascela is dead."

Conan stooped and cut the ropes that held the prince, and Olmec slid
cautiously from under the great ball and rose, shaking his head like a
bull and muttering imprecations as he fingered his lacerated scalp.
Standing shoulder to shoulder the two men presented a formidable picture
of primitive power. Olmec was as tall as Conan, and heavier; but there
was something repellent about the Tlazitlan, something abysmal and
monstrous that contrasted unfavorably with the clean-cut, compact
hardness of the Cimmerian. Conan had discarded the remnants of his
tattered, blood-soaked shirt, and stood with his remarkable muscular
development impressively revealed. His great shoulders were as broad as
those of Olmec, and more cleanly outlined, and his huge breast arched
with a more impressive sweep to a hard waist that lacked the paunchy
thickness of Olmec's midsection. He might have been an image of primal
strength cut out of bronze. Olmec was darker, but not from the burning
of the sun. If Conan was a figure out of the dawn of Time, Olmec was a
shambling, somber shape from the darkness of Time's pre-dawn.

"Lead on," demanded Conan. "And keep ahead of me. I don't trust you any
farther than I can throw a bull by the tail."

Olmec turned and stalked on ahead of him, one hand twitching slightly as
it p