Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Harque continued to smile and talk to what only she could see. “I knew you would come back for another taste of demon-ridden power.” She laughed, and it rose up and down until she hiccuped. “I knew you wanted power.” She seemed to lose sight of the phantom and squinted round the room. Her eyes found the real Keleios and stared. “I wanted power. I wanted it, but you took it, you took it.”

Harque had been a tall woman and still in the shadow of her youthful beauty when Keleios had come and foiled years ago. Now she was stooped and crippled with age. Surely just a few years could not have changed her so. The woman began to argue with herself, imitating Keleios’ voice of years past. The two voices debated in well worn circles.

“I gave up my youth, my beauty, my health, for power. What have you given up?”

“I risked my life, my eternal soul, and I succeeded.”

“No!”

“Yes, I did what you were afraid of doing, and now you have bargained away the youth and strength that would have let you follow me.”

“Liar, you came for power, you wanted to go into the pit.”

“The pit where even Harque the Witch fears to go. I was a child. I was afraid.”

The witch buried her face in her hands but still spoke as Keleios. “You killed my mother. I came for vengeance, not power. Yet I who did not seek have found it, and you who have sought long have little to show for the search.”

Six years ago Keleios could have killed her. Harque was strong, powerful, and evil. Now pity moved where Keleios thought she could feel none. She sheathed Ache silvestri and locked him in place; he did not want to go. Keleios crept forward, elven silent, and spread the lengths of the bloody necklace apart. She chanted silently the binding spell of the necklace. Leaving Harque alive was worse punishment. The necklace hovered over the grey head, but the witch moved lightning fast.

Harque scuttled from the chair and crouched only a few feet away; the face slipped. It was the same yet oddly shaped, and the arms grew longer, claws for hands.

Keleios unlocked Ache silvestri’s sheath, back-stepped to get the room’s two doors in view and still not lose sight of the shapeshifting demon. The far door opened, and Harque stepped through, still tall and proudly beautiful. Her eyes were covered by two leathern patches. Her dress was cream with a soft grey cloak thrown over one shoulder, and she smiled a welcome. “Keleios, how wonderful to meet again after all these years.”

The second door opened, and men came through bearing weapons. They each wore the hooded cowl of the shadow worshippers. They were only six, but magic glittered off their weapons and at least one sword dripped venom in slow heavy drops.

The long-armed shapeshifter leapt at her. She swung the necklace and caught it a solid blow across the face. It fell bleeding and stunned. She slipped the gold links across his thin shoulders, whispered words of entrapment, and said, “Aid my friends in finding me, and let no harm come to them. Now go.”

The men circled warily as the little one disappeared. The necklace meant that Alharzor was dead, and that was not an easy task.

The room itself had been trapped, and she could not teleport out. Witchery locked her here, and the shadow worshippers advanced.

“Take her.” Harque’s impatient voice cut through their waiting.

One man said, “But she has slain Alharzor.”

“Nonsense. She is an enchanter and broke the binding. Alharzor has fled home, and she kept the necklace. Do you think one lone girl could kill him?”

They didn’t and were reassured, and Keleios didn’t want them reassured. “Alharzor died because she told him not to kill me. He could have saved himself by slaying me, but he was bound and he died. And”— her voice changed, deepened, as she whirled the silver sword—“he is not truly gone from you. His power exists here within me.” Keleios could feel Alharzor’s power like a second pulse inside the sword, and all that power was hers to call upon.

They shuffled nervously, uncertain.

Harque threw a handful of powder into them, and the ones that it touched screamed. “Get her alive. All those who survive will be given unlimited freedom with the girls. I swear by Shadow.”

The hesitation was gone.

Keleios tried one last thing. “No woman is worth dying for.”

The one who carried the poisoned sword said, “These are.”

They rushed forward, the one with the poisoned sword closing first. Aching silver sang in her hands, cutting under the upraised blade, finding the heart and slicing through the rib cage like butter. Alharzor was there, his power strong and vital, beating with her and the sword. Blue flame flowed from the sword up to her shoulders; with each death the sword sang more sweetly. It crooned in her mind like a lover’s voice, but it spoke of cutting and blood and made them beautiful. The grey-robed men fell at her feet, and she remembered little of the fight after that first kill.

When they all lay dead, she breathed as if coming from deep water. The sword sang in her head, not Alharzor’s power, but the sword itself. The demon was inside the sword, and suddenly Keleios knew the sword could swallow her just as easily. In one screaming image she knew where the real danger lay. Keleios shoved every sorcerous ward she had inside her head, protection against mind-control spells. It was like crashing walls, thudding into place inside herself. She was isolated, unaware of anything but the sudden silence inside her head. She opened her eyes and her mind, cautiously.

Harque held a silver whistle to her lips. How long she had been calling, Keleios did not know, but something large was dragging itself through the near door. The demon that looked like walking mud flowed through the door. The sword sang a death song. It had never taken a demon like this one before. But Keleios didn’t want to have to fight the sword again so soon.

The sword complained bitterly, but Keleios pointed her hand at the jelly mass and thought of fire. Fire that roared, gleamed, raised a sweat on her body. A fireball shot forward and splattered harmlessly. She needed more power than that. The sword promised power, but Keleios did not feel ready to trust the sword. She cleaned the blade automatically before re-sheathing it. Sheathed, the sword was quieter, and she could concentrate on her own magic. Fire didn’t harm this demon, but perhaps cold would. Cold, cold that burns the lungs, cracks the skin, cold, ice. She drew that thought through her hands and into the demon. A double-fisted bolt of white hit the thing, and it opened its mouth to scream. It sat half-coated in ice, hurt and puzzled at this new pain.

Harque blew on the whistle, but it began to back out of the door. It had had enough for one day.

Keleios turned clenched fists to the witch when something hit her from behind. It sank needlelike teeth into her bare left shoulder. Keleios rolled, hand closing on a throat that was soft and warm. Black claws scratched at her face, seeking her eyes. A curtain of flame-colored hair blinded her, but she squeezed, digging her fingers in, searching. Something snapped in the throat, but still the thing fought on. She leapt away from its weakened grip. It was a succubus, a naked voluptuous female body topped with leather batlike wings, black claws for nails. Yellow eyes sought Keleios with hatred. With her throat partially crushed, the demon crawled after her.

The sword cried out to her, “There is only one way to truly slay a demon,” Keleios had no wish to internalize the succubus’ nature. The demon power raged through her now until she could hear squabbling, as if it needed more room. How many demons had the sword held before she picked it up? Through the clamor in her head she did not hear the footfalls behind her.