Over the uproar, I heard the priest of Quetzalcóatl chanting. He was casting his own spell—raising his own demons, I saw, when I poked my head above the cases for a quick look. I could see the man clearly—he wasn’t bothering to keep under cover any more. He stood with one hand clenched on the jacket collar of the guard closest to him. The other hand held a macauitl . It was clear that he’d just used the obsidian-tipped sword—a warm river of orange-red gushed from the throat of the guard he held.