her

pastry dough by a villain. . . . 
Whom they expected her to put under heavy manners for them with a nice sword, a fancy costume, and some B-movie dialogue.
Her. 
The final results are in and it's definite: the universe is without reason or sense. 
"How very odd," Belegir said suddenly.
"Wozzer?" Glory said, startled. She dropped her tote-bag, her hand going to her sword in a gesture that was starting to become automatic. It wasn't as if she thought she could actually use it on someone in cold blood, but it certainly looked intimidating. And she could certainly give them a good discouraging whack with the flat.
"That door oughtn't be open."
As though it had grown as tired as she was, the ornament and the cyclopean scale had both dwindled slowly and unnoticeably away, until Glory and her companion now stood in a passageway little different than the one they had first entered: a bare corridor of grey rock about twelve feet in every direction. Directly ahead, the passage ended. In the end wall, three steps led up to a plain wooden door secured with a drop bar.
To the right of the steps, on the level they were on now, another wooden door—the one that bothered Belegir—stood open. Bright purple radiance, as harsh and strong as desert sunlight, illuminated the room within and spilled out into the corridor.
"What's in there?" Glory asked, drawing her sword as quietly as she could. A random thought came to her: she wondered why the scriptwriters on TITAoVtS had never given the thing a name, like Bonecruncher or Headknocker or something. Maybe they'd been saving it for Season Two.
"Artifacts of the Time of Legend," Belegir said.
"Great. You wait here." She set Gordon carefully down beside her bag, and tiptoed cautiously toward the light.
Why