“And that's when she laid hell upon them, the slugs, slaughtering them, one at a time, every which way, without thought or reason or heedfulness. And she tells that while she was doing it her blood went crazy--the blood in all her veins boiled and beat like a drum and made her see black hell everywhere she looked, and made her monstrous with the sin of vanity, the sin of thinking herself immortal like the iron giant. She tells of bringing the gurkha blade down and relishing the thunk of it getting buried in a skull, the wicked enjoyment of it, the heinous illusion that her death-mongering was righteous, that her touch was a sword of light--and the passion, the deep down lust that drove her to strike out to the right and left, as though her body were hungry for death--as though she had become one of them and would consume black death and eat the very souls of the living if she knew where to find them. Such is the demon in her.”