tion was laid, thought for a moment, weighing the
mage's efforts, and smiled mirthlessly. "All right,
old fraud—I guess you've earned it. Come and get
it."
The mage didn't wait for a second invitation, or
give the man-woman a chance to take the reluctant
consent back. He scrambled forward, tripping over
the tattered edges of his robes, and sagged to his
knees as he snatched the bottle greedily.
He had it open in a trice, and began sucking at
the neck like a calf at the udder, eyes closing and
face slackening in mindless ecstasy. Within mo-
ments he was near-collapsing to the floor, half-
empty bottle cradled in his arms, oblivion in his
eyes.
His visitor walked over with a softly sinister tread
and prodded him with a toe. "You'd better have
worked this right, you old bastard," he muttered,
"Or you won't be waking—"
His last words were swallowed in the sudden
roar, like the howl of a tornado, that rose without
warning behind him. As he spun to face the area of
inscriptions, that whole section of floor burst into
sickening blood-red and hellish green flame; flame
that scorched his face, though it did nothing to
harm the beams of the ceiling. He jumped back,
frightened in spite of his bold resolutions to fear
nothing.
But before he touched the ground again, a mon-
strous, clawed hand formed itself out of the flame
and slapped him back against the rear wall of the
cellar. A second hand, the color of molten bronze,
reached for the oblivious mage.
A face worse than anything from the realm of
nightmare materialized from the flame between the
two hands. A neck, arms, and torso followed. The
hands brought the mage within the fire—the visitor
coughed on the stench of the old man's robes and
beard scorching. There was no doubt that the fire
was real, no matter that it left the ceiling intact.
The mage woke from his drugged trance, screaming
in mindless pain and terror. The smell of his flesh
and garments burning was spreading through the
cellar, and reached even to where the man-woman
lay huddled against the dank wall; he choked and
gagged at the horrible reek.
And the thing in the flames calmly bit the mage's
head off, like a child with a gingerbread manikin.
It was too much for even the man-woman to en-
dure. He rolled to one side and puked up the entire
contents of his stomach. When he looked up again,
eyes watering and the taste of bile in his mouth,
the thing was staring at him, licking the blood off
its hands.
He swallowed as his gorge rose again, and waited
for the thing to take him for dessert.
"You smell of magic." The thing's voice was like
a dozen bells ringing; bells just slightly out-of-tune
with one another. It made the man-woman nau-
seous and disoriented, but he swallowed again and
tried to, answer.
"I... have a curse."
"So I see. I assume that was why I was sum-
moned here. Well, unless we enter into an agree-
ment, I have no choice but to remain here or return
to the Abyssal Planes. Talk to me, puny one; I do
not desire the latter."
"How—why did you—the old man—"
"I dislike being coerced, and your friend made
the mistake of remaining within reach of the circle.
But I have, as yet, no quarrel with you. I take it you
wish to be rid of what you bear. Will you bargain to
have your curse broken? What can you offer me?"
"Gold?"
The demon laughed, molten-gold eyes slitted. "I
have more than that in mind."
"Sacrifice? Death?"
"I can have those intangibles readily enough on
my own—starting with yours. You are within my
reach also."
The man-woman thought frantically. "The curse
was cast by one you have reason to hate."
"This should make me love you?"
"It should make us allies, at least. I could offer
revenge—"
"Now you interest me." The demon's eyes slitted.
"Come closer, little man."
The man-woman clutched his rags about himself
and ventured nearer, step by cautious step.
"A quaint curse. Why?"
"To make me a victim. It succeeded. It was not
intended that I survive the experience."
"I can imagine." A cruel smile parted the de-
mon's lips. "A pretty thing you are; didn't care for
being raped, hmm?"
The man-woman's face flamed. He felt the de-
mon inside of his mind, picking over all of his
memories of the past year, lingering painfully over
several he'd rather have died than seen revealed.
Anger and shame almost replaced his fear.
The demon's smile grew wider. "Or did you be-
gin to care for it after all?"
"Get out of my mind, you bastard!" He stifled what-
ever else he had been about to scream, wondering if
he'd just written his own death-glyph.
