Lisa Smedman - Viper's Kiss

But would she love it still when it turned out to be half serpent?

They reached Glisena’s chamber, and the soldier rapped on the door. Magical energy sparkled around the lock. It was opened a moment later by a haggard-looking Foesmasher. He ushered Arvin into the room then closed the door.

Glisena no longer lay on her bed; now she was seated on a birthing chair. Davinu and the other clerics still stood in a circle around her, praying with voices that were nearly hoarse; Arvin wondered how long they could continue without sleep. The shields still floated in a circle, surrounding them, but they were moving more slowly. Every now and then one would bob toward the ground like the head of a horse that had run too far and too long then rise again.

Marasa sat on a stool next to the birthing chair, holding Glisena’s hand. A knife lay on a low, cloth-draped table beside her. To cut the cord once the demon was born, Arvin supposed. The room smelled of blood; rags under the birthing chair were stained a bright red.

The baron began to pace back and forth behind them, thumping a fist against his thigh. Each time his daughter groaned, his jaw clenched. “Can’t you do something for her pain?” he growled at Marasa.

“I already have,” the cleric said in an exhausted voice.

As Glisena bore down, panting, Marasa’s face grew pale. Her free hand pressed against her own stomach, and she shuddered. Arvin, watching, realized that she must have cast a spell that allowed her to draw Glisena’s hurts into her own body. There was a psionic power that did something similar—it operated on the same principles as the fate link that Tanju had taught Arvin, except that the damage and pain could only be channeled to the psion, himself. Arvin had declined it as something he didn’t really want to learn. At the time, he couldn’t think of anyone he cared enough about to want to inflict that kind of pain on himself.

Marasa exhaled through clenched teeth then gestured at one of the clerics. He stepped out of the circle and held his left hand out, palm toward her. Magical energy crackled faintly in the air as he cast a spell. Marasa shook her head, like a dog shaking off water. Her shoulders straightened, and her face resumed its natural color.

The baron continued pacing.

Davinu turned as Arvin approached. “The demon is a breach birth,” he said. “We will need to cut it free. But before we begin, I need to know what it’s thinking. Use your mind magic.”

Glisena groaned, and Marasa shuddered. Another cleric stepped forward and healed her. As Glisena panted, blood trickled down onto the rags beneath the birthing chair. She looked up at Arvin, her face glistening with sweat. There was terror in her eyes—she was afraid of dying—but also something more: a question.

Arvin squatted beside her. The words came unbidden to his lips. “I found the person you asked me about,” he said quietly. “She—or he—is safe.”

The lines of strain on Glisena’s face eased, just a little. “She,” she panted, a mother’s certainty burning in her eyes. “Take… care of… her.”

“No need,” Arvin whispered fiercely. “You’ll make it through this.”

Glisena shook her head. “Promise. That you’ll… take care…” she gasped.

Arvin touched her shoulder. “I promise.”

The clerics gently lifted Glisena onto the bed, reforming their circle there. Marasa pulled her stool up next to the bed. Davinu opened Glisena’s night robe, exposing her stomach. The lines Naneth had drawn on it were almost gone; only the faintest traces of white remained. Davinu picked up the knife. It was silver, the blade inlaid with gold in the shape of a staring eye: Helm’s symbol. Davinu held the knife out, and one of the clerics poured water over it from a silver chalice that also bore a stylized eye. Then he held it ready, waiting.

Arvin manifested his power. Sparkles of silver erupted from his third eye and drifted down onto Glisena. The thoughts of those in the room crowded in on him: Glisena’s relief that Arvin had located her child, Marasa’s fierce love for Glisena and grim determination to bear her pain, Davinu steeling himself for the surgery he was about to perform, and the other clerics’ fervent prayers, all overlaid with a tight clench of fear. Davinu had given them careful instructions about what was to happen; the moment the blood cord was severed, he would banish the demon. Arvin expected to hear Foesmasher’s thoughts as well—his anguish at seeing his “little dove” in such pain was clear for all to see—but something was shielding his thoughts. Was it a magical item, like Karrell’s ring? Briefly, Arvin wondered where Karrell was—he hoped far from this part of the palace—then turned his mind back to the task at hand. Blotting out the overlapping babble of mental voices, he sent his consciousness deeper, and found the voice he’d dreaded hearing.

So tight, so confined … but I will be free soon. If only I had my swords, I would slash my way out.

Arvin shuddered. “It’s wishing it had its sword,” he reported. “No, swords,” he corrected. “Plural.”

Distantly, he heard the clerics murmuring to each other.

“A balor, then?” one asked.

“Too large,” another answered. “And the horns—they would have torn—”

Ah. That’s better. I can turn.

“It’s turning,” Arvin said.

Glisena screamed as her stomach bulged. Something flickered between her legs then drew inside her again; it looked like the tip of a tail.

Foesmasher whirled, one hand on his sword hilt, his face twisted with anguish. Marasa clapped a hand on Glisena’s stomach, drawing the pain into herself. “Do it,” she gritted up at Davinu. “Now. Before it—” Her face paled as another spasm of pain rushed into her.

Davinu touched Glisena’s forehead with a fingertip. “Hold,” he commanded.

Glisena’s body stiffened. Her chest, however, still rose and fell. And her stomach heaved.

Davinu lowered the point of the knife to her belly then took a deep breath. He began to cut.

Foesmasher stood rigid, eyes locked on Glisena, barely breathing. One fist was white-knuckled on his sword hilt; the other was pressed against his mouth.

The other clerics crowded around the bed, hands extended toward Glisena, chanting. “Guardian of the innocent, lord of the unsleeping eye, watch and protect this girl in her time of need….”

Blood sprayed onto Davinu’s breastplate as he cut. The knife parted muscle, and something that glistened, and a layer of darker flesh that smelled of seared meat. Then came a rush of sulfurous-smelling liquid, and something could be seen writhing within. Arvin caught a glimpse of flailing arms and a long, serpentine tail.

Marasa groaned and swayed, nearly falling from her stool. One of the clerics steadied her.

I am wounded! It burns!

“You’ve cut the demon,” Arvin said. “You’ve injured it.”

Him again! Where is he? He will pay for this!

Arvin felt a chill run through him. He swallowed nervously. “It thinks… that I’m the one who hurt—

Davinu passed the knife to one of the clerics and grabbed the edges of the gaping hole he’d just cut in Glisena’s bloody flesh. “Now,” he shouted. “Pull it free.”

One of the clerics plunged his hand into the wound and seized hold of the demon. He pulled, his free hand braced against Glisena’s pelvis, and the demon suddenly came free. It was tiny, the size of a newborn child—but instead of legs, it had a thrashing tail fully twice the length of its body. It had six arms, a full head of sulfur-yellow hair and an upper body like that of a mature woman, with full, round breasts.

““Marilith?” the cleric holding it gasped. He had grabbed it by one of its arms and fought to maintain his grip on the blood-slicked flesh. The demon twisted violently, its tail lashing and flicking blood. A twisted pink cord spiraled down from its naval into Glisena’s stomach.