neatly in two, and the door swung open.
"You are bold, priest," the demon rumbled.
"I am curious; perhaps foolish—but never bold,"
responded the plump, balding priest of Anathei. "I
was curious when I first heard the rumors of your
return. I was even more curious when the two who
were responsible for your defeat before were miss-
ing this morning. I will confess to being quite con-
fused to find one of them here."
He cast a meaningful glance at the demon's com-
panion, curled sullenly on the velvet beside him.
The sorceress did not appear to be happy, but she
also did not appear coerced in any way. Come to
that, there was something oddly different about
her... .
"I repeat, you are bold; but you amuse me. Why
are you here?" Thalhkarsh settled back onto his
cushions, and with a flicker of thought increased
the intensity of the light coming from his crimson
lanterns. The musky incense he favored wafted
upward toward the ceiling from a brazier at the
edge of the padded platform where he reclined.
This priest had presented himself at the door and
simply asked to be taken to the demon; Thalhkarsh's
followers had been so nonplussed by his quiet air of
authority that they had done as he asked. Now he
stood before Thalhkarsh, an unimpressive figure in
a plain brown cassock, plump and aging, with his
hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. And he,
in his turn, did not seem the least afraid of the
demon; nor did it appear that anything, from the
obscene carvings to the orgy still in progress on the
platform behind the demon, was bothering him the
slightest bit.
And that had the demon thoroughly puzzled.
"I am here to try to convince you that what you
are doing is wrong."
"Wrong? Wrong?" The demon laughed heartily.
"I could break you with one finger, and you wish to
tell me that I am guilty of doing wrong?"
"Since you seem to wish to live in this world, you
must live by some of its rules—and one of those is
that to cause harm or pain to another is wrong."
"And who will punish me, priest?" The demon's
eyes glowed redly, his lips thinning in anger. "You?"
"You yourself will cause your own punishment,"
the priest replied earnestly. "For by your actions
you will drive away what even you must need—
admiration, trust, friendship, love—"
He was interrupted by the sound of shouting and
of clashing blades; he stared in surprise to see
Tarma—a transformed Tarma—wearing an acolyte's
tunic and nothing else, charging into the room driv-
ing several guards ahead of her. And with her was
the platinum-haired child he had last seen at his
own temple, telling his brothers of the rumors of
Thalhkarsh.
But the blade in her hands was the one he had
last seen in the sorceress' hands.
The woman at the demon's side made a tight
little sound of smothered rage as the demon's guards
moved to bar the exits or interpose themselves be-
tween the women and their target.
"Your anger is strong, little toy," Thalhkarsh
laughed, looking down at her. "Use it, then. Be-
come the instrument of my revenge. Kill her, and
this time I promise you that I shall give you your
man's body back." He plucked a sword from the
hand of the guard next to him and handed it to his
amber-tressed companion.
And the priest stared in complete bewilderment.
Given the weapon, the bandit needed no further
urging, and flung himself at Kethry's throat.
Kethry, now no longer the tough, fit creature she
had been, but a frail, delicate wraith, went down
before him. Tarma tried to get to her, knowing that
she was going to be too late—
But Warrl intervened, bursting from behind the
crimson velvet hangings, flinging himself between
the combatants long enough for Kethry to regain
her footing and recover Need. She fumbled it up
into a pathetic semblance of guard position; then
stared at her own hands, wearing a stupefied ex-
pression. After a moment Tarma realized why. Need
was not responding to her—because Need could not
act against a woman, not even for a woman.
And between Tarma and her she'enedra were a
dozen or so followers of the demon.
But some of them were the ones who had so
lately been sharing her own body with their master.
She let herself, for the first time since her awak-
ening, truly realize what had been done to her—
physically and mentally. Within an eyeblink she
had roused herself to a killing battle-frenzy, a state
in which all her senses were heightened, her reac-
tions quickened, her strength nearly doubled. She
would pay for this energized state later—if there
was a later.