"I think I like you, little man. How can you give
me revenge?"
He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his
mind. "I know where they are, the sorceress and
her partner. I know how to lure them here—and I
have a plan to take them when they come—"
"I have many such plans—but I did not know
how to bring them within my grasp. Good." The
demon nodded. "I think perhaps we have a bargain.
I shall give you the form you need to make you
powerful against them, and I shall let you bring
them here. Come, and I will work the magic to
change you, and free myself with the sealing of our
bargain. I must touch you—"
The man-woman approached the very edge of the
flames, cautious and apprehensive in spite of the
demon's assurance that he would bargain. He still
did not entirely trust this creature—and he more
than certainly still feared its power. The demon
reached out with one long, molten-bronze talon,
and briefly caressed the side of his face.
The stranger screamed in agony, for it felt as if
that single touch had set every nerve afire. He
wrapped his arms over his head and face, folded
slowly at the waist and knees, still crying out; and
finally collapsed to the floor, huddled in his rags,
quivering. Had there been anything left in his stom-
ach, he would have lost it then.
The demon waited, as patient as a snake, drink-
ing in the tingles of power and the heady aura of
agony that the man was exuding. He bent over the
shaking pile of rags in avid curiosity, waiting for
the moment when the pain of transformation would
pass. His expression was oddly human—the same
expression to be seen on the face of a cruel child
watching the gyrations of a beetle from which it
has pulled all the legs but one.
The huddled, trembl
ing creature at the edge of
his flames slowly regained control of itself. The
quivering ceased; rags rose a little, then moved
again with more purpose. Long, delicate arms ap-
peared from the huddle, and pushed away from the
floor. The rags fell away, and the rest of the stranger
was revealed.
The visitor raised one hand to her face, then
froze at the sight of that hand. She pushed herself
into a more upright position, frowning and shaking
her head; she examined the other hand and felt of
her face as her expression changed to one of total
disbelief. Frantic now, she tore away the rags that
shrouded her chest and stared in horror at two
lovely, lily-white—and very female —breasts.
"No—" she whispered, "—it's not possible—"
"Not for a human perhaps," the demon replied
with faint irony, "But I am not subject to a hu-
man's limitations."
"What have you done to me?" she shrieked, even
her voice having changed to a thin soprano.
"I told you, I would give you a form that would
make you powerful against them. The sorceress'
geas prevents her from allowing any harm to befall
a woman—so I merely made you woman in reality,
to match the woman you were in illusion. They
will be powerless against you now, your enemies
and mine—"
"But I am not a woman! I can't be a woman!" She
looked around her for something to throw at the
demon's laughing face, and finding nothing, hurled
curses instead. "Make me a man again, damn you!
Make me a man!"
"Perhaps. Later, perhaps. When you have earned
a boon from me. You still retain your strength and
your weapon's expertise. Only the swordswoman
could be any danger to you now, and the sorceress
will be bound to see that she cannot touch you. My
bargain now, bandit." The demon smiled still wider.
"Serve me, and it may well be I shall make you a
man again. But your new body serves me far better
than your old would have. And meanwhile—"
He drew a swirl of flame about himself. When he
emerged from it, he had assumed the shape of a
handsome human man, quite naked; one whose
beauty repulsed even as it attracted. He was still
larger than a normal human in every regard, but he
no longer filled a quarter of the cellar. He stepped
confidently across the boundaries of the circle,
reached forward and gathered the frozen woman to
him. She struggled wildly; he delighted in her
struggles.
"Oh, you make a charming wench, little toy; you
play the part as if you had been born to it! A man
would have sought to slay me, but you think only to
flee. And I do not think a man would have guessed
my intentions, but you have, haven't you, little one.
I think I can teach you some of the pleasures of
being a female, as well as the fears, hmm? Perhaps I
can make you forget you ever were anything else—"
His laughter echoed through the entire house—
but the rest of the inhabitants did no more than
check the fastenings of their doors and return to
the safety of their beds, hoping that whatever it
was that was laughing would overlook them.
