Diavla

The possessed held Diavla by both arms and dragged her quickly towards the center of the mob, the others parting briefly to make a path. The plan seemed to be working. Diavla's biggest fear had been that Quazulin wouldn't believe that an elf could be so clumsy as to go falling over in the street, which was why they had Tom pretend to stumble so that she could "save" him and get in trouble herself.

Here comes the tricky bit. Focus, Diavla.

One of the guards called out, "(Something) another one. It's one of Walker's elves." The man who must be Captain Forester turned at their approach, and predictably, his eyes were full of hate, while a cruel smile played on his lips. Upon seeing him, Diavla started yanking as hard as she could, trying to break free, but was easily overmatched by the two men holding her arms.

"No amulet?" Quazulin demanded.

"It came off when she fell."

To her surprise, Quazulin addressed her in Elvish. "How wonderful! Tom Walker will well and truly hate me for what I'm going to do to you. I'm going to have a lot of fun making him suffer. He'll wish he'd joined me by the time I'm through with him." He reached for her, and she flinched away. It was hard to focus in this terrifying situation, but Sheema had encouraged her and helped her prepare.

Quazulin gripped her chin and forced her head up. She felt the demon start trying to slither into her soul, and she screamed, as loudly as she could. Then she placed her trust in Arven, and fed her magic into her empty, second Amulet of Protection from Demons.

Several things happened in quick succession.

The guards holding her arms screamed and let go. Quazulin's face twisted into a snarl of pain, but he didn't let go yet, surprisingly; that actually made things easier. Diavla yanked Daring's silver-lined manacles off her belt—they came loose at once, just like they'd practiced—slapped one manacle on Forester's wrist, and closed the other on her own.

"They're coming!" someone in the crowd yelled.

Quazulin's instincts caused him to let go, trying to pull back, but it was too late. Diavla jumped and kicked off the closest guard to gain height, reaching up with her free hand at the same time. Only then did she dare to look up.

Arven's aim was nearly perfect. Forester yanked at her with the manacles, but she was ready for that. She hit the ground with both feet and immediately jumped again in a different direction, correcting her course. The Rod of Demonic Repulsion fell almost straight down into her waiting grasp. She couldn't stop its descent in time, and it clanged loudly against the cobblestones.

The result was like an explosion.

A shock wave seemed to pass through the crowd, flinging everyone else away from the Rod as if they had been kicked by a herd of sky-hoppers, each the size of an ox. Quazulin was thrown back as well, flying as far away from the Rod as he could given that he was still cuffed to Diavla. She got a firmer grip on the Rod and tried to swing it at him one-handed. The Rod stopped only halfway around as if it had hit something, and Forester let out a startled, "OOF!" The dwarven magic item bounced backwards, and Diavla could barely keep a grip on it as it swung out diametrically opposite Forester, pulling her arms out straight to both sides, as if the demon and the Rod were trying to pull her apart.

Meanwhile, a determined mob of people had started pouring out of the Temple the moment she had screamed, and quickly forced their way past the outer ring of possessed and encircled Diavla and Forester. All of them were wearing filled amulets and carried improvised shields.

"Got you," Diavla gloated.

Forester's eyes widened, and he quickly pulled out his sword with his off hand. Forcing himself to take a single step closer, he swung at Diavla's manacled wrist. She yanked the Rod closer to her with all her strength, throwing the guard captain's aim off, and just barely bent her hand back far enough to avoid losing fingers. The sword sparked on the short silver chain between them.

For the second swing, Diavla chose to let the Rod pull her arm out straight as she stepped closer, taking the blade against her bracer—the bracer Tom had insisted they each start wearing weeks ago, after the wolve attack. It burned like fire, but her arm didn't quite break. She was running out of options, though; the manacles negated her chief advantage in combat: her ability to dodge and maneuver.

She bolted sideways, starting to run around Forester in a circle, trying to keep distracting him, draw his attention away from—

Pain.

Diavla stumbled. Her mouth started filling with blood, and a strangely muted pain was coming from her throat. It took her a moment to realize that Forester had thrown a dagger, so quickly that she hadn't seen the motion. She fell to her knees and lost her grip on the Rod, which started to tumble farther away. She struggled not to choke. Unable to stop herself, she dropped on one side, pulled by the manacles. Everything started to get blurry.

The last thing she saw was Tom approaching, screaming her name. Her eyes filled with tears.

