There was no resistance in his arm when she grabbed it, and that surprised her. Overbalanced, she nearly fell, but recovered. Even as she spun, she expected to find a gleaming point whistling toward her breast. Tras Sur'tian moved with dreamlike slowness. She seized his hand, fought him for the dagger, and tried to uncurl his fingers from its hilt. He glared, eyes full of fear.
Demonfang shrieked, a long, piercing wail. The sound swelled, reverberating in the chamber, creating a series of deafening echoes. Then it began to fade until it was silent.
Frost didn't understand, but she acted. With all her strength she tried again to unwrap Tras Sur'tian's fingers. They were rigid, unbending.
“Gel's enchantment,” Onokratos explained. He crept cautiously to her side, face pale. He paced a wide circle around the Korkyran, ready to bolt, studiously observing.
Kimon touched her shoulder and pointed. Gel stood as immobile as Tras Sur'tian, transfixed, hands outstretched, straining. His huge black body glistened with a fine sweat. As she watched, fresh beads popped out on his brow, ran in rivulets down his face.
A new solution hit her. Swiftly, she snatched up the dagger's sheath and clapped it over the blade.
“No!” Gel's voice was a barely audible whisper. He shook all over, great muscles corded with effort, “B-blood!” he stammered.
She knew his meaning and bared the blade again.
“What are you doing?” Kimon shouted, trying to prevent her.
She pushed him away and jerked her tunic sleeve high, exposing her forearm.
“You can't!” Kimon's arms encircled her. She smashed an elbow against the side of his head. When his grip loosened, she grabbed his wrist, twisted, throwing him to the floor.
Before Kimon could rise again, she raked her forearm over Demonfang's edge. It gleamed, incarnadined, satisfied. She slammed the sheath back in place.
The demon let out a groan, sagged against the wall, lungs pumping laboriously. Tras Sur'tian blinked, stared wordlessly. When his knees started to buckle, Onokratos caught him around the waist. Bruised but unhurt, Kimon flung his belt around Frost's arm just above the cut and began to twist it tight.
She stopped him. “Not serious,” she murmured. Their eyes locked just for a moment. Then, remembering the cause of the argument, she slipped her arm free and turned from him. Blood ran down over her palm, past her fingers, fell in heavy drops to stain the floor, but she reached out and took the silent, sated Demonfang from Tras Sur'tian's lax grip.
The Korkyran regarded them all uncertainly, then stumbled to a seat at the table. He grabbed the nearest bottle of wine and slugged down the contents. A trickle spilled over his chin, spoiling his tunic.
Kimon took another bottle, poured a cupful, and offered it to Frost. She accepted it noncommittally and sipped. Onokratos came to her side. “A fascinating weapon,” he remarked. He tugged on his earlobe, looking unpleasantly thoughtful. She strapped the dagger to her waist, set a hand on its hilt, and moved away from him.
Gel had not stirred. He leaned on the wall, half-standing, half-crouched. His immense chest heaved. For the third time, she felt a warm, disturbing rush, but with it mingled a genuine concern. The demon had saved her friends. Despite what he was, what he'd done in the past, she owed him a debt. She went around the long dining table toward him.
His eyes followed her, though he seemed too weak for speech. When she was close, he reached out with a slow, languid motion. Clawed fingers brushed at the streaming wound on her arm.
She jumped back, an involuntary reaction. Kimon, seeing, scrambled over the table, sword drawn, to her defense. She turned on him, glowering, his aid unasked. His expression betrayed his hurt as he stopped in his tracks. Then, shaking his head, he sheathed his weapon, went back to his place at the table.
“Sorry,” she apologized, facing Gel again. “You startled me.” That was true enough. She'd never touched a demon before or let one touch her. The sight of his claws had unnerved her momentarily. She chided herself for the foolish reaction as she glanced at her wound.
She gasped. “By the nine hells'” she swore, and watched disbelieving as the gash healed at a greatly accelerated rate: blood staunched, flesh melded, a scar formed and disappeared. Only a dried trail of crusty blood betrayed where the cut had been.