With another gesture, the demon transformed the
bleak basement into a setting from a whore's night-
mare; with his other hand he held his victim crushed
against his chest while he reached into her mind
with his.
She gasped in shock and dismay, feeling her will
crumble before his, feeling him take over her senses,
and feeling those senses rousing as he wished them
to. He ran his hands over her body, stripping away
the rags until she was as nude as he, and in the
wake of his hands her skin burned with fever she
could not repress.
As the last remains of her will fell to dust before
his onslaught, her body, too, betrayed her; respond-
ing as the demon desired.
And at the end, she did, indeed, forget for that
one moment what it had been like to be a man.
Kethry twined a lock of amber hair around her
fingers, leaned over her cup and hid a smile. She
found the side of herself that her swordswoman-
partner was revealing disarming, and quite de-
lightful—but she doubted Tarma would appreciate
her amusement.
The common room of their inn was far from
being crowded, and the atmosphere was relaxed
and convivial. This was really the best such place
they'd stayed in for months; it was well-lit, the
food was excellent, the beds comfortable and free
of vermin, the prices not outrageously extortionate.
And Tarma was certainly enjoying the company.
As she had been every night for the past three,
Tarma was embroiled in a religious discussion—
a discussion, not an argument; although the two
participants often waxed passionate, neither ever
found offense or became angered during their
disagreements.
Her fellow-scholar was a plump little priest of
Anathei of the Purifying Flame. He was certainly a
full priest, and might even (from his cultured ac-
cent) be a higher prelate, yet he wore only the same
soft, dark brown, unornamented robes of the least
of his order's acolytes. He was clean-shaven and
quite bald, and his cheerful brown eyes seemed to
regard everything and everyone with the open-
hearted joy of an unspoiled child. No straitlaced
ascetic, he—he and Tarma had been trading rounds
of good wine; tonight reds, last night whites.
Tarma looked even more out of place seated across
from him than she did with her sorceress-partner.
She towered over him by a head, her every move-
ment proclaiming she knew very well how to man-
age that sword slung on her back, her hawklike face
and ice-blue eyes holding a controlled intensity that
could easily have been frightening or intimidating
to a stranger. With every article of her weaponry
and earth-brown clothing so precisely arranged that
what she wore might almost have been some kind
of uniform, and her coarse black hair braided and
coiled with militant neatness, she looked as much
the priest or more than he—half-barbarian priest of
some warlike order, that is. She hardly looked as if
she could have anything in common with the schol-
arly little priest.
She hardly looked literate. Certainly no one would
expect erudite philosophy from her lips, not with
the warlike accoutrements she bore; yet she had
been quoting fully as many learned tomes as the
priest—to his evident delight and Kethry's mild
surprise. It would appear that service as a Sworn
One did not exclude knowledge as a possible arena
of combat. Kethry had long known that Tarma was
literate, and in more than one language, but she
had never before gues
sed that her partner was so
erudite.
Kethry herself was staying out of the conversa-
tion for the moment. This evening she and her
partner had had an argument, the first serious dis-
agreement of their association. She wanted to give
Tarma a chance to cool down—and to mull over
what she'd said.
Because while it had been unpleasant, it was
also, unfortunately, nothing less than the truth.
"You're not going out there alone, are you?" Tarma
had asked doubtfully, when Kethry had voiced her
intention to prowl the rather dubious quarter that
housed the gypsy-mages. Kethry had heard that one
of her old classmates had taken up with the wan-
derers, and was looking for news of him.
"Why not?" she asked, a little more sharply than
she had intended.
"Because it's no place for a woman alone."
"Dammit, Tarma, I'm not just any woman! I'm
perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"
"Look—even I can get taken out by a gang of
street toughs."
"In the name of the gods, Tarma, leave me alone
for once! You're smothering me! I can't go any-
where or do anything without you rushing to wrap
me in gauze, like a piece of china—"
She'd stopped then, appalled by the stricken look
on her partner's face.
Then, like lightning, the expression changed.
"You're imagining things," Tarma replied flatly.
"All right—have it your way." Kethry was too
tired to fight with her. "You will anyway. Any time
you hear something you don't like, you deny it and
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 29
