The woman from near the exit, the one who had worn the Bracer, stepped forward then. She pulled back her hood, revealing sharp, almost feline features and a mop of burning red hair. Voluptuous and sensual in her movements, she was lovely, in a cruel way.
"I am Leis'anna, Chosen of Graz'zt. Who are you who so disturbs our peace?"
"One born to command, not to follow," Cythara replied. "Do you yield?"
Leis'anna laughed.
The sun elf launched a spell at her-a black, enervating ray-but Leis'anna batted it aside with defensive magic conjured from the amulet she wore.
"You wish to do battle, elf?"
Cythara just smiled.
"Very well," the demonist said. "Submit to me."
She felt Leis'anna's compulsion magic beat upon her mind. The words cut through her consciousness like a suggestion from a bandit who held his knife at her throat.
Cythara felt a tiny flicker of Leis'anna's mind, and she knew what she faced: the chosen servant of a powerful demon prince-a master of manipulation, who read and controlled minds with the blessing of the mightiest of dark powers.
Mighty dark powers. Cythara smiled.
Then Leis'anna gasped as she felt her own power turned back upon her. Not only had Cythara defeated the Chosen's will, but the sun elf had answered with a compulsion spell of her own.
Leis'anna writhed on the floor, snarling and scraping her claws across the stone as she shattered her own illusions. The alluring female body swelled into the powerful torso and legs of a great lion, and her hands became mighty paws. Her face grew darker, furry, and distinctly feline. Her illusions ruined, the lamia stared at Cythara in horror.
"Who truly leads?" Cythara asked again.
The lamia rose, but only to her knees. Around the room, the cultists dropped into obeisance. Cythara heard the whispers of Leis'anna's demon lord, and saw how badly Graz'zt wanted her darkening soul. She shivered at the power she felt through that mindlink.
How cleverly evil disguised itself, in the flesh of the brightest and most radiant.
"You do," Leis'anna said with a little curl of her lip.
When the sun elf awoke, it was to a sensation of lightness and warmth. He slowly realized that he lay nude in a wide, soft bed. A warm hand caressed his brow, and he looked up a pale arm to see a dark-haloed lady with pale eyes smiling down at him.
Yldar wondered if it had all been a dream, and whether he was not back in Evermeet.
Then he remembered the cultists, the lair, and Cythara's agonized scream, and he gasped. He realized that the elf maid was Twilight, clad in a simple white shift.
"Worry not," she said. "You're safe. I've taken a room at the Axe and Hammer. You're surrounded by a veritable army of battle-hardened dwarves even Elminster'd think twice about. No one shall find us here."
Yldar half-rose, wincing at the effort, and reached for his tunic on the edge of the bed. Twilight intercepted his arm, leaning between elf and garment. She held his hand between them for a long, quiet breath. Then she pushed him back to the pillows and kicked up out of his reach.
"Stand aside! I have to-"
"Shiny, really. In your delicate condition, you're in no shape to face stairs, much less a cabal of demon-cultists." Twilight's tone was almost chiding.
"But-"
"I didn't go to all that work to save that gleaming body of yours just to have you get it torn up again." She looked him up and down and smiled, that wry upturn of the edge of her lips that set Yldar's hairs standing on end with anticipation. "It's too pretty."
He elbowed the feeling aside. "Away from me, traitor!" he snapped. "You left Cythara to her death!"
"Don't be ridiculous," Twilight said. "She's the traitor. She told me enough in the temple: I said, 'The Bracer's not real,' and she leaned in to say, 'I know.' "
"Lies."
"Naturally, you don't believe me," said Twilight. "Fine. Ask me anything-I promise the truth. Nothing less. My word."
"The word of a thief?" Yldar's voice was sarcastic. "It will have to do."
"Very well, then," he replied. "For a beginning: what's your name?"
"Fox-at-Twilight, like I told-" "Your real name," Yldar corrected. Twilight bit her lip. "Ask me anything else." Yldar scowled. "Very well. Is it true?" "Is what true?"
"That you work with the demonists. That's why you
' knew they had the Bracer and where to go. Why you knew everything."
Twilight rolled her eyes. "I could tell you, but who would you believe? Me, a thief, or your precious sister, who you still think, despite all evidence to the contrary, is a friend?"
