The pleasure was becoming power that would end a demon’s reign of cold terror.
If all went well. If their backup arrived.
If she had the strength to use it properly.
She and Thanom were not completely in the world of humans, but they were enough there to see that the first light was starting to creep through the huge east-facing window.
The first worshippers for the dawn service arrived. Among them, shrouded and veiled, should be some of Lord Rak’s men, lightly but decisively armed, to deal with any human opposition.
Anchali shut those thoughts out, concentrated on the warm, hard man she held, on the light emanating from their bodies, its source where they joined, on the pleasure building but not allowed to peak, on the power that was building with that pleasure.
Something blasted against the circle. The circle’s protection held, but even through that, she could feel something cold, hateful.
Unclean. Or perhaps too clean for the mortal world—killingly clean.
Demonic magic.
Another blast rocked the circle.
Below her, she felt Thanom freeze, falter in his rhythms. She leaned over him, kissed him yet again, ran her hands over his skin, watching the golden trail that her hands left behind. Some dim part of her wanted to laugh, that so much should ride upon this act, almost the same as what they had been doing on every opportunity for the last few weeks, yet different in such an important way.
She swayed, raising and lowering herself on Thanom. His hands cupped her breasts, caressing her sensitive nipples.
The power built, filling the sanctuary with rosy gold light and fragrance of flowers. But as it grew, so did the force of the magic being thrown against the circle.
Dimly, she was aware of men circling the circle, swords drawn, to defend them, not attack. Thank the goddess—Lord Rak had come through.
Dimly, she was aware of more waves of magic, battering the circle, wearing it down.
Now, she prayed, hoping someone would remember in the fracas.
A discordant hymn rose as almost all of Lord Rak’s men began to chant.
It was amazing how easily a man might be swayed to honor Pichitra, even if he had always been a follower of the Red God or of no god in particular, when faced with an enemy that could magically erase his bollocks.
The demonic magic wavered.
*
Iana looked down at the girl at her feet. A pretty thing, except for the great gash across her arm and shoulder, sapping her life’s blood onto the temple floor.
The girl must have been the one who’d been chanting.
Her face was familiar.
Iana sorted through the memories that were struggling their way to freedom. Emjaroen had come to visit after her brain-seizure. He’d brought flowers, of course. He always brought flowers. He’d also brought a new young acolyte who, hearing her mentor’s friend was ill, had insisted on coming along with a vat of her mother’s special chicken soup, a country recipe full of entrails and strange herbs and thick, chewy noodles which, though it couldn’t heal Iana’s damaged body, had done wonders for her spirits.
This girl.
The girl’s wound didn’t appear to have harmed anything vital, but she was bleeding badly. Her breathing was labored, her skin pale and spangled with sweat. Shock, pain, and blood loss could all kill.
Something inside Iana said no to this death.
Too many were dead already, for reasons that didn’t make sense now, although at the time Iana had believed it was the will of Jananya. This girl, this sweet country girl who’d made chicken soup for an old woman she didn’t even know, wasn’t joining them, not if Iana could help it.
The old Chosen sank to her knees. It wasn’t deliberate—she was suddenly too weak to stand—but it was all right. It put her where she needed to be.
She put her hands on the bleeding girl. (Chanhira. Her name was Chanhira and her family came from one of the eastern provinces. She was so shy she could barely meet my eyes, but she had a smile that could light up a room.)
The Chosen of Jananya had the power to heal, both the practical skills learned in this world and magics powered by the light of the goddess.
She used the girl’s own garment to press down, to try to stop the bleeding as she had been trained to do, but either the wound was worse than she had thought or her feeble body simply didn’t have the strength to apply enough pressure.
She called upon her goddess to help her staunch the flow, reciting the petty spell that should call forth a small burst of light and an easing of the immediate danger to the injured girl.
Nothing happened. “Please,” she prayed. “I thought I knew Your will. I acted in faith. I fear I have done great wrong, but Jananya, this girl is not part of it. Punish me as I deserve, but help me save her.” She felt something strange on her face. It took a second to recognize tears.
For what seemed like a very long time, nothing happened. Then a soft white light filled her, pushing against a weight inside her that she hadn’t recognized. Her hands began to pulse in a familiar, reassuring way.
The bleeding slowed. A flush of healthy color washed over Chanhira’s pale cheeks.
*
What was Iana doing? Healing one of their enemies?
Never should have left her with any access to her own gifts—but if all of those had disappeared, she never would have believed she was inspired by Jananya.
Useless. She was useless now. It was time for Nshlic to take matters into its own hands.
Nshlic could feel Pichitra’s presence, feel the force of heat and desire pulsing at the congregation to the point that many of them weren’t even bothering to deal with the soldiers, just shucking their heavy hoods and at least one layer of robes, looking at each other blankly, then wandering away—in some cases, hand-in-hand with a companion.
