Succubus 2

by A. J. Markam

  13

  I didn’t realize that ‘something far better’ was going to include tea in a palace.

  I sat in a rigid chair carved from ice, with sumptuous furs laid over the top of it that made it as comfortable as a plush recliner.

  Saykir sat across from me in a similar chair. He had taken off his heavy snow furs and now wore only thin, silky grey robes embroidered with gold thread. He was sipping from a delicate china cup – or whatever passed for china in OtherWorld – and stuck out his pinky as he did it.

  “You really must try the pastries,” he said, pointing to the silver platter of delicacies on the table between us. “They’re exquisite.”

  Fifty feet behind him, the mage and the priestess stood watch. We were all on a balcony hundreds of feet in the air, looking out over the frozen plains of the Northern Barrens.

  Apparently the mage had cast another force field around the balcony, which was keeping out any howling winds that might disturb our teatime. White flakes batted against the invisible barrier, giving the impression that we were sitting inside a giant snow globe.

  Having nothing better to do, I raised my teacup to my lips – then stopped and squinted at Saykir.

  I lowered the cup without drinking from it.

  He chuckled. “My, so suspicious.”

  “Yeah, well… I’ve heard some things about you.”

  “What, from Alaria?”

  “No. The ice goblins.”

  Saykir gestured dismissively. “The opinions of my neighbors to the south are greatly exaggerated. You will find I am not the person they have told you about.”

  “Their king said you killed almost all of them.”

  “That was decades ago,” Saykir said, as though we were talking about a high school prank.

  “Then I’d say that pretty much makes you exactly the kind of person he told me about.”

  Saykir sighed, as though he found the entire conversation tedious. “I did it for a purpose. A single, excessive display of power tends to dissuade future aggressions. And I left that old fool alive to grumble and complain, didn’t I? I could have wiped them all out – but I didn’t.”

  I sat there in shock, not quite believing what I was hearing.

  I wondered if Stalin ever sat around and patted himself on the back for merely killing tens of millions instead of hundreds of millions of people.

  When I still didn’t drink the tea, Saykir groaned theatrically. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t do it with poison.”

  “There are other things besides killing someone.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mind control.”

  He scoffed. “If I wanted to control your mind, I wouldn’t do it with anything so crude as a potion.”

  “Oh yeah? What, then?”

  He smirked like he had all the answers. “The truth.”

  It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes. “Oh, really.”

  “For men of intellect, the truth removes the blinders from our eyes. That is always the best corrective, I find.”

  “Is that what I am now? A ‘man of intellect’? A little while ago you were calling me a fool.”

  “Wise men become wise by making many mistakes. So were we all fools in the beginning.”

  “Uh-huh. And what ‘truths’ are you going to lay on me?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Anything you want to know. Ask away.”

  “Okay – why haven’t you killed me?”

  “Why would I kill you?”

  “We tried to kill you.”

  “Alaria tried to kill me. You she merely seduced into coming along for the ride.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m still your enemy,” I said.

  “Enemies are only allies who have not yet been converted to your cause.”

  Jesus – these fortune cookie aphorisms…

  “So there’s a ‘cause’ now, huh.”

  “Oh yes. We each have our own, and I have mine.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A separate kingdom for me and mine, far away from the encroaching masses. A place where I reign supreme and make my own destiny day by day. Nothing more.”

  “Are they part of the ‘me and mine’?” I asked, gesturing towards the two women.

  “Eluun and Varisa? Yes, they are.”

  “Are they your bodyguards?”

  Saykir laughed. “I hardly need a bodyguard for the likes of you. No, Varisa has certain talents which prove useful…”

  He gestured towards the snow-globe-like barrier surrounding the balcony.

  “…like keeping out the cold. And Eluun is the high priestess of our religion here in the Kingdom of Frost. They’re both trusted advisers.”

  “So you’re not afraid I’m going to try to kill you.”

  “You attempted before with your friends, and you failed. Now you’re by yourself, seated across from a warlock who outstrips you in power by many orders of magnitude. In the time it would take you to cast three spells, I could end your life.”

  He was probably right about that.

  “Not that I would, since you would just resurrect in the nearest graveyard,” he said as he took another sip of tea. “Terribly annoying.”

  Damn it.

  He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “So I’m basically, what – insignificant?” I asked sardonically.

  “Let’s not put it that way. A better word would be…”

  Saykir looked up at the air, as though searching for the right word.

  “…inferior.”

  “Great.”

  “Inadequate,” he mused.

  “Thanks.”

  “Pathetic.”

  “I get the picture,” I snapped.

  He smiled again, like he had all the answers in the universe. “Are these really the most interesting questions you can think to ask me?”

  Instead of giving a snappy reply, I actually sat there for a minute and thought about what I wanted to know.

  “How does this warlock thing work?” I finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I summon a demon, then I put a collar on it, and it’s bound to my will.”

  “Correct.”

  “Where does the demon come from?”

