Calling Demons

The room was dark, shadows pooling like black oil over the walls and floor except for a small patch of worn stone below the single arched doorway. There, the faint moonlight struggled wearily against the darkness as the diaphanous curtains blew their tattered fingers in the night breeze; aiding first the darkness, then the light as the wind reached for the musky air within and brought the scent of rain with it. It woke restlessness in the veins of the sleeper, mingling with the ever-present anger, and he stirred in the silk-draped bed at the room's center. Amber eyes opened into ill-tempered slits as the wind again blew away the warm, musky smell inside his room and replaced it with the sharp coolness of rain. As if the sound of the rain falling wasn't already enough to tell him of the storm outside.

Further sleep eluding him, he rolled over onto his back and sat up, muscles rippling smoothly underneath his dark skin. The silk sheets made no sound as they slipped off his bare skin and fell in silken, silvery ripples around him, reminding him of the sheen of moonlight on fresh blood. The shadows that twined like living things amid their folds were endless emptiness in contrast, sharp in his sight as his eyes adjusted to the faint light; one raised a narrow head and resolved itself into a shade-wyrm. He ignored it as he stood up, shadows slipping around his slender hips and down his legs to form trousers as he walked silently to the archway to look out at the storm.

The stone around the archway was damp with the spray carried on the wind, and his lip curled a little in distaste as he brushed aside the filmy curtains. Outside, rain lashed through the moonlit night, the sound of water hitting stone almost too loud in his sensitive ears. The wind was snarling as it whipped the rain high against the courtyard walls and the cracked and broken statues that lined the path to the gate. Curtains of water poured from the roofs of the small complex of buildings into swift currents across the fitted paving-stones; moonlight skittered across their surface and turned each gust of wind into diamond-studded spray. The stormy season was here again. How many phases of storm, sun, and cold had it been since he'd been banished here? He couldn't remember and snarled because of it, hatred twisting in his stomach.

He restrained himself after a moment, burying his hatred beneath a hard, cold facade till only his burning eyes betrayed his stillness, and watched as the storm hit the wall beyond the gate and sent bright flares of light through the runes. The raw magic within the storm was an anathema to the controlled, cultured magic that held him bound here, and his eyes burned brighter as he felt it weakening under the storm's onslaught. But he didn't move from his position in the doorway. If the long years that had passed had taught him nothing else, they had at least taught him how to be patient and wait. Sooner or later, some greedy fool would reach for the power that he represented, thinking that they could bind him to their bidding, and then he would be loosed again. Men always desired what they could not have, no matter if they were human or some other breed. That was something that would never change no matter how much time passed in the world outside of this prison.

He knew this, repeated it to himself in his mind like some soothing mantra, but the hatred coiling in his belly was hard to swallow. He'd never liked the rain. Challavra had known that when he had imprisoned him here, and B'venya was certain that the human mage had chosen this place specifically to torment him with it.

He looked away from the storm then, the scar across his right cheek and jaw tightening with a sudden sharp pain, and held out a hand for the shade-wyrm flying from the bed to land on. The little creature's claws were pinpricks of pain against his skin as it alighted on his fist and bit at his arm with a low purr. B'venya absently rubbed its jaw with the thumb of his other hand as he looked back out at the storm, golden eyes now cold. No matter. Sooner or later, he would be free, and then all the human's precious magi followers would die. One by one in the slowest and most excruciating ways he could think of (and he'd had plenty of time to think of ways to kill them), till there was no one but Challavra left. He'd been already powerful, and still growing, when the human mage had tricked and then imprisoned him; he'd also been headstrong and undisciplined. The years here alone while he'd waited and planned his revenge had given him ample time to refine his control over his powers, and to teach himself new, more advanced skills. He was more powerful now than he'd ever been and no longer only half grown.

Challavra and his precious humans would regret the day they had made B'venya Danhur into an enemy.