"Speak, and we'll see what I think," Yldar said.
"Fine," Twilight said. "Do I work with them? No-perish the thought! Too hung up on power, darkness, and manipulation-not a sense of humor among the whole lot. Bor-tng. Demons. Ever heard a demon lord tell a joke? No? Well, of course, you've never met one, but take my word for it. Graz'zt, Orcus-thoroughly unfunny. The only ones who're worse are the archfiends, Mephistopheles in particular-"
"You're babbling," Yldar said.
"What? Right," Twilight said. "No, I don't work for them. Hardly done anything for them." She shrugged dismissively. "Just a little minor work here and there… a theft-nothing serious… maybe something like… I don't know… this." She revealed the silver Bracer on her right arm. "Nothing big."
"You stole Coronal Ynloeth's Bracer in the first place?" Yldar asked. "From who?"
"Whom," Twilight corrected. "No one important… Coronal Ynloeth. Vaporized himself with his swords, you know. Wasn't that a surprise-'Whoop: no Bracer, no protection. Damnation.'"
Yldar's face went ashen and his mouth gaped open.
"I jest, I jest," Twilight said. "Should've seen your face, though-priceless." She laughed. "If such a thing is possible."
The sun elf swallowed. He sat again and pulled the covers back so he could rise. "But, but-" He scowled. "Doing the right thing has no price-your spirit has no price, or did you sell it so long ago for wit and beauty?"
In a flash of motion that would have made any duelist proud, Twilight slapped him. So much for worrying about his delicate condition.
"Easy for you to make judgments," she said. "Your black and white morality is a luxury that those of us who didn't grow up in the lap of Evermeet serenity can't quite afford."
Yldar was about to retort, but she kept on.
"The Realms aren't as simple as you suns think. Your precious Retreat-ha! Escape is more like it. You simply could not bear to see a race that lived more passionately, more fully than yourselves. And so you ran-in fear of the world."
"B-b-but-" said Yldar, but there was no stopping her.
"Life doesn't fit into your haughty, academic… arithmetic! Humans see farther than you elves, in ways you never imagined. Elves fear the humans because the humans are what elves fear to become-alive, vibrant! They see more to life than just good and evil, honor and duty. They know passion and beauty, real love- spontaneity. I bet you suns don't even-"
This time Yldar was the one to interrupt, and that with a kiss that shocked both of them. Uncharacteristically, Twilight hesitated-she was stunned.
Yldar broke the kiss. "Sorry," he said. "I… I didn't know what I was…"
Pouncing like a tigress, Twilight cut off his next words by locking his lips in a fierce, passionate kiss that left Yldar breathless even as she knocked him tumbling back. He didn't even think of protesting as she crushed him into the feather mattress. The pain of cuts and bruises faded into nothing, overcome by the heat that pulsed through him.
It was like nothing he had ever felt. Yldar had known the love of women before, but never had one pressed against him so hard, so fiercely…
Twilight pulled back, tugging on his lip as she did, and appraised him with lustful eyes. "After yestereve, I was wondering what it might feel like to do that when you «weren't complaining," she said in that ironic way of hers. "And I was right." She untied her bodice with a flick of the wrist and a single pull
of the string.
Then Yldar blinked as rationality tried to return, and whispered half-heartedly, "But I thought I was in no shape-"
"Shape enough for this," she said. With a snap, she undid her raven hair, and it tumbled over bare shoulders. Words failed him.
– — Cythara awoke into a place of darkness.
Even her keen elf eyes could not penetrate a thumb's breadth in front of her face. From the rich, muggy air beating on her skin, she knew she was nude. Though she should have been cold, instead all was sweltering and heavy, bringing out a thick sweat that soaked every inch of her skin. She moved to brush her brow, but her hand would not move. She must be chained down, spread-eagled.
Cythara tried to call out, but she realized, with a start, where she was. Blood coursed through her like fire and her lungs pulsed rapidly, tearing air in and out of her body.
She lay upon the altar of Graz'zt.
She had thought all was silent but for the buzzing in her head, but she became aware of a dull beat that was not her heart pounding. It was the beat of a drum, and though she could not see it, somehow she knew the covering was the skin of a sentient creature. Her pulse quickened.
