Viper's Kiss

by Lisa Smedman

  So tight, so confined… but I will be free soon. If only I had my swords, I would slash my way out.

  Arvin shuddered. “It’s wishing it had its sword,” he reported. “No, swords,” he corrected. “Plural.”

  Distantly, he heard the clerics murmuring to each other.

  “A balor, then?” one asked.

  “Too large,” another answered. “And the horns—they would have torn—”

  Ah. That’s better. I can turn.

  “It’s turning,” Arvin said.

  Glisena screamed as her stomach bulged. Something flickered between her legs then drew inside her again; it looked like the tip of a tail.

  Foesmasher whirled, one hand on his sword hilt, his face twisted with anguish. Marasa clapped a hand on Glisena’s stomach, drawing the pain into herself. “Do it,” she gritted up at Davinu. “Now. Before it—” Her face paled as another spasm of pain rushed into her.

  Davinu touched Glisena’s forehead with a fingertip. “Hold,” he commanded.

  Glisena’s body stiffened. Her chest, however, still rose and fell. And her stomach heaved.

  Davinu lowered the point of the knife to her belly then took a deep breath. He began to cut.

  Foesmasher stood rigid, eyes locked on Glisena, barely breathing. One fist was white-knuckled on his sword hilt; the other was pressed against his mouth.

  The other clerics crowded around the bed, hands extended toward Glisena, chanting. “Guardian of the innocent, lord of the unsleeping eye, watch and protect this girl in her time of need….”

  Blood sprayed onto Davinu’s breastplate as he cut. The knife parted muscle, and something that glistened, and a layer of darker flesh that smelled of seared meat. Then came a rush of sulfurous-smelling liquid, and something could be seen writhing within. Arvin caught a glimpse of flailing arms and a long, serpentine tail.

  Marasa groaned and swayed, nearly falling from her stool. One of the clerics steadied her.

  I am wounded! It burns!

  “You’ve cut the demon,” Arvin said. “You’ve injured it.”

  Him again! Where is he? He will pay for this!

  Arvin felt a chill run through him. He swallowed nervously. “It thinks … that I’m the one who hurt—”

  Davinu passed the knife to one of the clerics and grabbed the edges of the gaping hole he’d just cut in Glisena’s bloody flesh. “Now,” he shouted. “Pull it free.”

  One of the clerics plunged his hand into the wound and seized hold of the demon. He pulled, his free hand braced against Glisena’s pelvis, and the demon suddenly came free. It was tiny, the size of a newborn child—but instead of legs, it had a thrashing tail fully twice the length of its body. It had six arms, a full head of sulfur-yellow hair and an upper body like that of a mature woman, with full, round breasts.

  “A marilith?” the cleric holding it gasped. He had grabbed it by one of its arms and fought to maintain his grip on the blood-slicked flesh. The demon twisted violently, its tail lashing and flicking blood. A twisted pink cord spiraled down from its naval into Glisena’s stomach.

  Davinu seized the cord and motioned for the other cleric to cut it with the knife.

  The demon twisted, knocking the knife out of the cleric’s hand. As the cleric scrambled after the knife, the demon wrapped its tail around Davinu’s neck. “You annoy me,” it said in a voice deeper and more malevolent than any mortal man’s. Then it constricted.

  Davinu clawed at the tail that was choking him. “Cut … cut….”

  Behind him, the shields that had been circling through the air clunked to the floor.

  Foesmasher drew his sword and lunged forward, slashing at the cord, but missed. His blade whistled through the air, narrowly missing the cleric who was holding the demon.

  The demon slithered out of the cleric’s grip, then thrust all six of its hands out at once, as if fending off foes. Tendrils of shadowy darkness sprang into being around it and coiled themselves around its body. Foesmasher shoved the cleric aside and thrust at the demon, but the tendrils coiled around the weapon, halting it. The darkness slithered up the blade and licked at Foesmasher’s bare hand, and the baron dropped his sword. Foesmasher backed away, his fingers moving creakily as he tried to force his hands to obey him.

  These mortals want to play with swords? the demon mused, tightening its grip on Davinu’s neck.

  Davinu’s face purpled.

  Then swords they shall have.