At her exclamation Kimon came running again. He leaned over her shoulder, mouth gaping, and rubbed a finger over the unblemished skin to convince himself of what he'd witnessed. “It's not possible,” he whispered tersely. “This is some kind of illusion."
“It is possible.” Tras Sur'tian had also come unnoticed behind her. He clutched another bottle in his hand and swilled from it, gulping noisily. “It's all clear to me, now.” He gestured toward Gel. “He said he came from hell, didn't he?"
Tras stumbled back to his seat and raised the bottle for another drink. Frost prevented him. All color had gone from his face; his eyes were reddened. Wine had stained his beard, and his hands shook visibly. She tried to pry the bottle from his grip, but he jerked it back.
“Leave it!” he bellowed. “By the One God, woman, I've earned a good drunk! That business with the burning hand in Mirashai; those fire things flying at us in the wood trying to do us in.” He shuddered, took a drink, swallowed hard. “When that bolt hit me I thought I was dead.” A strange look came into his eyes; his face turned impassive for just a moment, then reanimated. “But I'm alive. Then that damned dagger of yours...” He looked up at her, and she could see his anger and terror. “I felt it in my mind, like a thing alive, controlling me! Is it that way for you when you use it?” He waited for an answer. When she gave none, he turned his attention back to the wine. “Yes, by hell, I need this.” He started to drink.
She slapped the bottle to the floor. Tras Sur'tian rose in a dark rage. The back of his huge fist crashed down on her cheek, sending her sprawling. Pain exploded in her skull as it impacted on the tiles. Then she heard a sound, a savage growl and a struggle. Something was happening, but her eyes were full of stars and intricate swirling lights. She shook her head to clear it, telling herself to get up, willing rebellious legs to move.
Urgently, hands pulled at her, Kimon's hands. The demon's claws were fisted in Tras's tunic. The Korkyran kicked air as Gel hoisted him with one hand. The claws of his other hand prepared to rip.
“Stop!” She barely recognized her own voice. Was it some spell that brought this madness down on them? Or just the strain of all that had happened? No matter, it had to end, now, before they destroyed each other. “Let him go, Gel.” She forced authority into her words. Every eye turned her way. The demon set Tras Sur'tian back on his feet. Kimon stood guard at her side, clutching his sheathed sword sternly, ready to enforce her will. Onokratos, standing a safe distance from the brawl, watched coolly, unruffled. He arched one brow when her gaze locked with his. “Now, everyone sit down,” she ordered.
Onokratos sat, then Kimon. Gel drifted to his master's side and stood just behind him. Tras Sur'tian regarded the demon hatefully, spat, and took a similar position next to Frost. Like two fighters squaring off, she observed, and cursed silently.
She planted a foot on one of the benches as she leaned forward. “Did you have anything to do with that?” She wiggled her fingers suggestively.
The wizard understood her meaning. “No,” he answered, pouring himself a dollop of water into one of the few cups that hadn't been kicked over or smashed. He lifted it in a mock toast. “The only force stronger and more dangerous than raw magic is raw human nature. But then, you know that."
“Nothing human about that thing behind you,” Tras Sur'tian mumbled, scowling. Gel showed his teeth in response. The demon betrayed no hint of weakness now.
“Tras,” Frost said quietly, “shut up."
He glowered, looked about to say more, then fell glumly silent.
Frost drew a deep breath and chewed her lower lip as she had a habit of doing. An apple from the overturned fruit bowl rested in front of her. She picked it up, studie
d it casually, tossed it a couple of times, and then took a small, crisp bite. She looked around the room at all the staring faces, enjoying the moment's respite.
“Well, gentlemen?” She spoke with a calmness she really didn't feel as she forced a smile. “What now?"
Onokratos drummed his fingers on the table's wooden surface and set down his water cup. He pursed his lips. Then he announced, “I think I have a plan."
Chapter Eleven
In her room, Frost paced impatiently while she waited for Onokratos. There were things the wizard claimed he had to do before he explained his plan. The floor creaked under her every footstep. Finally, she sat down, but the chair was uncomfortable, so she resumed her pacing.