Through sheer will, she calmed herself. This was not a surprise-she had chosen this path, and now she had to walk it.
Then the chanting began.
Deep, low, and haunting, she could hear voices all around her, intoning words of darkness. The language was Abyssal, she knew, but twisted somehow, as though passing through the jet blackness distorted the words.
As though on an unspoken cue, the chant rose in volume, and she could discern the words. Horrible, depraved acts that defy names fell upon her ears like candied daggers. Despite herself, Cythara felt her stomach knot and her fingers shake.
"Sa'Graz'zt, sa'za, sa'za," was the chant. "Graz'zt, sa'za, rzal'za! Sa'lza, rzal'za!"
Lord Graz'zt, come, come, Cythara translated silently. Graz'zt come and slay us… Come into us, slay us…
Then there was a hush. Gradually, the darkness deepened and beat down harder upon her, heavier and denser, burning and sweltering. She became aware, with a start, of two glowing green-white eyes that peered down out of the darkness.
That was when Cythara's certainty faltered. She who had met no equal in a mageduel, she who had never suffered a genuine threat, she who had never known real fear-she recognized true terror in that moment.
If she had been afraid before, this sensation completely destroyed her resolve. It bore down upon her as relentlessly and as mercilessly as the headsman's axe fell upon the neck of the condemned. Her skin crawled, and her body inched away as far as it could. She could not think- all her power, all her security, all her will vanished from her in that moment.
Then she saw him, and breath left as well.
An ebony, muscular chest loomed over her, balanced on powerful, double-jointed goat legs. Powerful arms branched out, the hands spread wide, as though summoning forces of darkness to do the demon lord's will. And his face; it was beautiful, in the way that a perfect murder is beautiful, with strong, angular features like an elflord's might be. But this creature was so much more than an elf-any mortal-could ever be. Her mind roiled in horror even as her body twitched with desire-Cythara who had never known a lover, nor considered one.
Then he smiled, and her spirit melted away.
One six-fingered hand hovered up her body, and
Cythara shrank from its touch even as she longed for it. Graz'zt bent over her, and Cythara's body strained toward him.
One of his fingers found her forehead and traced its way down her face, lingering over the lips and dipping into her mouth-he tasted of honey, blood, and ashes- then down. The finger made its way down the hollow of her throat, down her chest, and over her belly.
Then the dark lord paused. And grinned.
He snapped two of his twelve fingers, and Cythara's restraints fell away.
She tingled to throw herself into his arms. Either that, or scurry away in terror. But no, she could not move, could not think beyond the burning desire in her body and spirit.
The demon lord waved his hand, and Cythara felt a hundred hands grasp her. Before Cythara knew what was happening, the thralls turned her onto her belly.
The dark lord renewed tracing his finger along her skin, flesh that tingled for him. His finger glided over her buttocks and came to the hollow at the base of her spine. He touched her there, and she felt with unholy ecstasy a mark burn itself into her skin. She gasped and rolled over to face him, eye to eye, but it was done and could not be undone.
"Now I claim you, Cythara Nathalan," said Graz'zt. "Wear my mark, and know that you are mine."
He pressed his lips to hers. Cythara could not think, could not react, could not flee. She had lost all control, and she loved it.
"Yes!" she gasped.
And Cythara knew an ecstasy she had never imagined: the ecstasy of darkness.
As he laced his hauberk of elven mail, the morning after taking in Reverie with Twilight, Yldar chanced a look at the rogue as she slipped into a pair of sleek black breeches. He marveled at her back and the gentle curves that defined her hips. Had he dreamed last night, or had it really occurred?
Then Yldar's eye caught a twinkle of gold against her creamy skin, at the base of her spine, as of a mark. He took a step closer, looked, and blinked. It had not been a trick of the light-truly, there was a star with eight asymmetrical rays snaking out like blades seemingly etched with gold into her back.
With the kind of boldness only a lover can know, Yldar moved to Twilight and embraced her from behind. The rogue smiled mischievously and swayed in his grasp, reaching around to his rump.
He would not let her change the subject, though. Yldar ran his hand down her spine and paused at the star.