Transferring the shade-wyrm to his shoulder, he turned his attention away from thoughts of the past and his planned vengeance. Stretching out his hand, he sent his Presence—that immaterial part of all living things that was a great portion of his Kind's magic—to gently test the barrier around his prison as he had every storm since he'd first been locked here. Searching for a fatal weakness he could exploit, prying at the cracks created by the storm and wedging them farther open, watching and tasting the glimpses of life that slipped through from the other side. It took delicacy, a thing he'd only been briefly acquainted with before his imprisonment here but had since refined into an art. Even the lightest touch in the wrong place, or a fraction too much strength used, and the inner layers of the barrier would be triggered; sending him to his knees in screaming agony. He'd found that pain was a very capable teacher, even for his kind.

Tonight, something glinted on the other side, a bright spark of magic that called for his attention. Curious, he turned towards it, reaching out with his power. The spark fluttered in response, a plea rising. Help me. He could feel the tug of the call even through the distance and the dense magic separating him from it; the beginning of a plan unfurled in the back of his mind. Something so strong, something so raw and imprecise in its want ...?

“... if you want help, all you have to do is call for it,” he whispered insidiously, sending it back along with the smallest grain of knowledge, the words that would open the wards and bid him come from out his prison. Old words, ancient words, but simple. “Call for me.”

The spark flared, latching on to his suggestion with a desperate haste; a single word was screamed back at him in a hail of raw magic that exploded against his prison walls with a force greater than he'd ever seen. They shattered, and he howled as agony exploded within him. The shade-wyrm on his shoulder screamed as the magic twisted around them with bright, burning thorns, and they were yanked down into fire.

An instant only. Then the pain was gone, replaced by a nearly overwhelming flood of touch, smell, and sound that he hadn't experienced in more than three centuries. The shade-wyrm took flight from his arm as his heartbeat slowed in his chest, the flood of information stilling as his body instinctively sped up his thought processes to enable him to cope with the return of unfamiliar sensation. Barely even breathing, he let it all sink in.

It was still raining, drops falling gently against the skin of his shoulders, chest, and face, but this rain was filled with the scents of rich, wet earth and of green things. His feet sank into the wet ground beneath him, the fibers of grass and weeds rough against the bare soles of his feet; no more polished stone or closely fitted cobbles, but actual earth. Trees loomed through the rain, but he stood in a small clearing with only the occasional tall weed scattered among the grass for height. Her Presence behind him as bright as a fire, as the smaller sparks of creeping, stupid things fled his Presence; an owl hooted a fearful warning to his right as it took to the air among the trees. Screams of pain and terror muffled through the rain in the opposite direction. The clumsy, heavy footfalls of the ragged band of humans running towards him across the clearing, carrying weapons and torches that guttered in the rain and darkness; they had yet to notice his presence. The scent of fear heavy through the wet—Her fear behind him, and the fear of the distant screamers—and the feel of the death being played out in the wet. It was all wonderful.

His heart took another slow beat as his lips started to curl, and then time started again.

- - -

Almost. I had almost done it. Had almost gotten away. The thought seemed to echo in my head, and I had to bite back the sudden urge to laugh crazily, tears pricking the back of my eyes. Almost??! Almost?! That was the best I could do? To almost do something? That wasn't much to have as your greatest life achievement, that you'd almost done something. That was pitiful. Worthless. The only worthwhile thing I'd ever tried to do was save Raje, and I hadn't even been able to do that. All the running, the hiding; every effort I had made for the past six months, every effort in my entire life, and it was all to end right here in the mud. In this little, backwoods kingdom in the middle of nowhere, that my father probably didn't even know the name of!

He would be so disgusted if he ever found out. Beyond disgusted. Bad enough that I had failed at being a good daughter and was hardly beautiful enough to attract a rich, powerful son-in-law for him. But that I had ended up here, sitting in the mud with only the bastard child of a wild-mage beside me? He would have fits. Or maybe he wouldn't even care. He probably would be glad that I was no longer disgracing his name; scrawny, bug-eyed daughter that I am.

My father would probably never find out anyway. Hulgerie would never tell him I had been on his lands. He wasn't that stupid. Not that Father would kill him because he'd killed me; he'd kill him because he failed to bring me back, so he could properly show what happened to those who dared appose him, even if that person was his only child. Maybe because it was his only child.