  “Generally speaking, from one of the Seven Hells. Specifically, it could come from any of a million places therein. It’s like asking where a human comes from. Your kind is spread out over a thousand lands, so there’s no way to know unless the human – or demon, in this case – tells you.”

  “So basically, I’m plucking a demon from wherever it was, just living its life, and enslaving it?”

  “Well, it appears you’re no longer enslaving them,” Saykir said drily. “But yes.”

  “And when it dies in this world, does it go back to its old life?”

  “No. It enters a sort of limbo until you summon it again.”

  “What’s it like?” I asked. “Limbo, I mean.”

  “Dark. Formless. A void of chaos, the space between life and death.”

  I winced as I thought about the orange demon that had been swallowed up by the tentacles. “Those tentacles you summoned… did those come from limbo?”

  Saykir’s face became blank and emotionless. “No. Those came from somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “The Ung’aroth. The mystic plane of the Old Gods.”

  “Old Gods?”

  “Yes.”

  Shit, this was sounding kind of Lovecraftian. That was what the tentacles had looked like, anyway.

  “That’s the kind of demon you summon? Old Gods?”

  “I used to. I try not to anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Partly because I have no need. But partly because the more you summon them, the more they take from you. Just a tiny piece, but… there is a cost to summoning them that does not apply to conventional demons.”

  I made a face. “Do all warlocks end up having to summon these Old
Gods?”

  “No. As you ascend through the ranks, there are different schools which have their own philosophies. You will make a choice which branch you devote yourself to. But you are far from that day, trust me.”

  “Why don’t you just cut them loose? You gave up Alaria.”

  “Yes… but an occasional appearance by the Old Ones can be very persuasive,” he said with a chilling smile.

  I frowned and moved on. “What happens when a master gives a demon up?”

  “It waits in limbo for its next master.”

  “Why would a master give up a demon? Not free it – I mean get rid of it.”

  “Many reasons. Some masters grow tired of them. They do grow tiresome, I can assure you. In other cases, once you move on to a higher level and can summon more powerful demons, why retain the weaklings? It would be like keeping a pea shooter when you have moved on to the longbow.”

  “How do you ‘give up’ a demon?”

  “After six months of waiting in limbo without being summoned, the master’s hold on the demon is released. The first warlock who latches on to it with a collaring spell becomes the new master.”

  Jesus. I couldn’t even imagine that – hanging out in a dark and formless void of nothing for six months…

  “So can a demon ever go back to its old life?”

  “I suppose – if it’s freed, and if it wishes to journey back to where it came from.”

  “Why doesn’t it just go back there automatically when it’s freed?”

  “Because that is the nature of the spell you cast when you enslave it. It’s a one-way street. The demon can never be magically transported back to its point of origin – well, at least, it does not happen naturally. They would need some sort of portal spell to return.”

  “What percentage of the demon population gets enslaved? Is it 90%, 80% – ”

  “Perhaps 20% at most.”

  I stared at him in shock. “What?! Why do the same ones keep getting enslaved? Why not just enslave every demon once, and then they get to go free once they’re released?”

  “Because once an enslavement spell has been cast, it is easier for other similar spells to take hold. In short, the demon is easier to enslave again. Magic is like water – left to its own devices, it will take the path of least resistance. Like a river cuts a channel through the earth, carving a path for rainfall after the river is long gone, so will magic find those that have already been touched by it.”

  “So you’re saying once a demon has been made a victim, it’s easier for it to be victimized again?”

  “I would say instead that once a beast has been subjugated, it is easier for another master to bend it to the plow.”

  “These aren’t beasts we’re talking about,” I said, incensed.

  Saykir smiled patronizingly. “Aren’t they?”

  “They’re thinking, intelligent beings.”

  “And as such, they make good servants.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Usually.”

  “If that’s what you think of demons, what do you think of humans?”

  “I admire the human race for many things. Your dauntless enthusiasm in the face of disaster. Your unalloyed aggression… the ferocity of your survival instinct… the cunning of your best minds…”

  “Not our art, or music, or ideas?”

  Saykir shrugged. “Frost elves are far superior in those regards.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Of course,” he said with snort. “Who is the greatest of your composers?”

  I smiled smugly. I knew I had him on this one – partly thanks to that stupid quest title. “How about Mozart? Or Bach? Or Beethoven?”

  “I have not heard these names.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Those musicians didn’t exist in this world – and the game designers probably hadn’t put their music anywhere this guy would have heard it.

  “What about this?” I said, and whistled a few bars from Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nacht Music. You know –

  Da.

  Duh Da.

  Duh da duh da Duh DAAAAAAA –

  Saykir raised an eyebrow. “Surely, it fills me with wonder,” he said sarcastically.

  “I’m just whistling it!” I snapped. “Imagine that with a whole bunch of strings!”

  “I might as well imagine a chorus of donkeys providing the oral accompaniment.”

  I scowled, then tried humming Beethoven’s Ninth –

  Duh duh duh DUNNNHH…

  Duh duh duh DUNNNHHHH…

  That went over about as well as my whistling.