She gathered herself carefully, and sprang at the
nearest, taking with her one of the heavy silken
hangings that had been nearest her. She managed,
despite the handicap of no longer having her right-
ful, battle-trained body, to catch him by surprise
and tangle him in the folds of it. The only weapon
the Shin'a'in had been able to find had been a heavy
dagger; before the others had a chance to react to
her first rush, she stabbed down at him, taking a
fierce pleasure in plunging it into him again and
again, until the silk was dyed scarlet with his
blood—
Kethry was defending herself as best she could;
only the fact that the bandit was once again not in a
body that was his own was giving her any chance at
all. Warrl's appearance had given her a brief mo-
ment of aid when she most needed it. Now Warrl
was busy with one of the other acolytes. And it was
apparent that Tarma, too, had her hands full, though
she was showing a good portion of her old speed
and skill. At least she wasn't in that shocked and
bereft half-daze she'd fallen into when she first
came back to herself.
But Kethry had enough to think about; she could
only spare a scant second to rejoice at Tarma's
recovery. She was doing more dodging than any-
thing else; the bandit was plainly out for her death.
As had occurred once before, the demon was merely
watching, content to let his pawns play out their
moves before making any of his own.
Tarma had taken a torch and set the trapped
acolyte aflame, laughing wildly when he tried to
free himself of the entangling folds of the silk cov-
erlet and succeeding only in getting in the way of
those that remained. Warrl had disposed of one,
and was heading off a second. Kethry was facing a
terrible dilemma—Need was responding sluggishly
now, but only in pure defense. She knew she dared
not kill the former bandit. If she did, there would
There was no way of telling what would happen if
she killed what was, essentially, her body. She might
survive, trapped in this helpless form that lacked
the stamina and strength and mage-Talents of her
own—or she might die along with her body.
Nor did she have any notion of what Need might
do to her if she killed another woman. Possibly
nothing—or the magical backlash of breaking the
geas might well leave her a burned-out husk, a fate
far worse than simply dying.
Now Tarma had laid hands on another sword—
one lighter than the broadsword she was used to,
and with an odd curve to it. She had never used a
weapon quite like this before, but a blade was a
blade. The rest of the acolytes made a rush for her,
forgetting for the moment—if, indeed, they had ever
known—that they were not dealing with an essen-
tially helpless woman, given momentary strength
by hysteria, but a highly trained martial artist.
Tarma's anger and hysteria were as carefully chan-
neled as a powerful stream diverted to turn a mill.
As they rushed her, evidently intending to over-
power her by sheer numbers, she took the hilt in
both hands, rose and pivoted in one motion, and
made a powerful, sweeping cut at waist level that
literally sliced four of them in half.
Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, a nor-
mally calm, analytical part of her went wild with
joy. This strange sword was better than any blade
she'd ever used before; the curve kept it from lodg-
ing, the edge was as keen as the breath of the North
Wind, and the grip, with a place for her to curl her
forefinger around it, made it almost an extension of
her hand. It was perfectly balanced for use by ei-
ther one hand or two. Her eyes lit with a kind of
fire, and it wasn't all the reflection of torch-flames.
Her remaining opponents stumbled over the bleed-
ing, disemboweled bodies of their erstwhile com-
rades, shocked and numb by the turn in fortunes.
Just last night this woman had been their play-
thing. Now she stood, blood-spattered and half-naked
as she was, over the prone bodies of five of them.
They hesitated, confused.
Warrl leapt on two from the rear, breaking the
neck of one and driving the other onto Tarma's
waiting blade.
Eight down, seven standing.
Seven? There were only six—
Tarma felt, more than saw, the approach of one
from the rear. She pivoted, slashing behind her
with the marvellously liquid blade as she did so,
and caught him across the throat. Even as he went
down, another, braver than the rest, lunged for her.
Her kick caught him in the temple; his head snapped
to one side and he fell, eyes glazing with more than
unconsciousness; Warrl made sure of him with a
single snap of his massive jaws, then dashed away
again to vanish somewhere.
Five.
I come from behind you.
Tarma held her ground, and Warrl ran in from
under the hangings. The man he jumped had both a
short sword and shield, but failed to bring either
up in time. Warrl tore his throat out and leapt
away, leaving him to drown in his own blood.
Four.
