By Piers Anthony
Choice of sci-fi tales.
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The stench of it blasted out ahead, sickeningly. It swirled around the stone pillars and smirched the bait, burying it in thick scum. It reached across the gap toward them. "Not yet," Mat said tightly. Phog advanced almost to their station. The three stood, fascinated by it as always, but no longer panicked. They knew the power dammed in the relays, as the tribesmen did not; this time they stayed to conquer, not to run. The menacing bladders distended the filthy surface, no less loathsome for all their insubstantiality.
Phog threatened momentarily to fill in from the sides, capturing them. Even as he ran, Mat made a mental note to provide for the protection of his flank, perhaps with additional relays, if he escaped this time. Progenitor was puffing hugely, blowing out his white whiskers as he ran. Mat saw that the oldster could not maintain the pace for long. Yet there was no effective or honorable way to assist him; he was the grandfather. If only the beam were reliable, they could make a standPhoebus returned, overhead, and suddenly they were safe.
You are brave, you are a leader. " He set her aside, more gently this time. "I will kill the Runner if I can," he said. "Only living flesh will lure it into the cage. " Still she clung. " She flung back her head defiantly. "I have no strength, no courage. This only can I do-" Phog loomed over them, casting out its wispy tentacles. But for the moment Mat forgot it, discovering almost too late what courage was. This girl-this lovely woman the age of Sal-was asking to sacrifice herself to the Runner, that he might live.
Anthonology by Piers Anthony