No. I want to live.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

Tom

He'd led the charge through the mob to the Temple, knowing that he needed to sell the trap for a few more seconds. He had thought he was ready, but Diavla had just screamed, instead of shouting "NOW!" in Elvish like they'd planned. Arven had taken that as the signal, and thrown the Rod high like a javelin. It was important that it come almost straight down, right in the middle. Tom couldn't have made the throw, but everyone trusted Arven to pull it off.

He led the second charge back at the mob, knowing before the enemy did that they would be thrown into chaos by the time he reached them. When the Rod came down, the way the possessed were flung outward looked as if a giant had stomped the ground in the middle of the plaza. Some stumbled, and many fell, but the outer ring was still standing when Tom charged them with his shield, knocking people aside and making a hole for the volunteers behind him to pour through. This tied him up for several moments, moments he wanted to spend facing Quazulin, but they had to give the plan time to work. This was all for nothing if they couldn't keep the demon away from his mob of puppets.

When he was sure that the ring of protected people was solid, he finally could turn to face the demon. His heart leaped to his throat when he saw Diavla fall. Their eyes met, just for a moment, before she went still.

No. Please.

Forester was crouching next to her, fiddling with something, then rose, having removed the manacle from his wrist and recovered his sword from where he had dropped it. Right, he's the Captain of the Guard, of course he would have a key on him. The demonic fighter spun, looking at the sea of faces—of amulets—surrounding him. The monster's gaze lingered on the Rod of Demon Fuckupery or whatever the dwarf had called it.

Tom looked at Diavla's prone form and felt fury spiking, but he knew that hate fed this demon. When he makes you mad, and he will, think about your lovers instead. Focus on saving them, Sheema had advised him. There was no way he could stop hating this demon, but he could shove the feeling aside for later.

Nothing is more important than saving Diavla right now. She has to still be alive. She has to.

His job was to help keep Quazulin contained for a few more moments. Diavla had done her part; Quazulin was directly between the Rod and him. Tom took a deep breath, and focused on the memory of sharing magic with his lover. He started channeling his magic into his sword. Across the way, one of the blacksmiths he'd sold salt to picked up the Rod and gave it a couple of experimental swings, then nodded at Tom.

The demon looked at them all, and then he laughed.

"An impressive effort for just a few days' work, but it isn't good enough," Quazulin announced loudly. "You haven't contained me. It'll sting a bit, but I can get out of this...fragile net you've woven, if I decide I even want to."

"Sure about that?" Tom called back. Hurry up, Camilla. Hurry up, Sheema.

"There can't be a lot of sword slingers with magic, so I think I'll kill you first," Forester declared, advancing.

"Plus, that Rod scares the shit out of you," Tom mocked.

Forester swung, and Tom parried. While he did that, his focus slipped and his magic sputtered out.

The Guard Captain snorted. "You're not very good with that, are you?"

"Not really, but I am very motivated to learn."

"Pity you won't have the chance. I'm in a hurry." Forester struck like a snake.

Tom knew how to counter, but he had no time to get into position. Then he realized that he was in position; it was one of the four moves Sir Kurt had drilled into him in their short time training together. His blade flicked out, though not quite well enough, and the guard Captain scored a gash on his arm, right through his armor. Still, the move had prevented a fatal strike.

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Still saving my neck even now, Sir Kurt?

< Don't call me Sir. >

Tom smiled, regaining his focus and sending magic into his sword again just in time for his next parry to give Quazulin a jolt. The skilled swordsman took a leap back to reassess his opponent. His next words came out in a growl. "I killed one of your elves already."

Focus on saving her.

"I'll kill the rest slowly, and make sure I—"

"—take your time with my women, blah, blah, blah, I get it. You need newer material, Quazulin. Being stuck in a crystal for centuries didn't do your style any favors." Tom had to parry repeatedly and step backwards while speaking, and kept losing focus, and so wasn't able to give the demon another jolt. But at the same time, his opponent's caution meant that Tom could actually almost hold him at bay. He didn't need to win this fight, after all. Hurry UP, Priests!

"How'd that feel, anyway? Let me guess—you hated it."

"Gods-damned fucking human MAGES!" Quazulin screamed. He launched a chain of attacks at blistering speed, and it was all Tom could do to protect his head and neck while taking hard blows through his armor everywhere else, leaving bad bruises instead of lethal damage.

Then, finally, the spells started flying.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

Melsuria

She'd done her best to distract the Hate demon.

Quazulin, how many spell casters are in this little town? Your host is a native, he must know.

Eleven, but over half of them are in the Temple.

That can't be right; I've killed two and possessed four already, and I'm just finishing my sweep.

Name them.

Well, Core. It was worth a try. Quazulin took her silence as a confession.

