Forgotten Fates

by S J Doran

  With the last symbol etched, she plucked her athame from her belt and drew the sharp edge of the obsidian blade across her palm. A sense of foreboding welled up inside her, the turmoil belied by her dispassionate gaze as she observed her own blood well up from the cut. She let out a defeated sigh and allowed the stream of crimson to trickle into the center of her six-foot circle, the circumference wide enough to offer comfortable passage.

  She closed her eyes, gathered her fortitude, and spoke the summoning words. The offering of blood serving as key, unlocking the portal as after all these years she called for him.

  Her voice was no more than a raspy croak, the words barely audible over the howling noise of the desert wind, the and the occasional scream carried upon it. Still, she knew he would hear her summons.

  “Cassius, son of Asmodeus, sin-eater, Prince of Lust, King of the Nine Hells. Appear before me now, I summon you.”

  The words were spoken by rote, her compact with the demon spanned more than a century; the designation of ‘King’ being the only thing that had changed during that time.

  They had bound themselves the day he released her from her prison cell, a promise to aid each other in attaining their thrones. Amara to regain the lost crown of Asurim, to take her place as Sarratum, anointed Queen and high priestess to the warlock race, for Cassius it had been to dethrone his father and take his place as ruler of the Nine Hells.

  They both now wore those crowns, Amara for more than a century, Cassius for a handful of years. Their binding still stood, and she never bothered to question why, avoiding him entirely seemed the easier option. This would be the first she acknowledged it in the five years since Cass had taken his father’s place.

  Seeing him hurt. Even after all this time she had troubles keeping the demon firmly shut away in her memories. Not him. Her Cassius was dead. The demon who wore his face was a soulless imitation, mocking her. A final insult dealt by her jailer, the previous King of the Hells, Asmodeus.

  A snarled growl greeted her as soon as she finished speaking the words, her eyes travelling up towards the impressive male now filling the circle. Six and a half feet of artistically sculpted masculinity. His near black hair messed from what she suspected were frantically grasping female hands, his pouting lower lip red and kiss swollen.

  “A heads up would have been nice.” His voice settled over her like dark silk, everything about the demon seductive. “Before summoning me across realms.”

  It’s not him, he is not my Cassius…

  Over a century had passed since the sin-eater had released her from her cell, since they had bound themselves to each other as allies, and each time she was confronted with him, that initial sting, that sense of loss gripped her. The raw intensity never failed to make a mockery of her efforts towards moving on with her life, to bury her heart alongside the memories of her demon. So, she had kept her distance, only seeing the sin-eater when they had joined forces in battle.

  Eyes dark as coal bored into hers as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, his tongue sliding across his lower lip, lingering over a remaining taste. Judging by his half-dressed state he had been in the middle of something. Someone, more accurately.

  With a dismissive shrug she swiped her hand through the sand, breaking the summoning circle which bound him in place, giving him permission to enter this realm.

  “No time for forewarning demon. I hope you didn’t spoil your appetite.” She kept her eyes on his, pointedly ignoring his hands as they fixed his jeans closed.

  He stared at her for a moment, his familiar dark gaze expressionless before it moved towards the burning city in the distance, smoke and fire filling the air, the screams of the dying and the moans of the undead who feasted upon them deafening, even at this distance.

  A low whistle passed between his pursed lips. “It is no wonder you look like shit priestess; how many zombies are you feeding down there?”

  “They are not zombies.”

  He gave her an incredulous look, “really? Then what are they?”

  He was baiting her, and she knew it. Her gift of necromancy had always been a topic of controversy between them during battle. Yet no matter how distasteful he found her powers to be, even the demon could not deny their usefulness. “They are what remains of the army I paid off to invade the city.”

  He fixed her with a poignant stare, then turned his eyes down toward the fortress, just in time to see the horde of undead breach the southern wall. Consumed by hunger, her creatures had trampled over each other, the pile of bodies growing until they had successfully scaled the height of wall. The echoes of screams carried upon the breeze intensified, the sounds altering from panic to sheer terror. With the undead roaming the capital, Ghata'n had finally fallen.

  “Okay fine, they're zombies. And to answer your question, there are about eight hundred of them…” She gave a slow shake of her head, trying to keep control while the creatures went into a feeding frenzy, “give or take a few.”

  “Mara.” His dark eyes pinned her, “that’s madness. Not even you can sustain that many for any real amount of time.”

  Power flared around her, the air crackling with ill-contained malice. “You think now is the time to be questioning the limits of my power, sin-eater?”

  His eyes flashed, the cold black voids lighting up as he latched onto her sin. what was that saying about pride? His lips turned up into a sardonic smirk as he slowly looked her up and down.

  Shit. Exhaustion had run her temper too close to the surface. Giving insult had not been her intention, especially when she was in need of his favor. Admitting defeat was not her strong suit.

  Instead of attacking, he extended his hand to her, his eyes grown hooded. “I’m not foolish enough to make an enemy of you Amara.”

  She quickly tamped down the tingles rushing through her at the way he purred her name.

