Mahbub's hand on his neck bowed him to the floor, nose within an inch of the boards.
'Be still.

No harm comes to thee, my son.

I am thy sacrifice!' He could not see what the woman was about, but heard the dish-clash of her jewellery for many minutes.

A match lit up the darkness; he caught the well-known purr and fizzle of grains of incense.

Then the room filled with smoke--heavy aromatic, and stupefying.