You're lying. Melsuria, are you helping these puppets attack me? You are! You gave them my True Name!

Melsuria knew to stick to her lie; seduction often involved telling a lie repeatedly and believing in it, to encourage the target to believe it until it became true. No, it turns out that all of our True Names were on a piece of paper the cursed mage transporting us had. You should have burned the bodies! Now I'm in danger too! Somehow, they know I'm here as well, and they won't stop until both of us are dead! So, what do you need?

Kill the spell casters, obviously! All of them, real or imaginary, Lust.

Already doing that, Hate. Are you in trouble?

They think so, but their net is too small and loose. I like this host, but if it gets too hot here I'll switch.

Think so, do you? Melsuria gloated. She stayed outside of the Temple, of course, but the spell casters were all rushing out now that the trap had been sprung. With various little chants and rituals, they started awkwardly slinging their magic.

They really don't have enough firepower, she tsked. I guess it's up to me. I'll have to time it just right, so that he doesn't warn the mortals about me before he dies.

Melsuria pretended to cast spells, watching the fight and waiting. The priests were moving as close as they dared, with people guarding them, but there were still plenty of shards of Quazulin all over the place. Any one of them could make a suicide run at a spell caster, and Hate was the kind of demon who would do that. So, they had to be cautious. But their spells were weaker at a greater distance.

They're not going to make it, she concluded with a sigh. So be it. Time to take this new host out for a real ride.

Melsuria drew upon her mana while she could, summoning it from deep below the surface, in the depths where mana swirled through rock, the hot, softened stone where she was born. Meanwhile, her elven host was gathering up all the mana scattered over the surface. The total was greater than the sum of its parts.

Ohhhh, this is going to be fun.

Melsuria cut loose, and magic blasted Quazulin's host and his immediate surroundings. It was almost as much mana as she had been able to throw at the height of her power, during her previous surface empire. There was no hiding it now; she was attacking the other demon directly, and he knew it.

TRAITOR!

Melsuria chuckled and let loose another blast. Oh, Quazulin, has your host corrupted your Concept? Since when do you care about loyalty? Since when have demons ever been anything but natural enemies, competing for mana and souls?

A third blast. Quazulin wouldn't be able to survive many of these. Melsuria remembered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of just the elven magic. Let's see how well you take it, you twisted Concept.

After sucking up as much mana out of the ground as she could, she looked at the person standing several paces away from her and caught his eye. "And...now," she called out.

She had timed it just right. Quazulin had finally had enough, and moved to abandon his host, intending to slip into the ground, past the people protected by amulets, and find one of his distant shards to inhabit. Melsuria felt her supply of deep mana abruptly cut off, and right on cue, Quazulin roared.

Burning Core! WHAT DID YOU DO, MELSURIA?

She cut loose with a fourth blast. He had to be unraveling fast now. She took a moment to grin savagely and answer, Did you forget that there was a dwarf living in town? She glanced across the way, where Grangus Steelfire had both palms pressed firmly against the stone foundation of the Temple, casting his race's accursed spell. Web of Stone, they called it.

It wasn't a guarantee. Quazulin might try to thread his way between the amulets in the air, but if so he would be terribly vulnerable—it might kill him outright, so close to that wonderful Rod of Quazulin Repulsion.

She threw a fifth blast, and tuned out Quazulin's telepathic screams. She embodied Lust in all its forms, but didn't particularly care for excitement coming from torment. There were too many other emotions boiling out from the tortured, like Rage and Hate and Despair and Sorrow. And when a demon unraveled, it was like looking at your own guts splattered everywhere. Unnerving. Disquieting.

She had one more big blast in her, and it had better be enough. This host was just so short, she couldn't see all of the fight, and she wasn't close enough to hear what was happening either. Aiming was difficult, but she caught a glimpse long enough to target the human host, and cut loose.

A wordless, telepathic scream, but it didn't sound final. Melsuria fell into a crouch, weary from the exertion, and wondered how big a blast she could manage with what she had left.

"MOVE!" she heard Tom Walker yell. Like everyone else, she turned to look, and the human burst out of the circle and slashed the air in front of him three times, quickly, as if he were slicing open a gut twice and then decapitating the enemy—which was essentially what he was doing. Melsuria heard the last scream, falling apart into telepathic noise rather than silence, which then faded away. She sagged in relief.

Quazulin was dead.

The surviving shards of Quazulin screamed in rage, and fled the plaza, running off to who knew where.

"He got him," she told the people around her, forgetting for just a moment that Sheema didn't speak Western. "He got him. It's over."

