Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Bane woke with a pounding headache and a furry taste in his mouth. Sunlight slanted in through the ripped curtains to dapple the carnage with spots of gold. A cup of his soothing drug waited on the table, and he slugged it back. The girl slept curled up on the floor, her head pillowed on a pile of dirty cloth. He scowled, an ugly mood settling upon him to accompany the hammering in his head and the sour bubbling of his gut. She was his prisoner, yet he suffered more than her. Her bondage barely seemed to trouble her, and she even slept in his presence.

  So far, she had borne her thirst and hunger in silence, denying him the satisfaction of listening to her beg. Rising to his feet, he swayed as his head throbbed and his vision blurred. Nausea overtook him, and he staggered to the door and vomited. When he returned to the table, another cup of the drug awaited him upon it. He drank it, then went over to the girl and grasped the rope around her neck.

  The witch woke as he dragged her to her feet, the rope digging into her neck. The cord grew tight on the table leg, and Bane broke it with a jerk. He kept pulling, forcing her onto her toes, then the rope started to choke her. She gazed into his eyes as her breath stopped, remaining limp and docile, apparently resigned to her fate. Her knees buckled, and Bane smiled as she sagged, her skin mottled and her face swelled. A few more seconds, and she would be dead, yet still she did not suffer. With a growl, he sent her flying with a backhand blow.

  The girl crashed into the furniture, unconscious, and sprawled under a table. Bane hauled her out and shook her until she came to.

  “You will not escape me that easily, witch,” he snarled. “I shall see you suffer before you die.”