Mercedes Lackey - Oathbound

And that had the demon thoroughly puzzled.

"I am here to try to convince you that what you are doing is wrong."

"Wrong? Wrong?" The demon laughed heartily. "I could break you with one finger, and you wish to tell me that I am guilty of doing wrong?"

"Since you seem to wish to live in this world, you must live by some of its rules -- and one of those is that to cause harm or pain to another is wrong."

"And who will punish me, priest?" The demon's eyes glowed redly, his lips thinning in anger. "You?"

"You yourself will cause your own punishment," the priest replied earnestly. "For by your actions you will drive away what even you must need -- admiration, trust, friendship, love -- "

He was interrupted by the sound of shouting and of clashing blades; he stared in surprise to see Tarma -- a transformed Tarma -- wearing an acolyte's tunic and nothing else, charging into the room driving several guards ahead of her. And with her was the platinum-haired child he had last seen at his own temple, telling his brothers of the rumors of Thalhkarsh.

But the blade in her hands was the one he had last seen in the sorceress' hands.

The woman at the demon's side made a tight little sound of smothered rage as the demon's guards moved to bar the exits or interpose themselves between the women and their target.

"Your anger is strong, little toy," Thalhkarsh laughed, looking down at her. "Use it, then. Become the instrument of my revenge. Kill her, and this time I promise you that I shall give you your man's body back." He plucked a sword from the hand of the guard next to him and handed it to his amber-tressed companion.

And the priest stared in complete bewilderment.

Given the weapon, the bandit needed no further urging, and flung himself at Kethry's throat.

Kethry, now no longer the tough, fit creature she had been, but a frail, delicate wraith, went down before him. Tarma tried to get to her, knowing that she was going to be too late --

But Warrl intervened, bursting from behind the crimson velvet hangings, flinging himself between the combatants long enough for Kethry to regain her footing and recover Need. She fumbled it up into a pathetic semblance of guard position; then stared at her own hands, wearing a stupefied expression. After a moment Tarma realized why. Need was not responding to her -- because Need could not act against a woman, not even for a woman.

And between Tarma and her she'enedra were a dozen or so followers of the demon.

But some of them were the ones who had so lately been sharing her own body with their master.

She let herself, for the first time since her awakening, truly realize what had been done to her -- physically and mentally. Within an eyeblink she had roused herself to a killing battle-frenzy, a state in which all her senses were heightened, her reactions quickened, her strength nearly doubled. She would pay for this energized state later -- if there was a later.

She gathered herself carefully, and sprang at the nearest, taking with her one of the heavy silken hangings that had been nearest her. She managed, despite the handicap of no longer having her rightful, battle-trained body, to catch him by surprise and tangle him in the folds of it. The only weapon the Shin'a'in had been able to find had been a heavy dagger; before the others had a chance to react to her first rush, she stabbed down at him, taking a fierce pleasure in plunging it into him again and again, until the silk was dyed scarlet with his blood --

Kethry was defending herself as best she could; only the fact that the bandit was once again not in a body that was his own was giving her any chance at all. Warrl's appearance had given her a brief moment of aid when she most needed it. Now Warrl was busy with one of the other acolytes. And it was apparent that Tarma, too, had her hands full, though she was showing a good portion of her old speed and skill. At least she wasn't in that shocked and bereft half-daze she'd fallen into when she first came back to herself.

But Kethry had enough to think about; she could only spare a scant second to rejoice at Tarma's recovery. She was doing more dodging than anything else; the bandit was plainly out for her death. As had occurred once before, the demon was merely watching, content to let his pawns play out their moves before making any of his own.

Tarma had taken a torch and set the trapped acolyte aflame, laughing wildly when he tried to free himself of the entangling folds of the silk coverlet and succeeding only in getting in the way of those that remained. Warrl had disposed of one, and was heading off a second. Kethry was facing a terrible dilemma -- Need was responding sluggishly now, but only in pure defense. She knew she dared not kill the former bandit. If she did, there would be no chance of ever getting her own body back. There was no way of telling what would happen if she killed what was, essentially, her body. She might survive, trapped in this helpless form that lacked the stamina and strength and mage-Talents of her own -- or she might die along with her body.

Nor did she have any notion of what Need might do to her if she killed another woman. Possibly nothing -- or the magical backlash of breaking the geas might well leave her a burned-out husk, a fate far worse than simply dying.

Now Tarma had laid hands on another sword -- one lighter than the broadsword she was used to, and with an odd curve to it. She had never used a weapon quite like this before, but a blade was a blade. The rest of the acolytes made a rush for her, forgetting for the moment -- if, indeed, they had ever known -- that they were not dealing with an essentially helpless woman, given momentary strength by hysteria, but a highly trained martial artist. Tarma's anger and hysteria were as carefully channeled as a powerful stream diverted to turn a mill. As they rushed her, evidently intending to overpower her by sheer numbers, she took the hilt in both hands, rose and pivoted in one motion, and made a powerful, sweeping cut at waist level that literally sliced four of them in half.

Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, a normally calm, analytical part of her went wild with joy. This strange sword was better than any blade she'd ever used before; the curve kept it from lodging, the edge was as keen as the breath of the North Wind, and the grip, with a place for her to curl her forefinger around it, made it almost an extension of her hand. It was perfectly balanced for use by either one hand or two. Her eyes lit with a kind of fire, and it wasn't all the reflection of torch-flames.

Her remaining opponents stumbled over the bleeding, disemboweled bodies of their erstwhile comrades, shocked and numb by the turn in fortunes. Just last night this woman had been their plaything. Now she stood, blood-spattered and half-naked as she was, over the prone bodies of five of them. They hesitated, confused.

Warrl leapt on two from the rear, breaking the neck of one and driving the other onto Tarma's waiting blade.

Eight down, seven standing.

Seven? There were only six --

Tarma felt, more than saw, the approach of one from the rear. She pivoted, slashing behind her with the marvellously liquid blade as she did so, and caught him across the throat. Even as he went down, another, braver than the rest, lunged for her. Her kick caught him in the temple; his head snapped to one side and he fell, eyes glazing with more than unconsciousness; Warrl made sure of him with a single snap of his massive jaws, then dashed away again to vanish somewhere.

Five.

:I come from behind you.:

Tarma held her ground, and Warrl ran in from under the hangings. The man he jumped had both a short sword and shield, but failed to bring either up in time. Warrl tore his throat out and leapt away, leaving him to drown in his own blood.