There was one more thing she had to do before she rested, she realized. She just hoped that she had the strength left. There wasn't any way to ask Steelfire to stop casting Web of Stone that wouldn't sound extremely suspicious, so she had to make do with elven magic alone, and her last reserves.

"Kevin," she called wearily. Her pet human was crouching by her side at once. She had no time for subtlety; she needed mana and she needed it now. "Kiss," she commanded, while taking his hand and shoving it up her shirt.

His lust spiked instantly, and Melsuria sighed in relief. I love young men. She kept it to just a few seconds, then pushed him away before too many people noticed. "Later. Now, help. I go..." She pointed at the center of the plaza, where a few spell casters were converging on the fallen body of Diavla. Tom was kneeling on the other side, saying something. Better get there before this gets too suspicious. I can't lose my favorite snack.

They stumbled over, Kevin supporting her, and to Melsuria's surprise, the one called Camilla had actually cast something useful, a spell she called Reweave. It had fixed the worst of the damage to Diavla's neck, while the more typical healing spells were bouncing off—because they weren't meant to work on the dead.

Melsuria dropped to her knees beside the fallen elf, and gathered her strength. She started to reach for Diavla's body, and then realized at the last moment that the elf was still wearing her second Amulet of Protection from Demons. It was tied in there very securely, too, the cord threaded through her slave collar and looped twice, so that Quazulin wouldn't be able to rip it off quickly.

Tom Walker was saying something, but she didn't have the time to pay attention.

Dwarf shit. Melsuria took a deep breath, braced herself, and gripped Diavla's neck.

She masked her howl of pain by singing it, screaming a single, long, very loud note, as if it were part of casting her spell. She couldn't help breaking out in a sweat, or her grimace of pain, but she forced her mana past the protection, shoved it into the elf's soul, and then gave her heart a sharp poke.

It didn't work. She poked it again. And again, while her mana dwindled to dangerous levels. And again. Then she removed her hand, with deliberate slowness. That was it. That was all that the demoness had to give.

Fortunately, that last poke had apparently reminded Diavla's heart to resume doing its job.

She let herself fall over. Kevin, the gallant, besotted boy, caught her before she cracked her host's head on the cobblestones. She managed to point at the spell casters gathered around, and then at Diavla. "Now," she panted in Western. "Do...now."

Small mercies, Camilla took her at her word and threw a healing spell on Diavla. It took, repairing some more of the damage to her throat, startling the other healers. But they got past their amazement and tended to their patient. Tom Walker stared at Melsuria with tears in his eyes and a shocked expression, that slowly softened into relief. Melsuria managed a weak smile back.

Well. Aside from the excruciating pain and draining nearly all of my very being...that actually felt...nice.

Which was actually an odd thing for a demon to think, but Melsuria didn't have the attention, cleverness, nor mana to spare right then.

"Kevin," she rasped, "you...me...Wandering Ax...more. Now."

"We should bring her into the Temple," Camilla Deepwell protested. More of the elves had gathered around, talking excitedly in Elvish about Sheema's unexpected abilities. Meanwhile the Priests were doing the same in Western.

"M—Sheema, are you all right?" Eubexa asked urgently, crouching.

"Tell them I need to be away from all magic for a little bit to recover, even other spell casters, and I'll come by later," she told her succubus in Elvish. "Tell them I massively overexerted myself—which is true—and I just need food, sleep and isolation to recover. Tell them I am asking them to deal with the rest of the mess, as I've done all I can."

Melsuria waited for Eubexa to translate. The clerics were still asking lots of questions about resurrection. She gave it enough time to look like Eubexa had conveyed it all in Elvish, then replied, "Tell them that I didn't raise the dead. She was only...almost dead. Very close to dead. Camilla's spell was essential and I couldn't have breathed on the remaining embers of her life without that help, and she'll still be in danger without help from the rest. It's a...team effort.' I hope that's enough for them. I really am wiped out here."

The sickly elf rendered that into Western, then added, "Tom is thanking you profusely, and Kevin is saying how amazing you are and asking what he can do for you."

"Tell Kevin this: 'My handsome prince, please rescue me from this crowd. Take me back to the Wandering Ax, right now, and ply me with sweets, wine, and your delightful attentions, to help me recover.' And then sleep. Lots of sleep," she added as an afterthought.

Kevin agreed eagerly, and scooped her up into a princess carry. Melsuria ignored all other questions and commentary from the other elves, feigning sleep, which wasn't hard.

It had been a long, hard day, and it was still far from over.

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