  He helped her off the ground, stepping out of the circle as she snatched her hand back, the fleeting contact between them as intimate as a caress, and it scorched her.

  “Don’t, Cassius… this does not make us friends.”

  A pang of something akin to sorrow shot through her chest. His name on her tongue...

  Dawning comprehension washed over his expression as he studied her face. He stood next to her, close enough the heat of his body sunk into her bones. The scent of him evoked memories that were already too close to the surface. She shook her head, trying to dislodge them. Her barriers were clearly spent.

  “Is this because of your curse? Finally going to tell me what it entails?” Cass asked.

  She looked up at him, his attention focused on the scene below them in the distance. A lock of ebony hair had fallen between his brows, and her fingers itched to brush it away from his face, craving the once familiar feel of his soft hair between her fingers. Instead she balled up her hands, feeling herself steadied by the bite of her small, claw like nails digging into her palm.

  Summoning the sin-eater should have been no more than a useful tool at her disposal, a way to get into the temple. Instead, she was barely in control of her emotions.

  Foolish, Mara.

  Her unease was affecting her strained power, further agitating the undead in the distance, who grew even more frantic and violent in their attacks.

  “Not an open topic of conversation, got it.” With a sardonic arch of his brow, his gaze shifted back to the melee.

  He sighed deeply, muttering under his breath, “fucking hells.”

  Turning back, he was the cold, stoic newly appointed King of the Hells once more, though his gleaming eyes shone with knowledge. Of her?

  “you are right, Priestess, we are not friends, in fact I couldn't care less if you lived or died. Now tell me why you interrupted my dinner with your summons.”

  The edge of her irritation dulled, her attention turning back towards the burning city in the distance, and the slaughter taking place within its breached walls. The memories of her Cassius safely tucked back into the recesse
s of her mind.

  “Do you see that temple in the center of the city? Not only does it safeguard the remaining Ghata’n army, it also houses the legendary Sword of Divine Justice, the Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegār.”

  Cassius's expression changed from bored to positively gleeful, “The Sword of Divine Justice. Do you believe the legend holds true?”

  Despite her exhaustion, she felt a matching smile tug against her dry and torn lips. At times, his enthusiasm reminded her to that of a child.

  “The Sword of Justice, able to slay even immortals, and dare say, gods, if they are on the wrong side of truth. I’d say there is only one way for us to find out for sure.”

  “Then how may I be of service to you, high priestess?”

  She pointed towards the temple once more, her finger tracing the outline of the radiant shield which enveloped the imposing structure.

  “My magic can't penetrate the barrier which surrounds the temple, its magic is sustained by prayers from the vexingly virginal and immaculate shrine maidens.”

  “Their power is too pure and uncorrupted for me to breach, I need them to become tainted with sin. Once corrupted, I can easily tear down those barriers,” her stomach rioted with nerves at the admittance.

  Cassius's black eyes glowed as a slow smile spread over his mouth, his tongue trailing along his sensual lips.

  “I could eat.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  enter the demon

  He took in the scene of carnage surrounding them, breathing deeply the remnants of wrath, the heavy lingering pride that was swiftly diminishing, and scented the innocence on the air.

  His mouth watered.

  All that lay between them and the Sword of Divine Justice, the legendary bringer of death -even to the most powerful magical beings- was Amara’s army of undead and a temple of avowed priestesses with likely a small contingent to guard them.

  He was still working around his shock at her discovery, he’d long thought the Ghata’n extinct. They had survived, were strong here, and it appeared as though their civilization had centered around that sword.

  He longed to feel it in his palm. The Sword of Justice, in the hands of a demon. The irony alone made this worth it.

  Bodies lay strewn across a bloodied field, all that remained of the soldiers who once secured the stronghold was an army of the undead, cannibalising and mangling corpses, shreds of their former colors hanging off their chests. Death. Glorious, double-crossed death had occurred here.

  Had the Ghata’n templars successfully killed off her entire army? From the concentration of blood patterns upon the sandy dunes he rather suspected that the warlock high priestess had killed the army she’d allied with herself, before setting their ravenous corpses loose upon the capital. Fascinating.

  He looked down at Amara, reassuring himself that she had a grip on the power she was expending. This was the first he’d seen her since they’d usurped his father’s rule. He’d set Basileus up as regent and lost himself in the mortal realm, occupying himself with avoiding his rule, while she’d been absorbed in hers.

  She didn’t seem overjoyed to be seeing him again, and one certainty he could bank on, she wouldn’t have summoned him if she’d had any other choice. He’d been amused by her since they’d first met, her a bedraggled prisoner in his father’s fortress, him in desperate need of an ally, her power had shone like a beacon of hope.

  Her hair was silver today, he’d seen it nearly every shade in the spectrum, he liked this look. It made her porcelain skin shine like a pearl. She was taller than the average female, poised with regal bearing, but tired as she was and stripped of her usual ceremonial robes she donned as her normal defence, she had an air of fragility about her, casting her in a light he’d never before seen her in. Vulnerable. He’d always thought her beautiful, but he’d firmly placed her in the ‘unapproachable’ category.