Tras Sur'tian was somewhere outside trying to chase down their horses. She didn't worry about Ashur; the unicorn would come running when she called. Could the same be said of Kimon? she wondered. He'd drifted off alone after the argument, long-faced, his thoughts veiled from her. She hadn't seen him since.
She hugged herself, wishing for company, for anyone to talk to.
Perhaps she should check on Aki. Onokratos had assured her the child-queen had been fed and bathed as she'd requested. Still, it wouldn't hurt to pay her charge a visit. Maybe, deep down inside, some human part of Aki would appreciate a companion.
No, she knew that wasn't true. No part of Aki was human now. Aki was an animal, soulless. Frost wasn't even sure she could find the way to Aki's cell. The corridors seemed to shift like colors in a kaleidoscope, no passage ever leading to the place it did when she'd last traversed it.
Yet there was no harm in trying, and it was something to do.
Her mind at last made up, she turned to the door only to see it open. The demon, Gel, ducked his head ever so slightly and stepped over the threshold, barely squeezing his great ebon bulk through the frame. She caught her breath. His size had impressed her when she'd first seen him in the spacious dining hall. In the cramped confines of her room, he seemed half again as large as she remembered.
He drew himself erect as he stared down at her. The hard gleam in those dark eyes made her shiver. She was no stranger to the supernatural, yet something about this creature unnerved her, repelled and at the same time attracted her. Unconsciously, she felt for her purse and the ruby jewel within.
“Thee will not need the talisman.” His voice thundered, rich, sonorous, vaguely alien. “I offer thee no harm."
She swallowed, blushed, realizing how tightly she clasped the small purse. She fought against the odd quiverings he stirred inside her and tried to appear nonplussed. “Don't you feel a bit of a draft?” she said, folding arms over her chest.
He glanced at his body. “Are thee offended by my nakedness?"
“Well ... no.” She swallowed again. He really was enormous.
“Good.” He stretched, deliberately sensuous, she thought as he curled his arms to avoid the ceiling. Then he came toward her. She took a quick, reflexive step away and bumped into the table at her back. She bent nearly over it as the demon loomed above her. She could feel the heat that radiated from his body; his hot breath brushed her cheek.
She struggled to regain her balance, but two massive arms on either side of her kept her from straightening. Finally, she said flatly, “If you intend to break my spine, you've chosen a particularly inefficient way to go about it."
He didn't answer. His eyes roamed over her. A great hand moved to caress her shoulder. She saw it coming and steeled herself for his touch. Once before she'd recoiled from him; she refused to show him fear a second time. The hand slid along her arm with surprising gentleness. His fingers played on the back of her hand. Then Gel stepped back.
“Onokratos summons you,” he said. “He is waiting."
She stood up, tossed her hair back, and headed for the door. “What in hell does he think I've been doing?” she called over her shoulder with a calm she didn't really feel. “This isn't exactly a pleasure palace."
“I could give thee pleasure."
She didn't turn around; she could feel those eyes on her. A chill raced up her spine, but she mastered herself. “I doubt that,” she informed him bluntly.
She waited in the corridor for the demon to squeeze through the door, then followed him along the maze of passages. From the outside the manor had seemed such a simple, almost plain structure. She scratched her chin in puzzlement; the interior was quite the opposite, a frustrating exercise in confusion even in daylight. She wondered that anyone found their way about.
They stopped before a door banded with three thick strips of cold silver, each engraved with glyphs and symbols of unknown origin. She sniffed a faint odor of incense, and knew the nature of the room on the other side. The demon rapped on the door. Footsteps echoed within, then the door swung open.
Onokratos looked past her and spoke with his familiar. “Bring her friends,” he ordered. “Everything is ready.” He beckoned to her. “Of your own will, enter.” The door closed behind her.
She was not surprised by what she saw. On the inside, the door was a solid sheet of the argent metal; silver had power to contain magical forces. The walls, the ceiling, and two silver-shuttered windows were all emblazoned with unreadable glyphs and strange sigils.
