Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Eroar asked, “And what if this Alharzor gains control of you?”

A cold feeling started in the pit of her stomach. “Then you must kill me and do the best you can to rescue the black prince.”

Tobin protested, “No, Keleios.”

“Tobin, if the worst happens, do not hinder Master Eroar. If the sword takes me, I am lost and better dead.”

He nodded his agreement but frowned.

She breathed deeply, drawing her control, and the tiredness retreated somewhat. “Come to me, slayer of demons.”

The sword pulsed under her hand, beating power like blood through its frame. Alharzor’s anger flared through her mind, burning. His magic roared through her like fire before a wind. Power ate along her skin, spilled out of her mind. For one moment she could feel Alharzor, the sword, and herself mingle, become one. Then the sword was not there, and it was just she and the demon.

Poth backed away, spitting, able to see the power as it beat through her and out of her. Alharzor was determined to win, to control. He fought for her body, and she fought to use his soul.

Keleios accepted the demon into herself, like two hands inside the same glove, but it was her mind that moved that hand. Her eyes opened wide, and her breathing slowed, deepened. He was safely contained inside her with the help of the sword. She drew power from the sword, letting it trickle bit by bit until all of it lay contained inside her. “Stay

The invisible demon said, “Yes, Master.”

Eroar looked at her, and she said, “Touch me and search quickly.”

He came forward and laid a hand on her shoulder, and his eyes met hers. His magic passed like a wind over and through her. “You have done it, you have power now.”

“I must bespell you both, so you will seem prisoners.”

Though it was not what they wanted, neither fought her. Their eyes glazed, and their faces became blank. “Follow me,” she said, and they did.

Keleios stepped into the corridor, hand on sword hilt, the men following behind her obediently. She had them wait at the head of the corridor; they obeyed perfectly. She paused at the door to the open cell. The half-elf lay under a mound of demons, their wings flexing like butterflies over a rain puddle.

Keleios drew part of Alharzor from the safety of control and let it flow through her. She sneered at the succuba. “Get off him.”

They turned angry eyes and stared when they saw the body ordering them from the doorway.

One stood and began to walk toward Keleios. “And who are you to order us about?”

“Aaah, Filia, see with something other than your eyes for once.”

A second joined her, and a third; all had paused. Lothor’s flesh came into view. The shortest one said, “Alharzor, how did you get this body?”

“A gift from our lady witch.”

“But I thought she had plans for this body.”

“Is this the first time she’s changed her mind?”

The demon chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

All but two of the succuba gathered round to poke and prod the new body. “Not bad, this should be able to keep up for a while.”

A deep laugh came from Keleios’s body. “Ooh, not at your speed, but perhaps at mine.”

Lothor lay naked. Chains bound him at wrist and ankle. His body was one pure ivory color. Tiny scratches and bites marred the flawless skin. They were marks of passion rather than pain. An auburn-haired succubus curled across him. She stroked his hair and from time to time nuzzled him. His silver eyes were shut; his face turned away from her. Keleios wondered if his mind were intact.

She had been staring, and the demons noticed. A tall flame-haired one poked her arm. “Is she still in there?”

“Aaah, yes, I thought she might enjoy seeing her friends.” A tittering of girlish laughter filled the room. A host of crude remarks followed.

“We could put him through his paces, or have her join us.” This suggestion was met with great enthusiasm.

“Aah, girls, I am sorry, but Harque wants them all upstairs, now.” A chorus of protests and whining began. “I even have to give the body back, after a time.”

The auburn-haired demon left Lothor reluctantly, hands lingering on him. “We haven’t broken him yet,” she said. “The shame of it, Alharzor, we have to break through his control.”

“I understand, girls, but there isn’t time. The witch has some interesting plans for them all.”

“What, oh, tell us.”

“Aah, a geas.”

“That doesn’t sound very fun.”

“It depends on where the geas forces them to go, my flame-haired beauty, and what it forces them to do.”

They pouted. “It still doesn’t sound fun.”

“A geas to Pelrith’s Isle.”

They exchanged glances. One knelt beside Lothor’s chained body and ran a hand down its pale length. “A shame that we won’t get another chance at this one.”

Keleios knew with Alharzor’s memory that Pelrith’s Isle was one place the succuba never visited. The demigod of the isle was too dangerous. A male being too dangerous for a succubus—that was something to think upon.

Keleios knelt beside Lothor. Keleios ran her fingers down his cheek, and his eyes opened. His eyes stared at her, intelligence untouched. Hope showed in his eyes for a second, quickly gone. She stood. “Have him get dressed, and maybe clean him up first.”

A tall red-haired succubus asked, “Is she distressed to see her friend so?”

“Aah, very.”

“I’ll bet they were lovers,” another piped.

“No, Bettia, just friends.” The succubus smirked. Keleios shrugged and stood at the door to the cell.

A succubus flew in with buckets of water and hovered. “Are you all right?”

Alharzor sneered. “She is embarrassed, embarrassed to see the ice elf nude.”

The succubus laughed long and rich. “She wants him, then?”

“Aah, yes, she does.”

“Make time to put them together, please.”

He seemed to think on it a moment and grinned wickedly, then sighed. “There just isn’t time.” Keleios leaned against the cell door, and the succubus slapped her behind. The

succubus sighed. “What a pity.” The demon carried the water into Lothor’s cell.

Keleios entered and hefted his ax. “I will carry this for you, half-elf. You won’t be needing it.” His deep laugh echoed with the high-pitched giggles of the succuba.

Smiling an unpleasant smile, Keleios left to stand in the hall.

Gales of laughter came as the succuba began to release and clean the prisoner. Keleios, with Alharzor’s memories beating through her, stood in the hall. Her eyes strayed to a large cell at the very end of the hall. It had been her home for the months she stayed here. It had been roomy enough but dank and cheerless, a very cell of a cell.

Someone whispered her name, someone who stood at the bars of that cell. His golden hair and skin glowed even now through dirt and beard. The beard was a rich reddish-gold like flame. She stepped closer, and when she looked in the golden-brown eyes, she knew who it was.

The Meltaanian noble known as Gabel Self-lover, enchanter, sorcerer, and murderer of her smithy master, Edan. He had burned him to death in front of Keleios’ eyes. She could still taste the horror and rage of that moment like bile burning her throat. And somehow that rage had translated into sorcery. Keleios had called her very first sorcerous spell—fire. Fire that Edan had harnessed to shape metal, fire that burned under a pot to melt down herbs for spells, fire that glistened in the cottage to warm the food and keep the cold at bay, fire untamed and racing through the forest in a dry crackling run. Something opened in her mind that had been locked and sealed until then. Keleios saw the fire, true fire, flame. She drew it to her hand and pointed at the smirking sorcerer. She had come very near killing him.