  Cold, standoffish... seeing her like this brought forth a surge of some foreign protective instinct. He was no knight to rescue damsels in distress, always been more likely to take advantage of their situation and seduce them with bargains.

  The undead were losing interest in their feasting on the remaining survivors, with nothing left to distract them, their attention would turn this way. Amara couldn’t keep hold on them forever, and damn it all, he hated zombies. He turned his attention to the temple.

  Purity could be corrupted. Best way to incite corruption? Fuel it from within. Set them against each other. Find their weakness and exploit it.

  “How much longer can you hold them?” He studied her as she studied the scene before them, her strain evident. The makeup from her heavily lined eyes smudged down her cheeks, her full lips- yes, he’d noticed- were chapped and bleeding, the bones of her face stark. She looked half starved and so exhausted she might be mistaken for one of her risen.

  “As long as you need, sin-eater.” Her body trembled, but still held strong.

  The dispassionate look in her tired eyes told him that she was focused solely on the ends, no longer finding enjoyment in the means.

  They were of like mind in that regard.

  He held his hand up to Amara’s back, setting their pace as they moved in for the burning capital. His thumb brushed across the narrow of her back as he led her safely into the burning wreckage of the city. The touch was meant to reassure, nothing more, his hand rough against the fine silk of her robes.

  Her focus never wavered, though he felt her tense up then sway slightly into his touch. He never forgot those rare moments in which she had yielded to him during their many battles, relying on him whenever her strength had been waning. Did she even realize?

  They made their way down the sandy slope, with every step they took he could feel himself grow stronger. Lust was his preferred method of feeding, but he could take sustenance from any from of sin. The devastation which had occurred here so recently was feeding him to the point of being gorged. And still his power swirled around him, seeking more.

  There were times when he feared what would become of him if he completely gave in to his hunger, that never relenting need to feed. Perhaps that is why he found her creatures so upsetting, for in that regard they were similar. Sometimes the intensity of his appetite scared even him, and no matter what depravities he surrendered to, nothing satisfied the yearning for long.

  Maybe someday he would succumb to it and lay waste to everything around him, just to experience the satisfaction of fulfillment, but today was not that day.

  A soft hiss escaped the priestess, and she pulled back. Small billows of smoke rose up from where her exposed skin had brushed against the barrier. “I can go no further. The purity of their magic burns away the darkness feeding my own, and I’m too depleted to effectively ward against it. You’re on your own from here sin-eater, until you’ve started your dinner.”

  Two armed warriors stood at the large metal doors, guarding the entrance to the temple, bathed in the stench of urine. They had stood there, watching an army of undead cut a swathe through their people. Pissed their own pants, but they’d stood their ground. He sought out their sins, and was hit with an abundance of pride tinged with avarice. He devoured it, opening them to a full intrusion. Once he had a foothold in their minds, his power seeped in, deconstructing their very selves.

  He plucked their swords from their hands as they fell to their knees, whimpering. He gave them a swift death, taking their heads so he could move on. The spell didn’t block his passage, but he felt it pulsing through him. The goodliness of it.

  His power faltered, drawing back in, but it didn’t dull the essence of who he was. He was the only son of the god of sin. He was corruption. Lust oozed from every pore in his body.

  A cluster of armed soldiers rushed the door the moment he breached the threshold. He was unarmed, wearing nothing but a half-buttoned shirt and well-worn jeans. Couldn’t let them get close enough to swing.

  Gilded marble columns were evenly dispersed along the length of the cavernous room, low
chairs and sofas surrounded a fountain in the center, the only door out was opposite the one he came in, the two guards blocking that door not leaving their post.

  Innocence was pervasive in this temple, the prospect of all that corruption had his power flaring. He was ravenous for it.

  The ladies scattered in the background, his cursory glance noted half dozen young females, draped in sheer fabric that covered the bare minimum. The guards closed in, his power seeped out. He was armed, but without armor, one demon against a handful of trained soldiers.

  He had no issues utilizing the tools made available to him. He let more of his essence free, all of the females now drawing in closer. He was the Prince of Lust, a sin-eater, he thrived off what would be their downfall.

  They crowded the armed guards, who held their weapons high, but had no chance of using them without harming the females.

  In the guards’ confusion, Cassius’s power latched on to the overriding lust. Avarice. They wanted these women, gods knew how long they had been tormented with that longing.

  Well, gods— and Cass.

  Slipping into their minds was like slicing butter with a hot blade. Their lust was potent, filling all his senses, nearly bringing him to his knees with his own craving. He took it all, glutted on their envy and devoured their pride, leaving them quivering heaps on the ground.

  He picked up a sword and swung it through the air with a wicked slice, taking one head after another, blood spraying up across his chest and face.

  Warm hands spread over his chest, then at his back, then curling around his legs. At some point they had all shed the minimal robes they were wearing, and they all stood proud, unashamed of their nudity.

  “Let us clean you.” One woman stood in front of him, her voice breathless.

  The innocence radiating off them a magnetic compulsion, the lust throbbing through him increasing until he was near mindless. He tried pulling his power back, but he had fed so much the excess merely surrounded him, too much to absorb.