A rack of candles seven shelves high blazed on the north and south walls. In the four corners braziers burned redly, pouring smoky incense into the unventilated air. There was no furniture, but a lone wooden stand supported an open grimoire. Painted on the floor was a large triangle, a seal of conjuration most commonly used in the neighboring kingdom of Chondos. Its outline sparkled in the firelight with a fine layer of silver dust. Within the triangle were more symbols, and at its heart circle.
She had often stood in such rooms when she was younger. “Our philosophies share similar roots,” she said, gazing about. She pointed to the shutters; opened, they would give a western view. “The direction of the unknown, therefore, magic,” she noted. “Silver for binding. The triangle, one corner each for conjuring the gods of light, the gods of darkness, and the gods of neutrality.” A few of the glyphs were familiar. “Those are Esgarian."
“I've been to Esgaria,” he admitted. “I stole some books there. Men are forbidden to study the dark arts in your land, as you well know."
She bit her lip. It seemed the memories were not completely exorcised after all, nor the pain. It was true. In her country only women studied the secret ways, and only men were permitted the use of weapons. She had violated that law, taken up the sword, lost her family and her name for her disobedience.
She let out a long sigh and dismissed the past. For the present there were more immediate problems, and Onokratos was still talking.
“...the Chondites were even less cooperative. I had to sneak over their border. They promptly expelled me when they discovered I'd milked one of the neophyte sorcerers for every bit of information money could extract from him."
She shook her head impatiently. “The plan, wizard. Explain your plan."
Onokratos paced around the triangle. Suddenly, he avoided looking at her. A brooding suspicion began to grow in her; a slow, heavy tension began to wring her muscles.
At last, he spoke. “I had to discuss the premise with Gel. His perceptions are naturally much sharper than ours, and he had a direct psychic contact with the dagger."
“Hold it.” She grasped the blade's hilt protectively, eyes narrowed. “If this brilliant scheme involves Demonfang, forget it."
His features hardened to a cruelty that startled her. His voice rasped. “If you want help for that precious little bitch below us, you'll do as I say!"
She bit back a sharp retort. Nothing would be gained by arguing until she knew what he had in mind. But Demonfang was hers. No one wielded it but her, and woe to anyone who tried to take it by force. She leaned against the wall, resting her hand casually on the dagger's butt, prepared to listen.
“It will take all your courage,” he said smugly, folding hands into his sleeves, “and more. You a
ctually gave me the idea when you pointed out that none of us, not even Gel, possessed the power to challenge the thousand-named one.” He beamed suddenly, obviously pleased with himself, and resumed his pacing around the triangle. “What we need then is an alliance with a first-order power."
Her jaw dropped. “You're insane,” she said simply.
“Gel agrees.” He thrust a bony finger at the sheathed dagger. “That most amazing artifact provides a means of gaining such an ally.” His smile flickered, faded, returned. “Or at least of getting to the negotiating table."
She repressed a shudder as the old man unveiled the true horror of his plan. The dagger's screaming had been the clue, he told her. The sound came not from the dagger, but through it. Gel confirmed that. So he believed, and the demon agreed, that Demonfang might actually become a gateway.
Her throat was dry. “A gateway to where?"
His smile vanished utterly. “To hell,” he answered, “where all souls spend eternity.” Then, with caustic bitterness, he added, “Except Kalynda, who writhes in Gath's evil web."
“Or Aki, whom you condemned to the same fate.” They both fell silent, thoughtful. She considered Aki's soul, food for the spider god's gross appetites. She squeezed her eyes shut to expel the image. “You're suggesting a journey into hell?"
“We must strike a bargain with Orchos, lord of the dead,” he affirmed. “That god has been cheated of two souls who never will enlarge his realm unless he aids us. And he is as jealous, as hungry and insatiable as the lord of chaos."
A heavy knock resounded on the door. Onokratos crossed the chamber, opened it, and admitted Gel, Kimon, and Tras Sur'tian, admonishing them to move carefully and not disturb the silver dust outlining the triangle.
The Korkyran was tired, but surly. He glanced around the room disapprovingly, wrinkled his nose at the incense. When his gaze fell on Kimon he gritted his teeth. She could feel his hatred for the younger man like a tangible force. Fortunately, Gel stood between them to prevent trouble.
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