It was strange I felt so tired. A moment ago I'd been wild with fear for Raje and pain from my leg, where Hulgerie's arrow had bitten deep into the muscle. Desperate to find some way to get away. It was almost as if I believed that—but that was nonsense. Ridiculous! I was a female. No female could ever be capable of carrying and practicing magic. The contempt that had shown on my father's face when I had dared to ask--

My thoughts trailed off, and it was only when enough rain gathered on my lashes that I had to blink that I realized I had been staring numbly at Hulgerie's men running at me. I blinked a second time, and he was suddenly there. Like some dark prince from a ballad, abruptly present where he hadn't been a moment before, standing tall and proud between Hulgerie's men and myself.

He didn't disappear when I blinked again, and, impossibly, I felt myself relax, all my fear and worry slipping away. There was no way that anyone could get through his strong back to me! So strong, so overwhelmingly confident? Impossible that he would ever--

There was a sound through the rain, disrupting my thoughts, so low it was more felt than heard. It made me strain to hear it again even as something in the back of my mind started telling me that it would be wise to start running now. But even as the voice said that, there was no fear.

A sound split the air and I jumped, clutching Raje instinctively to my chest. A roar of fiendish glee, fury, and hatred, so loud the earth itself seemed to tremble, and I knew then that my dark prince was no knight out of a ballad, nor a hero. No, that wasn't true; I had known what he was before that. A demon.

No human man could be that beautiful.

Rain was beading on my lashes again and Raje stirred in my arms; I looked down to check and make sure the rain wasn't soaking through his blankets the way it'd long since soaked through my own garments. When I looked up again, the clearing was empty except for the demon. I blinked, confused, then noticed an odd, crumpled shape in the dim light of the night-grass. One of Hulgerie's men; he had killed them all without even a sound, all in the time it took me to blink. I hadn't even seen the demon move, had noticed nothing.

He was standing almost exactly where he'd been before, as if he hadn't even needed to move to kill them all, and I could almost see the pride and the blood-lust radiating from him. His fangs glinted through the rain and the darkness in a savage grin, reflecting the pale glow of the night-grass. I couldn't tear my eyes away. Nothing I had ever imagined came close to him, so beautiful and deadly. I had read about his kind, but even in the passages that described the most powerful demons ever met by magi, there was nothing like him. He had to be a high prince or a lord in the demon realm, one of those even other demons spoke of with respect and fear.

He was probably going to kill me next—the thought startled me only in its wry calm. To have a creature as proud and beautiful as him grant one one's demise wouldn't be so bad. It would be a better death than Hulgerie would have offered me. And there was hope for Raje this way; wild-magi were powerful, and he had his father's gift. The demon would surely take Raje and make sure that he grew to manhood safely. Certainly he would teach Raje how to be strong. That was more than anyone else would give the child.

Holding Raje tighter, I watched the demon through the thickening rain. His head was cocked slightly to the side, as if he was listening to something I couldn't hear, and he didn't seem to notice the rain beading and running down his bare skin. There was a lot of bare skin, I noticed, feeling my ears grow hot in a blush. He was only wearing a pair of trousers that melded with the shadows; my blush grew even hotter. Proper daughters, especially princesses of the Imperial Court, were not supposed to look at a man's bare chest. That was uncouth. Disgraceful.

I found I was caring less and less about being a proper princess—demure, reserved, and cool—by the second. I was going to die in the next few minutes anyway, and he was by far the most beautiful man I had ever seen. None of my father's courtiers, beautiful and graceful as they often were, even came close. He was a sharp-edged shadow, real and solid as he stood in the rain. Not their carefully dressed forgery. The scars marking dark skin rippling with muscle weren't fakes, but testaments of past pain and battles won.

The court ladies would never believe that I had been anywhere near a man as beautiful as this demon. Me? Scrawny, bug-eyed Princess Scedanake, the disappointment? Never.