"What's this?" he asked, placing his palm on the mark. Yldar felt a ripple of power like a jolt of electricity run through him, and he was stunned.
Twilight recoiled and spun away, sliding out of his arms as out of loose manacles. She turned on him with dangerous eyes and reached to her hip as though to draw steel.
When Yldar only stared, Twilight shivered and straightened once more.
"The mark of Erevan Ilesere," she said. "Borne by all his maidens."
"A birthmark?"
That same wry smile. "A gift," she said. "When his whim moved from me, Erevan sent me on my way, but he was not ungrateful for the nights we spent together."
Yldar blinked. "Y-you mean," he stammered. "You have lain with… with a god?"
"He always called me his little Moonbow," she said. "A fantasy, mayhap?"
Yldar gave a little strangled cry. "You can't-you can't be serious!"
Twilight smiled, walked up, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Make you feel special?" She patted him on the shoulder and glided on. "Oh." She turned back. "More skilled than you, of course."
Yldar blushed a fierce golden red. "Well, perhaps with practice," he said.
Her eyes smoldered. "I rather doubt that."
The elves made their way back to the stairs that led to the temple again that afternoon. Twilight had argued against it, but Yldar had insisted. They owed his sister at least an attempt.
The door they found open and the passage yawning. The darkness, reeking of the sacrifice of sentient beings, felt lighter, somehow empty. Yldar allowed himself a sudden flare of hope.
Had Cythara slain the cultists? Perhaps she had escaped!
They found no one in the lower levels. The acolytes' doors all hung open, the cells empty. The double doors to the altar chamber, charred and splintered from the events of the previous day, stood closed. Though Twilight tried to stay him, the determined Yldar crossed to the doors and shoved them open.
The altar chamber was empty, all its vileness cleaned away, all traces of sacrifices expunged. All except one figure who stood, facing them, in a robe of purest black. She pulled back her hood, revealing a familiar golden face.
"Sister!"
Yldar shouted, moving to rush forward.
A gesture from Cythara stopped him, as surely as if he had run into an invisible wall. Yldar dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword.
"Brother," Cythara said. She spoke Common, he noted. "You still do not understand. All these years, and you have learned nothing."
She turned and let her sheer gown slip down her back.
There, nestled at the base of her spine: a demonic rune-a six-fingered hand. The mark of her new master.
"You-" Yldar breathed. "You've become one of them!"
"Be silent, and let me speak," Cythara said. Her voice stabbed him like a knife. Dark charisma dripped from her like sweat and passion. "Too long I have dwelt in your shadow, aiding in your quests, helping you reclaim your honor. I have tolerated enough, brother. I have chosen my path-that of darkness and power. Now you must choose."
"Choose?"
"The Bracer or me," Cythara said. She pointed at Twilight's wrist, where the silver armguard gleamed. "Which is the greater treasure? The dust of Ynloeth's legacy or Cythara's beating heart? That treacherous thief or your once-loved sister? Your duty and honor or your kin and blood. Choose."
Perhaps it was his pride. Perhaps it was his inability to change. Or perhaps it was Twilight.
Regardless, Yldar hesitated.
Cythara nodded and gave an almost imperceptible sigh. "You have chosen," she said. "There is no love in the hearts of brothers." "But-"
"Farewell, Yldar," Cythara said. "You have your path, and I have mine. I bear you no ill will, but I swear that if you follow me, I will forget that we were once siblings." With those words, she vanished into black smoke and heat.
"No!" Yldar cried, but Cythara was gone.
He searched the spot where she had stood, but there was no trace of the mage. He looked back at Twilight, but all she could do was shrug. Yldar slammed his fist against the empty altar and screamed once, a pained cry from the depths of his soul.
Yldar righted himself slowly, angrily. He lifted his chin and his eyes went cold. "What now?" he asked, once more the haughty elf prince.
There was a long silence.
Then Twilight threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately. "Come with me," she said. "We'll sell the Bracer-it's worth a fortune in coin. I could use a partner." Yldar looked away, and Twilight laid her head against his shoulder. "Let your sister go. She made her choice-you owe her nothing now."
The Realms of the Elves a-11 Page 18
