Kiss of a Demon King

47

This was all a trick? Sabine had warned him again and again. I always have a plan, she'd said. Nothing is as it seems with me.

Here was his chance to destroy Omort, and as he took the sword from her, all he could wonder was if she had feigned her feelings for him.

No. He knew his woman, and with everything in him he felt that she returned his love. "Sabine-"

"Kill first... talk later. Please."

He gave a grave nod, then turned to Lanthe. "Come, take Sabine."

She hurried over, clasping Sabine in her arms.

"If you've gotten your powers back, then heal her," Rydstrom said.

"I'm out, demon. I'm tapped. I can't help Sabine, I can't stop the fire demons from eventually busting down that door, and I can't freeze Omort for you to simply behead him. I forbade him to use sorcery, but he can still fight you."

Rydstrom grasped the sword, rising up to slay a sor-cerer. Omort's yellow eyes seemed to bulge at the sight of the weapon.

"How did you get that inside here? Sabine?" He briefly appeared devastated, before his crazed look returned. To Rydstrom, he said, "You forced her to do this. She would never willingly betray me."

From his scabbard, Omort drew a sword with a mystickal blade of concentrated fire. "Even without my sorcery, I will still take your head! I look forward to meeting you once more in battle-and I fight for her."

I do, too. "In any other circumstance, I'd want to savor killing you," Rydstrom said, advancing on Omort. "But as much as I've envisioned this fight, I just don't have time for it." Never would he have imagined he'd be fighting Omort, not for his crown, but for the life of the woman he loved.

They began circling each other. Omort struck first, but Rydstrom made an easy parry, his sword sparking off Omort's blade.

"My brother Groot forged that sword true," Omort said. "Mine usually cuts through metal." He charged once more, striking with a blinding speed.

Rydstrom blocked again. Omort was surprisingly good-just as he'd been nearly a millennium ago. He was fast, his eyes revealing nothing. He telegraphed no move.

Again, they circled, assessing each other for weak' nesses. Omort surged forward, flying to get to his back. Rydstrom pivoted around with his sword for a clean block.

The sorcerer had skills and technique, but so did Rydstrom. And he could beat Omort's speed with his strength.

When Rydstrom's sword connected with Omort's, he followed through with all the power in his body, making the sorcerer's weapon quake in his own hands, jarring him with the merciless strike.

Again and again, their swords clashed. Then Ryd­strom feinted, catching Omort off-guard, and delivered a particularly punishing blow against his sword. Omort staggered, his body growing weaker.

Just when Rydstrom made a charge to end this, Omort snatched off" his cape, throwing it over Ryd­strom's head.

His vision obscured, Rydstrom leapt back, snatching at the material, just dodging the worst of Omort's next blow. The blade of fire cleaved through Rydstrom's shirt, searing a line across his chest.

The sorcerer came in for the kill right as he was able to see once more. Rydstrom switched sword hands as he twisted around, then swung a backhanded blow.

It landed true. Omort's head thudded to the floor. His corpse dropped to its knees before slumping to the ground.

Need to get to Sabine. But Rydstrom couldn't repeat the mistake he'd made the last time he'd faced this foe. He forced himself to wait for the space of several heart­beats.

These moments feel longer than the nine hundred years I've waited for this. . . .

The sorcerer did not regenerate. A wall of hanging tablets came crashing down, splintering across the floor. With the death of their master, the revenants dropped

ail around them.

Rydstrom clutched the hilt of the sword in thanks as he charged for Sabine. The weapon had fulfilled its

fated task.

Lanthe murmured, "No longer deathless-"

Suddenly, the great doors of the court began bowing as fire demons fought to get inside. Rydstrom skidded to a stop, swinging around, readying for battle once more.

Over his shoulder, he said to Lanthe. "Still noth­ing?"

"No, but if we can make it out of here alive, we can

get to the Hag-"

The doors began to smoke, then burn. Soon the remaining warriors of the Pravus, mainly fire demons, rushed in. The tide slowed when they spied Omort the Deathless, sprawled beheaded by his throne.

The call arose among the fire demons to take the castle. They surrounded Rydstrom, raising their palms alight with flames. With this many combining fire, they could kill him. Too many . . .

Rydstrom heard Sabine scream again as the pain

hit-Suddenly, the fire demons' attention shifted from

Rydstrom to something behind him. "Need some help?" Cadeon called. When Rydstrom twisted around, he found his

brother-and Cadeon's entire crew of mercenaries-

here and looking bloodthirsty.

It hit Rydstrom then-with Omort's death, Cadeon could trace once more. And he'd led his men here.

Just as the mercenaries attacked, Sabine screamed again. Rydstrom charged for her, battering any oppo­nents in his way. When he reached her, he shoved the sword in his belt, then cradled her in his arms. She'd gone unconscious.

Lanthe said, "We have to find the Hag! She's the only one who can cure her."

Rydstrom whisked Sabine up, storming from the court. Over his shoulder, he yelled, "Cadeon! Taking her for help!"

"I've got this!" his brother called back as he slashed at opponents with abandon. "I have some experience against these fucks! And I'm out for fire demon blood."

Lanthe was right behind Rydstrom as they rushed for the exit. "Demon, head for the base-"

She was abruptly cut off. When Rydstrom swung around, he saw her skidding across the floor.

A wild-eyed Hettiah had tackled her, blocking her way to the door. "You and your sister will pay!"

Lanthe snatched up a sword from a fallen revenant. "Take Sabine! Go!"

Rydstrom turned, barreling down the corridor stairs, before remembering he could now teleport as well. He traced Sabine into the bowels of the castle. But there were chambers everywhere, connected by a twisting labyrinth of passages. He turned in a circle, bellowing, "Hag, where the hell are you?"

"In here," she called. He followed the sound of her voice to a chamber that was exactly like he imagined a poisoner's laboratory. Atop long tables were dissected creatures, fermenting potions, bubbling brews. Bats' wings and frogs' legs hung from the ceiling.

The Hag, however, was not what he was expecting. Instead of the crone, a pretty elven brunette stood before him, the woman he'd glimpsed before.

And she was packing.

"Save her . . ." Rydstrom rasped. "You have to save

her."

Without glancing up, she said, "And why should I?" "Because I defeated Omort. I think his death has

freed you."

"Well, there is that." She met his gaze. "For five hundred years, I've waited for the sorcerer's curse to end. Lay Sabine on the table." Rooting through a safe, she withdrew two wooden cases, opening the first one. Within it lay a vial of black liquid.

When the Hag offered the antidote, Rydstrom accepted it, then propped Sabine up, holding the vial to her pale lips. He glanced at the Hag. "Do you vow this will cure her?"

"Cure her of the morsus? Yes, I vow it. But I can't help her with the bitchiness."

He scowled at her, then dripped the contents between Sabine's lips.

Waiting . . . nothing . . . "Why's it not doing any­thing?" he snapped.

She shook her head, baffled. "It should have worked by now. It must be too late."