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man this century！
Sabat slid behind the wheel of the Daimler and sat there staring across the palace gardens； unseeing except in his own mind。 Even now he thought he could hear Quentin's voice somewhere in the recesses of his own brain。 'I'm not dead； Mark Sabat。 Still I live on； for I am you！'
Mark Sabat felt the clamminess of cold sweat； his shirt clinging to his body； and in his mind he saw a wooded mountainside； a wide clearing which even the birds and beasts of the wild shunned。 For it was here that his own brother Quentin had chosen his final refuge； a bastion of evil in the mountains。 He had been known throughout the continents of the world as 'Satan's henchman'； pursued by the bined forces of the law who secretly hoped that they would not catch up with him； relentlessly hunted by Mark Sabat。 And it was in this very clearing that the final confrontation had taken place。
Sabat shuddered； recalled how his own extraordinary powers of exorcism had been overshadowed by those of the most evil man known to mankind。 Exhumed corpses lay beside the three open graves； further proof of what Quentin was about to do； a master of voodoo； a houngan in exile attempting to raise his own followers from the dead； an invincible army of zombies to do his bidding。
Sabat smelled again the cloying putrefaction of open graves； experienced once more his own utter despair when he had fallen into one； looked up and seen his brother preparing to pulverise him with a woodcutter's axe； the stench of burned cordite； the …38 which Sabat always carried bucking in his hand； Quentin falling； writhing his death throes on top of him； the final shot blasting that awful skull； stringing blood and brains on the damp walls of the grave like an old man's mucus。
It should have ended there and then with Sabat clambering out of that oblong hole； walking dazedly back down the mountainside； his mission acplished。 But it hadn't。 Somehow Quentin's own soul had merged with his own； good and evil in continual conflict inside a living entity； a man possessed fighting within himself for survival。 And still fighting。
And that was how it remained。 Sabat； one…time priest； latterly an SAS agent； until his indiscretion with a Colonel's blonde wife who wore black boots and liked to watch her lovers cringe before her； had resulted in his recent return to civilian life and now found himself the victim of a dual role。 At certain times the evil in him was too strong to resist and Quentin Sabat lived again。 On other occasions the forces of evil were thwarted by Mark Sabat's own ruthlessness； his own desire for revenge for what they had done to him。
The pendulum swung and Sabat could never be sure of himself； an exorcist with unbelievable psychic powers which might one day prove to be his own undoing。 Quentin had been silent for too long and now it seemed that he had been stirred by the sight of a face from the past； the cruel features of Bishop Avenson！
Sabat eased the car into the flow of traffic； could still hear Quentin's laughter somewhere far away。 Then he straightened up； gripped the wheel； and his jaw tightened。 Hell； if it was a fight the powers of evil wanted then it was a fight they'd get。 He felt the forting weight of the …38 in its holster beneath his right armpit； a boost to his confidence although its effectiveness was often limited against the foes he came up against。 Any weapon was better than none。
He drove steadily once he was clear of the city traffic； the tinted windscreen shielding his eyes from the rays of the dying sun in the west。 He checked the time： six…twenty。 There was no hurry。 Tonight he would install himself in his new headquarters and tomorrow he would begin his investigations。 To have rushed straightaway to the church without having first ascertained the full strength of the enemy would have been foolhardy indeed。 Time was on his side and the Church were footing the bill。 Sabat reckoned they owed him that。
An hour later he eased the Daimler into the drive of the small modern detached house on the outskirts of the village。 Once； only a decade ago； this village had had a resident parson but the Church hierarchy had decreed that the upkeep of a parsonage with dwindling congregations was superfluous。 So the impressive black and white building had been sold for an extortionate sum and a succession of curates had taken up residence in this modest new abode。 They had moved on to other places but it was anybody's guess where the Reverend Philip Owen had gone； Sabat reflected。 Something from out of the shadows had claimed his soul and Sabat must be on his guard to make sure that his own did not follow。 Quentin's influence was a dangerous weakness； the chink in his armour。
He let himself into the house and inspected it from top to bottom。 Neat and economically furnished； a typical bachelor abode。 Sabat laughed to himself； after all； he was a bachelor and in those few moments he was aware of a familiar sensation beginning to dominate the lower regions of his body； monopolising his thoughts。 Damn it； whenever Quentin reminded him of his presence Sabat experienced erotic thoughts； a kind of weakening of his resources。 Sex was his Achilles' heel； a driving obsession once he was in the mood。 And it was a long time since he had had a woman。
His thoughts flipped； rested briefly on the sensuous body of Catriona Lealan to whose sadistic pleasures he had submitted on memorable occasions until finally he had flogged her viciously in the castle dungeons of Armageddon because a mightier power had manded him to do so。' And Madeleine Gaufridi whom he had met in the Ice Palace on the Jungfrau。 And many others。 。 。 。
In those few minutes everything else was forgotten； Bishop Boyce and Bishop Avenson； and the reason he was here。 An obsession like a forest fire； smouldering at first； bursting into flame； leaping； roaring； devouring everything before it。 Sabat was； indeed； a man possessed； Quentin's jeering laughter Urging him on； his body demanding a mate when there was none available。 A crazed lust that had him tearing his clothes from his body； tossing them across the small bedroom； hating them because they deprived him of the nakedness which he desired。 Flushed and trembling he regarded his reflection in the full…length wardrobe mirror； that circumcision scar starkly white against the suffusion of blood in his erection； a stag at the rutting stand with no hind in sight。
'Damn you； Quentin；' Sabat cursed his own reflection aloud； his features twisted into a mask of fate； 'you play upon my only weakness。'
'You are weak； a mere mortal；' Quentin's words seemed to form on Mark's own lips； or perhaps it was a distortion of the mirror。 'Now you will obey the desires of your body。 You cannot disobey。'
Sabat flung himself on to the coverlet of the single bed； the springs groaning beneath his weight； then beginning to creak loudly； rhythmically。 His breath came in short gasps； his muscular body trembling with the strain； frustration and pleasure torturing him with unbelievable ferocity； a sprinter seeing the finishi