Free The Tale of the Body Thief by Anne Rice

myself well beyond the place where my body tended to stop and begin to float of its own accord. Finally I could not breathe, as the air was very thin, and it took a great effort to support myself at this height.
    Then the light came. So immense, so hot, so blinding that it seemed a great roaring noise as much as a vision filling my sight. I sawyellow and orange fire covering everything. I stared right into it, though it felt like scalding water poured into my eyes. I think I opened my mouth as if to swallow it, this divine fire! The sun was mine suddenly. I was seeing it; I was reaching for it. And then the light was covering me like molten lead, paralyzing me and torturing me beyond endurance, and my own cries filled my ears. Still I would not look away, still I would not fall!
    Thus I defy you, heaven! And there were no words suddenly and no thoughts. I was twisting, swimming in it. And as the darkness and the coldness rose up to envelop me—it was nothing but the loss of consciousness—I realized that I had begun to fall.
    The sound was the sound of the air rushing past me, and it seemed that the voices of others were calling to me, and through the horrid mingled roar, I heard distinctly the voice of a child.
    Then nothing … 
    Was I dreaming?
    We were in a small close place, a hospital smelling of sickness and death, and I was pointing to the bed, and the child who lay on the pillow, white and small and half dead.
    There was a sharp riff of laughter. I smelled an oil lamp—that moment when the wick has blown out.
    “Lestat,” she said. How beautiful her little voice.
    I tried to explain about my father’s castle, about the snow falling, and my dogs waiting there. That’s where I had wanted to go. I could hear them suddenly, that deep baying bark of the mastiffs, echoing up the snow-covered slopes, and I could almost see the towers of the castle itself.
    But then she said:
    “Not yet.”
    I T WAS night again when I awoke. I was lying on the desert floor. The dunes bestirred by the wind had spread a fine mist of sand over all my limbs. I felt pain all over. Pain even in the roots of my hair. I felt such pain I couldn’t will myself to move.
    For hours I lay there. Now and then I gave a soft moan. It made no difference in the pain I felt. When I moved my limbs even a little, the sand was like tiny particles of sharp glass against my back and my calves and the heels of my feet.
    I thought of all those to whom I might have called for help. I did not call. Only gradually did I realize that if I remained here, the sun would come again, naturally enough, and I would be caught once more and burned once more. Yet still I might not die.
    I had to remain, didn’t I? What sort of coward would seek shelter now?
    But all I had to do was look at my hands in the light of the stars to see that I was not going to die. I was burnt, yes, my skin was brown and wrinkled and roaring with pain. But I was nowhere near death.
    At last I rolled over and tried to rest my face against the sand, but this was no more comforting than staring up into the stars.
    Then I felt the sun coming. I was weeping as the great orange light spilled over all the world. The pain caught my back first and then I thought my head was burning, that it would explode, and that the fire was eating my eyes. I was mad when the darkness of oblivion came, absolutely mad.
    When I awoke the following evening, I felt sand in my mouth, sand covering me in my agony. In that madness, I’d apparently buried myself alive.
    For hours I remained so, thinking only that this pain was more than any creature could endure.
    Finally I struggled to the surface, whimpering like an animal, and I climbed to my feet, each gesture pulling at the pain and intensifying it, and then I willed myself into the air and I started the slow journey west and into the night.
    No diminishing of my powers. Ah, only the surface of my body had been deeply harmed.
    The wind was infinitely softer than the