Tarma charged between two of those remaining,
slashing with a figure-eight motion, knowing they
would hesitate to strike at her with the swords
they'd snatched from their sheaths for tear of strik-
ing each other. She caught the first across the eyes,
the second across the gut. The one she'd blinded
stumbled toward her with blood pouring between
his fingers, and she finished him as she whirled
around at the end of her rush.
Two.
Kethry tried to simply defend herself, but the
bandit wasn't holding back.
So she did the only thing she could; she cast
Need away from her, and backed off far enough to
raise her hands over her head, preparatory to blast-
ing the bandit with a bolt of arcane power.
Warrl leaped on the right-hand man; tore at his
thigh and brought him down, then ripped out his
gut. Tarma's final opponent was the first that
showed any real ability or forethought; he was
crouching where Warrl couldn't come at him from
the rear, with a sword in one hand and a dagger in
the other. His posture showed he was no stranger
to the blade. She knew after a feint or two that he
was very good, which was probably why he'd sur-
vived his other companions. Now she had a prob-
lem. There was no one to get in his way, and the
unfamiliar feel of her transformed body was a dis-
traction and a handicap. Then she saw his eyes
narrow as she moved her new sword slightly—and
knew she had a psychological weapon to use against
him. This was his blade she held, and he wanted it
back. Very badly.
She made her plan, and moved.
She pretended to make a short rush, then pre-
tended to stumble, dropping the sword. When he
grabbed for it, dropping his own blade, Tarma
snatched a torch from the wall beside her and thrust
it at his face, and when he winced away from it,
grabbed a dagger from the litter of weapons on the
floor and flung it straight for his throat, knowing
that marksmanship was not a thing that depended
on weight and balance, but on the coordination of
hand and eye—things that wouldn't change even
though her body had shifted form considerably. As
he went down, gurgling and choking, to drown in
his own blood like one of the men Warrl had taken
out, she saw that Kethry was being forced to take
the offensive—and saw the look of smug satisfac-
tion on the demon's face as she did so.
And she realized with a sudden flash of insight
that they had played right into his hands.
"Why do you do nothing?" the little priest asked
in pure confusion.
"Because this is a test, human," the demon re-
plied, watching with legs stretched out comfortably
along the platform. "I have planned for this, though
I shall admit candidly to you that I did not expect
this moment to come quite so soon, nor did I expect
that the beast should regain its life and the swords-
woman her mind. But these are minor flaws in my
plan; however it comes out, I shall win. As you may
have guessed, it is the sorceress' spirit that inhabits
my servant's body; should he slay her, I shall be
well rid of her, and my servant in possession of a
mage-Talented form. Should the swordswoman die,
I shall be equally well rid of her; should she live, I
shall simply deal with her as I did before. Should
my servant die, I shall still have the sorceress, and
her geas-blade will blast her for harming a woman,
even though she does no
t hold it in her hand—for
she has been soul-bonded to it. And that will render
her useful to me. Or should it kill her, she may
well be damned to my realm, for the breaking of the
oaths she swore. So you see, no matter the outcome,
I win—and I am in no danger, for only my own
magics could touch me in any way."
"I ... see," the priest replied, staring at the
bloody combat before them, mesmerized by the sight.
Tarma realized that they were once again playing
right into the demon's hands. For if Kethry killed
the one wearing her form, she would damn herself
irrevocably, once by committing a kind of suicide,
and twice by breaking the geas and the vow her
bond with Need had set upon her—never to raise
her hand against a woman—three times by break-
ing her oath to her she'enedra.
And by such a betrayal she would probably die,
for surely Thalhkarsh had warded his creature
against magics. Or Need would blast her into death
or mindlessness. Should she die, she could damn
herself forever to Thalhkarsh's particular corner of
the Abyssal Plane, putting herself eternally in his
power. It was a good bet he had planned that she
must slay the bandit by magic, since Need would
not serve against a woman—and certainly he had
woven a spell that would backlash all her unleashed
power on the caster. Kethry would be worse than
dead—for she would be his for the rest of time, to
wreak revenge on until even he should grow weary
of it.
Unless Tarma could stop her before she commit-
ted such self-damnation. And with time running
out, there was only one way to save her.
With an aching heart she cried out in her mind to
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 36