The little spark of triumph at the thought made me uncomfortable, nervous like always, but the demon didn't seem to notice my squirming. He was just standing there, head tilted up a little towards the sky, arms a little spread, the light from the night-grass shining off his skin and making him almost seem like a polished statue. What was he looking at? Or was he listening to something, the way he'd been listening before? Whatever it was, I couldn't hear or see it; there was nothing but him, the rain, and Hulgerie's dead men. Me too, I supposed, but he wouldn't be fascinated by me like that.

The trees were starting to go blurry and no matter how many times I blinked, my eyes wouldn't clear. That couldn't be a good sign. The demon needed to hurry up and turn around to kill me, or I would just fall over dead myself. That, well, it'd be fitting for Princess Scedanake the disappointment, but for once, I wanted something just for Scedanake the whatever-it-was.

Finally, as the blurring was starting to spread to him as well (what a disappointment!), he turned around and stared at me and Raje. His eyes were gold, as hot and bright as the summer sun; how had I missed that before? We were staring at each other, but that was the only thought going through my mind. I couldn't read the thoughts behind those burning eyes, not even a feeling. It made my stomach feel strange. People usually turned out to be who I had thought they were, despite how hard I tried not to believe. I could always tell. But this demon I could not read.

Nervousness was twisting my stomach and making me feel sick; I hugged Raje closer and opened my mouth to say something. Anything. It had gone dry while I watched him; had I been sitting there with my mouth hanging open? My ears burned again and my stomach twisted. But I couldn't cry. Demons respected strength only. I couldn't cry.

“Th—thank you for killing them.” My voice was faltering, my tongue awkward in my mouth. My teeth were chattering. Strange. I didn't feel cold. Hopefully Raje was still warm enough. I had wrapped him in some blankets I'd been able to steal, but I couldn't feel my fingers enough to check. I couldn't feel my leg either, the one that the arrow was still sticking out of. That couldn't be good, but I was going to die anyway, so I didn't worry about it.

The demon wasn't answering me, only watching. I found myself watching back, till those burning eyes flicked away from me, towards the trees. He must have made some movement to leave because suddenly, all the panic and fear that I'd felt before was back, even stronger than before. “Wait!” I cried. My body wasn't moving the way I wanted it to; I nearly dropped Raje into the mud as I tried to reach for the demon. “Y—you can't leave us! P—please, at least take Raje?” My arms wouldn't obey me then either, when I tried to lift Raje's bundled form, his silvery hair just visible through the wrapped blankets. The demon had stopped though and was watching me again as my voice babbled on. “H—he's a wild-mage; he'll be strong! They'll k—kill him. Please?” I hated the way I sounded, so weak, so pitiful. But he seemed like the only refuge in a world gone suddenly wrong, as if I would never be safe again if he left, and the knowledge that if he took Raje no one would ever harm the child again was instinctive. I knew it. No one would dare touch him. No one would be able to. No one.

The demon moved in that same fluid way that a cat moves, turning back towards me with his eyes not burning quite as brightly as before. His beauty threatened to make my heart stop. It was unbelievable that he wasn't a dream, some illusion brought on by the nearness of death. That would explain why when those golden eyes looked at me, I couldn't read his thoughts, couldn't tell what he saw when he looked at me, and couldn't tell what he was going to do. That thought was so sad, I pushed it out of my mind as I watched him glide closer.

He stopped close enough I was having difficulty tipping my head back enough to see him without getting the rain into my eyes, and for some reason, it made me feel very small and vulnerable. He hadn't looked that tall; was he really that tall? Or was I just small? I knew I was small, but still.

“You aren't afraid of me?” he asked. His voice jolted me out of my circling, fragmenting thoughts, just as smooth and powerfully beautiful as the rest of him. Curious, and uncaring at the same time, making me swallow as a tightness grew in my throat. To him, I wasn't anything more than a dying sparrow he'd come across on a stroll. Nothing important. Nothing particularly interesting.

Blinking, and fighting the dizziness creeping in on the edges of my mind, I forced myself to concentrate enough to formulate a reply. “Th—there's other things I fear more,” I answered. What was he going to do? It was getting harder and harder to gather enough strength to care about anything. But Raje ... “H—his father was strong.” The world was twisting, or was I swaying? Afraid I was going to drop Raje, I gathered him tighter to my chest, fighting not to fall. Undisturbed, he slept on, unaware that his fate was hanging in the balance. “Th—the council killed him; I hid Raje, but he has his father's g—gift. Please ...” The world twisted again.

