If those assurances that his life would be spared are indeed lies, now would be one way of ending it. Bent over the altar, his hips against the edge and trapped there by his captor, stopping any impulse to pull away. He is waiting for a blade to slit his throat and that would be the conclusion. At the word initiate it barely escapes again: "I'm not --" and his voice breaks and dies.

The chill of possibility in that threat, the feel of the man holding him, the terrible reality of what is truly occurring penetrate but one thing keeps him prone: The thought of what has already occurred, that he is uncertain of, as some crime he did not know he was committing. That he is apparently paying for. And try as he might he can think of nothing.

A quiver in his jaw that he forces to stillness, commands some control come back to his voice, but the word feels like sickness on his lips. "Please..."