Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

The succubus said, “No, master, he does not take the mindless pleasure in us that most men do. He performs wonderfully, like a well-trained animal, but he does not truly enjoy, not as the Meltaanian prince does.”

A frown passed Harque’s lips. “No matter, he is no longer distressed.”

“Distress is a matter of definition,” the demon said.

“Will you be quiet!”

The demon hung her head and said no more. The witch remembered her audience and smiled. “They will be safe for a few days.”

“No, that was not the bargain.”

“I don’t believe I could persuade my girls to give up such satisfactory toys so quickly.” “Then there is no bargain.”

“Oh, I think there will be.” The lights went out. The darkness blinded Keleios, and thus was not truly darkness at all.

Eroar called out, “Keleios!”

The lights flickered on again. Where Eroar had stood was a hole, very black, through which a warm wind blew.

The silver sword leapt to her hand.

“No, half-elf, they will die if you threaten me. Their lives hang on your actions.”

Keleios trembled, fighting the sword’s eagerness and her own anger.

“Lay the sword on the desk. Perhaps you don’t believe me. Shall I have one of them slain to prove my sincerity?”

Keleios touched the sword with her mind, telling it to be patient, that they would yet drink the demon-monger’s blood. It lay silver and lovely on the desk. Keleios smoothed her hands across the chain mail, forcing herself to relax.

“Good, now look upon your dragon.”

A movement caught Keleios’s eye. Poth crept round the room. A chance, still a chance. “Show him to me and be done with it, witch.”

“Oh, so the old Keleios still lurks within that calm facade. I will show you your dragon.” She turned her gaze upon the crystal once more, and Keleios followed.

Eroar still in human form stood knee deep in black slime. Strange half shapes crowded round until it seemed the darkness itself writhed. One darted too close, a bolt of cold sent it scurrying back to the others. Keleios touched Eroar’s mind cautiously. Harque did not seem to mind. *Eroar, can you teleport out to me?*

*No, some magic binds me here.* The image faded, and Keleios blinked up at the witch. Poth crouched on top of the bookshelf, waiting.

Harque half-turned toward the shelf, and Poth leapt upon her. She shrieked as claws raked her face. Poth was a spitting, clawing, biting fury.

The sword asked, “Now, now?”

“Now.” The blade leaped to her hand, and Keleios plunged forward.

Harque threw Poth from her and turned a bloody face to Keleios. “Cursed be.” The blade slid home, seeking her heart.

Keleios drove the sword deeper as the witch dropped to her knees. They knelt face to

face, and Keleios watched the life flicker in the jewel eyes. Harque whispered, “Curse you, curse you.” But, there was no magic to it. Keleios watched the life slip from her eyes as it had slipped from Keleios’ mother’s eyes so many years ago.

Heart blood welled out of the wound, splashing the silver chain mail with near-black gore. Keleios drew the sword from its fleshy sheath. The body knelt for a moment, then slowly slid to one side. It lay crumpled and empty on the stone floor.

The sword crooned in her ear, “We bring death and vengeance.”

Years ago she had come seeking the witch’s death and found pain and defeat. This time she had come as a sacrifice to die and found vengeance. Was it enough for the days of suffering her mother endured? No. She cleaned her sword on a corner of Harque’s grey cloak. No, it wasn’t enough, but it would do, it would do.

She sheathed the sword but did not set its locks and knelt beside Poth. The cat had been stunned, but her fingers found no broken bones, and Poth complained of nothing more than bruises. The cat began to lick the witch’s blood from her claws and set her fur to rights again. If she was that interested in grooming, she was fine.

A length of good rope lay against the far wall with several empty packs. It looked as though Harque had been planning a trip.

Keleios went to the pit in which Eroar had fallen and knelt by the black depths. A cool warm wind blew from it. She tried mind contact and reached him. It was dark and hot. The creatures were growing bolder. *Is it hunger that drives them?*

*I believe so.*

*Watch yourself. I am going to send down one of the bodies, then I will send down a length of rope.*

Keleios selected a body near the pit and grabbed it under the grey-robed arms. She lifted from her knees up and felt the strain in her back. She had worked often enough without the magic bracers to know her own natural strength, and it was good, for a female half-elf. But a two-hundred-pound man is a two-hundred-pound man, and she was sweating by the time she rolled him into the darkness.

Keleios took out the smooth coil of rope and tied one end to the desk leg. She tested the knot and the leg itself. When satisfied, she lowered the rope. She prayed silently to Urle that the rope would reach.

*Eroar, are they consuming the body?*

*Yes, voraciously. It is an unpleasant preview, I’m afraid.*

*Can you reach the rope?*

*Not in this form. Please throw down another morsel while I stretch my reach.*

She dragged a slightly smaller guard by his robe and threw him in. A handful of seconds

later and the rope became taut under her hands. The hands that scrambled to the top were huge and not the ones that had fallen in. She scrambled back from the huge bearded face that grinned at her as it pulled itself from the pit.

“Eroar?”

“Yes.”

“That was unnerving.”

“I had to be taller; this form is.”

Poth came to peer into the hole and then backed away, hissing. “I quite agree with you, Mistress Poth, not a nice place.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, where are the others?”

“In the dungeons, we must hurry.” She began pulling the rope up. “I thought you couldn’t do magic down there.”

“Shapeshifting is an innate ability, not a learned magic.”

As the last of the rope landed on the floor, the pit began to close, the illusion becoming more solid as Keleios recoiled the rope.

Eroar shifted back to the more familiar human form and stretched. “I spend more time in this shape than my own; it’s quite comfortable.”

In her need to get to the others, she ordered the dragon, “Get the scrying crystal on the small table and the book on the floor. There are empty packs over there.”

He stood very still, but did not move. She realized her mistake. Even in human form there was a pride, a grandeur, that no human ever quite touched. “Forgive me, Master Eroar, but time is short if we are to save the others. Will you please get the scrying crystal and the book while I coil this rope? We may need them all.”

He stood there stubbornly, hands crossed over his chest. She coiled the rope mechanically and tried to keep her temper. “Master Eroar, if Tobin dies because you’ve delayed us, I will see you on the sands.”

He almost laughed, but the look in her eyes stopped him. “You would die.”

“That is a possibility,” They stared one at the other. She could feel his magic reaching out to her. It was a powerful, skin-prickling thing, and he had not yet cast a spell. Everything dies, even dragons, and she did not flinch. It was he who broke contact, moving to do as she asked. He touched the book and gasped, “It pulses as if a heart beats inside.”

“It pulses with evil and is much too dangerous to leave lying about. But respectfully, Master Eroar, I ask that whatever you do, don’t try to read it.”