Nostrils flaring as if he smelled something unpleasant through the rain, the demon abruptly dropped to a crouch. My vision and head spun as I tried to follow the movement; by the time I could see straight (relatively) again, he had his hand on my leg. It felt as hot as coals through the thick fabric of my boy's breaches and I jumped, then bit my tongue as pain followed the sensation. Gasping, tears mingling with the rain on my face, I blinked and was able to focus clearly for the first time since the demon had appeared.

The demon either didn't notice my pain, which was unlikely, or he didn't care. He tossed the arrow that had been in my thigh away with a low sound of contempt, then spread his fingers and pulled something from below me, shadows weaving together into cloth. Fascinating, and distracting enough that I could do something about my chest heaving wildly for breath. Couldn't do anything about the coppery tang of blood in my mouth but swallow, which made my tongue hurt, but at least the pain in my leg had settled to a dull throb.

After a moment of watching him wrap the cloth around my leg in a bandage that seemed to suck the pain away, I thought of something and had to swallow apprehension. Wasn't he going to kill me? Why would he bandage someone he was going to kill? Did this mean he wasn't going to kill me? But why? He might have taken Raje because demons sought power. That's what all the books agreed on. Raje's gift could be used, especially if the demon was the one who raised him, but me? Princess Scedanake the disappointment? What good could I be to him? I didn't have any gifts or talents he could use.

Raje whimpered softly and moved in his wrappings; I soothed him gently, distracted from my thoughts. He stilled at my murmurs, his face peaceful under his silver locks. He would be beautiful if he was allowed to grow up. Hair the color of moonlight and eyes the color of green ice. A beautiful man and a gifted one. His father had been very powerful in his gift, a good man, and his son would be even stronger.

Regretfully, I thought back on the man I had met and talked with in the Imperial Palace. A handsome man himself, but ambitious. Too powerful and too protective of those things he held dear to last long in my father's court. I had told him that, warned him, but he had wanted--

I blinked rain from my lashes and wondered why I mourned now. I had not mourned the green-eyed man when I first heard he had been imprisoned, and was awaiting a trial that all knew would end in execution. I had only thought of Raje, little silver-haired Raje with his father's eyes and laugh. They would not let the son of such a powerful and loved man as Deviire live. It was too dangerous, and I had known what my father would do.

The sick feeling I was so familiar with was back in my stomach, and I tucked the blankets closer around Raje, quickly turning my thoughts somewhere else. There was no good in thinking of such things. Sometimes my father seemed more like a demon than the demon did.

That thought brought my thoughts back, and I realized the demon had finished bandaging my wound. He smoothed down the end of the shadow-cloth and it melted in with the rest of the bandage. Then the demon looked away towards the trees and I was startled to see that he lacked the pointed ear of the old blood. Did that mean he wasn't of pure blood, and wasn't nobility within the demon ranks? My father's magi and all the books said that demons were the descendants of the traitorous daughter of Lorain Bright-seed, who'd tried by dark magics and manipulative cunning to destroy the old world. The dark lineage of the Heroes, the arch-enemies of the Briiani lineage of the Briia—descended from the Hero Briian—and the Kelvi lineage of the Kell—descended from the Hero Kelve and my own lineage. But all the Lineages wore the distinctive arch of the old blood. Only the common folk had round ears. But his eyes! Thinking of how he could own such eyes and yet not the distinctive ears of the old blood was making my head hurt.

He seemed to be watching something, but all I could see was the thick shadows under the trees. The glow of the night-grass wasn't enough to do more than illuminate the raindrops and cast shadows; what was it that he saw? “I—is something there?” I asked.

Those golden, unreadable eyes turned back to me after I forced out the question, and my throat tightened with shame. He was disappointed at me, he had to be. A demon-girl probably wouldn't have needed to ask, but would have been able to see herself. He probably thought I was stupid. And why was I even thinking of such things?! It wasn't as if he'd ever look at me like that. Demon-girls were probably gorgeous, breathtakingly beautiful; I'd be stupid if I ever thought Princess Scedanake the disappointment could measure up.