It could feel another presence, too, a cooler, sharper, cleverer one that was also having an effect.
And that cool, sharp presence was coolly, sharply furious with it.
Beyun was on his last legs, bleeding, standing only because of Nshlic’s support.
Iana was taking some of Nshlic’s energy, too.
They were both useless now, broken tools to be discarded.
Beyun collapsed.
Iana, the last of her physical strength failing, fell over the girl she’d been trying to heal. Her hands still glowed faintly.
Nshlic pooled its energy, made ready to manifest in spirit-form, as a goddess of white light.
Well, not exactly a goddess. This form would be neuter, as any form Nshlic took must be, but in this form, it could be beautiful, compelling. It would be safely anchored in the half-world, but present enough in the physical world to be convincing—and, if need be, to kill.
Nshlic started to coalesce as a huge, glowing shape, floating above the circle.
People gasped, fell to their knees in awe, and they were not just Nshlic’s hooded followers. Some of the soldiers followed suit.
*
“Now, beloved!” Anchali said. Not one to rely on luck, she backed that up with a certain caress that she had learned would always push Thanom over the brink.
She ground her hips, followed him into release.
And after the long, ritualized buildup, their orgasms released with the force of a tsunami, crashing the contained power into the now-almost-physical Nshlic.
Bathed in waves of pink and rose, blue and honey-gold, the beautiful form wavered, blurred, struggled.
It reformed as a stark white, sexless, rather pathetic-looking demon, bound with chains of lotuses, white and red, intermingled with sensually fragrant yellow ylang-ylang flowers and punctuated with the blue lotuses of Jananya.
“This was your Jananya, that commanded such horrors!” shouted a voice that Anchali dimly recognized as Lord Commander Rak. “A demon who sought to remake the world in its own pathetic, neutered image, who deceived your High Chosen and corrupted the Negus himself.”
Now, A
nchali thought, lying in her lover’s arms, half spent, pleasantly drained by loving and magic, the politics begin. Perhaps we should just stay in the circle until it’s all over and done.
“Nshlic,” a weak voice croaked.
Anchali perked up, for the fragile voice, wracked though it was now, was that of the High Chosen Iana, and she sounded sane once more.
“Its name is Nshlic. It was not quick enough when it cast me aside, and I learned its lying name. I am no longer worthy to bind or banish a demon, for I have failed Jananya, but perhaps someone else can use this knowledge.”
Exhausted as she was, Anchali made herself rise from the circle and go to her.
Iana lay on the floor, cradled by a shaky but no longer bleeding Chanhira, who was in turn circled in Khun’s arms.
Anchali knelt beside the old woman. “I know your mind and your heart. You could use a Chosen’s gifts as well as the ones thrust upon you by Nshlic because you thought you did the will of Jananya. You were deceived. Although you have done great harm, you will be forgiven.” She remembered Emjaroen’s words then, echoed them. “You have become undeceived. Jananya and Pichitra will forgive much.”
“Emjaroen,” the High Chosen sobbed, “my oldest friend,” and then, “So many deaths.”
“Begin your redemption by helping us,” Anchali ordered, and as she said it, she felt Pichitra speaking through her. “One of Lord Rak’s men is a sorcerer, and I have some ideas of how to bind something—courtesan training has unexpected uses—but you know this demon as no other does, and can help us build the perfect prison.”
“The lotuses,” the Chosen whispered, a touch of malicious glee in her exhausted voice, “are a good touch. The creature hates flowers.”
About the Author
Teresa Noelle Roberts started writing stories in kindergarten, and she hasn’t stopped yet. A prolific author of short erotica, she’s also a published poet and fantasy writer, but BDSM-spiced contemporaries and hot paranormals are her favorites. Lately she’s found science fiction and fantasy romance offers new outlets for her creativity, so at any given moment she may be working on the Donovan family’s next wild, romantic adventure, creating sexy dominants and the smart women who submit to them—but to no one else—or figuring out the logistics of low-gravity lovemaking or sex magic.
Teresa is a bit of a crunchy granola girl who enjoys belly dance, yoga, playing in the ocean, cooking, and growing more vegetables than she and her husband can possibly eat. Originally from the Finger Lakes region of New York, she shares her home in southern Massachusetts with her husband, a Leo who works in law enforcement, and two overstuffed cats. She and her husband often plan vacations around food, history, and/or proximity to water.
Her favorite non-writing job was working at an aquarium, largely because she could spend her breaks watching the resident otters at play. Thanks to this job, she can also verify that penguins are incredibly amorous and very vocal about it.
Find out more about Teresa and her many other sexy and romantic titles at http://www.teresanoelleroberts.com. Or if you’d rather chat, follow her on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/TeresNoeRoberts or become a fan at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorTeresaNoelleRoberts.
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