  Then I pulled out the big guns.

  I sang the opening lines from ‘Hey Jude.’

  “Who is this Jude of whom you speak?” Saykir asked, puzzled. “Is he a bard? Is that why he must make the sad song better?”

  “Never mind,” I grumbled.

  “I will have some of our musicians play a selection of frost elf compositions for you later. But really, is this what you want to know? My feelings on the human race? I much preferred your questions about being a warlock.”

  “Fine. How long ago were you Alaria’s master?”

  “Well over a decade.”

  I winced. “Please tell me she wasn’t twelve years old when you… when she was here.”

  “How old do you think she is?”

  “Well… she looks like she’s in her early 20s, but I’m pretty sure she’s older than that. At least, I’m hoping she is.”

  “Succubi age differently than other races – as do elves. She never told me, and I never asked, but I would estimate she is approximately 150 years old.”

  My eyes bugged out. “What?!”

  Saykir laughed. “Don’t fret, dear boy. Many of her kind live to be over six hundred years old, so she’s still comparatively a young woman.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “A year at most.”

  “Why did you let her go?”

  Saykir snorted. “I’m sure you’ve found that she has a certain amount of… intractability, let us say. Her outward appearance makes for a very pleasing slave, but her personality? Far from it.”

  “What, is there a personality that makes a good slave?” I asked in irritation.

  “Yes,” he smiled. “Someone who knows their place. I see she broke you rather easily. Rather than deal with her incessant subordination, you chose to free her.”

  “I didn’t free her because she was insubordinate, I freed her because – ”

  “You love her?” he sneered, amused at my naïveté.

  I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction.

  “She played you like she’s played so many others. But you’re young, after all. And human. And very, very inexperienced.”

  My hatred for this asshole was increasing by leaps and bounds. “If you’re so great, why didn’t you ‘break her,’ as you put it?”

  “It wasn’t worth my time. As a superior male, I only have so much time to – ”

  “Superior male?” I laughed.

  Immediately Saykir got angrier than I had seen him so far – even more than when we had fought out on the plains of ice.

  “And what would you call yourself? Manipulated by a conniving slut into doing her bidding, all because you lack the self-respect to be your own man? That, and because of her physical attributes – and how she makes you feel,” he jeered.

  Then his face relaxed, his venom subsided, and he became gallingly patronizing. “I realize that sort of behavior is common to you humans, but it is appalling nonetheless.”

  I glowered at him. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know shit.”

  Saykir leaned back in his chair and stared at me as though he were peering into me.

  “My guess is that you were born a child of the upper middle class – perhaps the son of merchants. You are well-educated. You grew up not as a warrior or a hunter, but as a scholar. Not an especially good one, or you wouldn’t be a warlock – you would b
e a monk somewhere, locked in a tower with your parchments and ink.

  “You were raised primarily by a woman, with a distant or ineffectual father, never initiated into the male rites of your kind. As such, you came to rely on the softer, more feminine virtues, like compassion… ethics… morals,” he said with a subtle sneer.

  “So I guess you have no ethics or morals,” I said in disgust.

  Saykir chuckled. “You will find that ethics were designed to benefit one party: the weaker in the equation.”

  “What about morals?”

  “Morals are the last resort of a man who cannot fend for himself.”

  “What, they’re not there to stop the strong from preying on the weak?”

  “No – they are there for the weak to try to convince the strong not to prey upon them. It works, occasionally. When the strong are feebleminded enough.”

  “So what’s stopping you from killing me?”

  “Because I do not see you as weak.” Saykir leaned forward, a glimmer in his eye. “I see you as one who might be my equal… in time.

  “But there is much for you to unlearn. You have always fretted about what other people think. You always consider the other person’s feelings before your own. As such, you have been the victim of circumstance and the pawn of others who are far more devious than you. You are a ship tossed about on the waves of the sea, never truly charting your own course. Not acting so much as reacting to the forces around you, always held prisoner in their grasp.

  “Then one day you met a woman who is beyond compare. I may not care for her personality, but I can truthfully say that Alaria is the single most exquisite, lust-inducing creature I have ever laid eyes on. And suddenly she was yours. But rather than exert your prerogative as a male – as a warlock – as a master – you followed the teaching of women, and were kind, and courteous, and respectful,” he said in a feeble, mocking voice. “In short… a woman.

  “In the beginning, she probably bestowed upon you initial bits of pleasure, then ran hot and cold, confusing you, clouding your mind. You began to jump through hoops to do her bidding, just for one more taste of her affections and attention. In the end, perhaps she even allowed you to consummate the affair – either as a bribe for her freedom, or as a reward for you giving it. And then she left you.

  “But she didn’t stay away forever, because why would she give up a pet that comes running whenever she calls? No doubt you stumbled blindly after her, throwing yourself into the fire once again. You will do anything for her, and do you know why? Because you think so little of yourself as a man that you would let women control you.”