But somehow, he didn't sound disappointed when he answered; he even, maybe, sounded a little approving. “Hunters of the dead, come to feed,” he said, a faint growl following the words and doing little to dispel the sickness in my stomach.

When he glanced back at the trees, that tightness in my throat came back, and my stomach twisted. “Y—You're not going to leave, are you?” I asked, my voice sounding thin and panicked even to my ears. But I couldn't swallow the words as I clutched at Raje. “P—Please ...” I begged.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, turning back to me with eyes burning hot once more. My own widened. Was this what the bird felt like, when the snake was staring at it? My whole body felt hot for some reason, and I couldn't look away from his eyes as he snarled, “It doesn't befit you.”

Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, I caught a flicker of surprise in the depths of those sun-bright eyes, as if he hadn't planned on saying anything. I blinked, and it was gone, leaving only annoyance behind. Something moved under my hand, a feeling so strange and unfamiliar that I had to look down to see it, and the sight of my pale fingers on the shadow-dark skin of his arm was so strange that I only stared for a moment. Then my hand jerked away as I realized what I'd done, my face burning. What kind of idiot was I, to grab at him like some stupid, some stupid—some stupid girl! He must think me damaged in the head after that, I thought, chancing a glance at him.

Those golden eyes were still watching me, no longer burning quite so brightly. He thought—what? I didn't know, couldn't tell, and if anything, that made my mortified flush even worse as I waited for his laughter or contempt. There was always contempt. He had to think I was pitiful. Wasn't I? Poor, pitiful Princess Scedanake the disappointment?

No such laugh came as he looked away. No contempt, only smooth, controlled grace as he stood. How could he move so easily, so fast? No doubt the muscles helped, but still.

The memory of how those muscles had felt under my fingers came back, and I could practically feel the rain sizzling off my ears. Proper princesses weren't supposed to know what a man's muscles felt like. Proper princess weren't supposed to even think about what a man's muscles felt like.

I snuck a look up towards him, and found those bright golden eyes watching me. He held my gaze for a second, then he looked away. Turning slightly, he raised a hand, shadow spinning up from the ground in its wake, and my flush cooled as I watched, scarcely daring to breath. It was more shadow than he'd spun when making my bandage, much more, but he didn't even twitch. The magi of my father's court had preformed many spells in front of the court, but none had done anything like this. Could have done anything like this. They drew circles and runes, chanted and mixed potions, and preformed elaborate ceremonies. Even the battle magi, who had to rely on their spells in an instant and often with little to no warning, had difficulty working their spells. This seemed as natural as breathing, no more difficult that a simple motion of his hand.

The shadows curled around his hand and rubbed against his legs like a dog with a favored master, developing an extra dimension of depth as they did that caused the hair on the back of my neck stand up. No matter how dark the shadows had been before, there was always something else on the other side—the ground, or a tree, or something. With these though, I was no longer sure there was anything but more shadow on the other side. They seemed able to swallow anything, and I felt my mouth go dry as I watched them curl around the demon. It was like watching a sword-dancer in that moment where all his blades were up in the air and falling, and one misstep or wrong move would lead to death, where I was caught by the beauty of it even as the imminent nearness of death made me want to run.

He was just as dangerous as they were though, and when he gestured the shadows obediently left off rubbing against him to spin out flat in a black pool, drawing yet more shadow to themselves as they did. When they stopped spinning and all ripples had ceased, it was easily the size of a cottage. Was there even one among my father's magi who could work something this big alone? The pale glow of the night-grass couldn't even begin to penetrate the depths of this shadow.

A low sound came from the demon, and my eyes flicked to him as I blinked, aware that I'd been staring too long at the shadow. The tips of his fangs were showing between his lips, and his eyes were burning sun-bright again. They looked annoyed; maybe this wasn't as easy for him as it had first seemed. I watched him for a moment, then looked back at the bottomless pool of shadow as a ripple disturbed the surface. More followed, and the center started to rise, bits of shadow fraying apart and then spinning back together again over and over again. As if something was trying to break through it, or struggling to surface. Was this a summoning? But the Magista spell was supposed to block all demonic summonings. For that matter, how had the demon himself gotten through? Was there a hole? Had he found a hole or fray and slipped through? Maybe the Magista spell was failing. The thought that this demon was stronger than the Magista—which held the power of more than a dozen of the strongest life-crystals ever found, and had been built by the strongest and most skilled magi of the ages—was unbelievable. He was strong, yes, but no one person was that strong.

Or maybe there was. The shadow was peeling away from itself, revealing a shape that was becoming more and more defined by the moment as it pushed the surface of the pool up higher than the demon's head. Then it broke away with a scream of rage as a huge equine shape surged up out of the pool, shadows slipping away as the brilliant ruby eyes of mad hatred flashed. The breath stopped in my lungs as the creature reared back on its hind legs, its form like the most magnificent of my father's war mounts, with flowing shadows for its mane and tail that brushed the night-grass.

It snapped at the demon with bloody fangs, then butted its head against his chest in that way that horses do to those they like. The demon hissed at it in return as it tossed its head, stroking the creatures sleek coat. Then the demon looked back at me, where I was sitting in the mud staring up at him, his golden eyes bright and unreadable. What was he intending? I couldn't tell, and that old familiar sickness was creeping back into my stomach.

The shadow-horse stomped and snapped at the crumpled form of one of Hulgerie's men, distracting me, and the demon's move was just a blur from the corner of my eye. Then I was suddenly in the demon's arms, his skin hot enough to drive all the air from my lungs, burning through my wet clothes. I hadn't realized I was so cold. I hadn't felt so cold, but was he really that hot otherwise? My head was spinning, and I couldn't tell if we were moving or standing still.

There was a shift of muscles under his rain-slick skin, then some small noise escaped me as I realized we were now on the shadow-horse's back. It was a long way to the ground. Was the shadow-horse always this tall? It hadn't looked so tall, but that was a long way down. I hated horses, I thought irrelevantly as I clutched Raje tighter. Then the creature began to move at a rate that had everything blurring around us, and another small sound escaped me as I tried to grab on to anything I could to prevent myself from falling off.

The touch of the demon's hand against my cheek brought my gaze snapping up to his bright eyes, and the fear abruptly fled. His face was very close—I had never been this close to a man before, and I could feel my cheeks and ears heating at the thought. He was very close, and his eyes weren't altogether gold—there were flecks of silver and black in them too. Like shards of starlight and night. And I was babbling to myself. Could I be any more pathetic that that?

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice seemed so close that I jumped, feeling it like a physical brush against my skin.

It took me a moment to collect myself enough that I could answer him without babbling. “Scedanake Ekedavi Revaini Kelvi,” I said. It meant a beautiful fierceness that grows gracefully among thorns and rocks, and that I was a descendant of the Lineage of the Revain Kell. I didn't add my father's name to my lineage. I wasn't so sure I wanted to die now.

Those beautiful flecked eyes flickered. “Scedanake,” he said, as if tasting the name on his tongue. When he said it, it sounded like I might actually fit it, not like it was some big joke or a disappointment. It was the first time anyone had done that.

His eyes flickered back down to me. “I am B'venya Danhur,” he said simply, adding no lineage names at all, and shadow slipped around Raj and I. My breath caught, and he made a low noise in the back of his throat, his arms slipping a bit more comfortably around me, nestling me back against him. “I will not hurt you, Scedanake,” he said.

Such a strange thing for a demon to say, I thought tiredly as he pulled my head back till my cheek was resting against his chest, Raje cradled in my lap. I felt tired, as if all my fears and worries had leached all my strength from me, but I didn't want to sleep just yet. His chest was very warm, his arms very reassuring. Such a strange thing for a demon to do. I had never heard of a demon called Flashing before either. At least his surname still meant Death, but Flashing?

My head bobbed, then sank, and I was asleep as the shadow-horse ran on.