  “Swords!” Arvin shouted. “The demon’s going to use magic to—”

  A loud whirring noise filled the air as thousands of tiny blades sprang into existence, forming a curtain of steel around the bed and enclosing Glisena, Marasa, Arvin, and Davinu inside it. The remaining clerics screamed as the blades slashed into them. The whirling weapons clattered off their breastplates but sliced into exposed arms, legs, faces, and throats; five of the clerics fell, mortally wounded. The remaining three staggered back, screaming, bloody but still on their feet. Foesmasher, well behind them, was still struggling to pick up his sword; the demon’s magic seemed to have sapped the strength from his arms.

  Outside the chamber, fists pounded on the magic-locked door. Arvin could hear the muffled shouting of the soldiers.

  The demon, its tail still wrapped around Davinu’s throat, glanced around the room. Which one, it mused, was I supposed to kill? It gave a mental sigh. All of them, I suppose.

  Davinu leaned back—dangerously close to the whirling blades—pulling the birthing cord taught. “Cord …” he choked. “C-c-c….”

  “You cannot banish me,” the demon gloated in a voice like thick, bubbling blood. Not while I am bound by—

  “Shivis,” Arvin shouted, summoning his dagger into his glove and leaping forward. The demon tried to twist aside but failed. With a clean stroke, Arvin severed the birthing cord.

  Davinu staggered, the demon still wrapped around his throat. Blades clattered against the armor that shielded his back; one sliced through an unprotected spot near his shoulder, leaving a deep slash. He recoiled from the whirling curtain of steel and struggled to speak the words of the prayer that would banish the demon—Arvin could hear them echoing in Davinu’s thoughts—but there was no air in his lungs.

  “Marasa,” Arvin shouted. “Banish the demon!”

  Marasa, busy with Glisena, ignored him. She threw something to the floor—the afterbirth she had just pulled out of Glisena’s wound—and pressed the two edges of the wound together, chanting a healing spell. She realized the danger—Arvin could hear it in her thoughts—but without a restorative spell, now, Glisena would bleed to death. Just a moment more, and Marasa would cast the banishing spell.

  A moment they didn’t have.

  Davinu collapsed, unconscious. The demon released him and coiled its tail under itself, rising like a rearing snake, the lowermost pair of its six hands resting on its hips.

  Outside the barrier of whirling blades, the three clerics who still stood were casting spells. One shouted commands at the demon while holding out a gauntleted hand; another had summoned a shimmering mace into his hand. The third chanted a prayer that caused a glowing sword to rush toward the demon, but the weapon broke apart before reaching its target, scattering into shimmers of light. Foesmasher, meanwhile, had finally picked up his sword and a shield and was trying to force his way through the barrier of blades. They thudded into the shield with a loud clatter, driving him back.

  The demon eyed them scornfully. Time to even the odds, it thought. It cocked its head to the side. Should it be dretches, or hezrou?

  Marasa continued to chant her prayer, running a finger along Glisena’s wound. Slowly, the flesh knit itself back together.

  “Marasa!” Arvin screamed. “The demon’s going to summon—”

  The demon stared at Arvin with slit eyes. “So it was you whose voice I heard.”

  An invisible force yanked Arvin’s dagger from his hand.

  Let’s play.

  The dagger reversed itself and d
rove, point-first, at Arvin’s chest, forcing him to twist aside. He shouted the command word that should have caused it to fly back to his hand, but the demon’s magic was stronger. The knife refused to obey. The demon, meanwhile, had begun the spell that would summon others of its kind; Arvin could hear the words of its summoning whispering through its mind. He glanced wildly at Marasa—she still hadn’t finished healing Glisena—and the dagger thrust at him, slicing a nick out of his left ear.

  No time.

  The demon would finish its summoning before Marasa could banish it.

  The dagger flew toward him again; he batted it away with his left hand. The blade sliced a line through the ensorcelled leather glove.

  His glove.

  Leaping toward the demon, he slapped his gloved hand down on its tail. “Shivis!” he cried.

  The demon disappeared into the glove.

  For several moments, no one spoke. A muffled pounding continued on the door—the soldiers outside, trying to break in—while the blades continued to whir through the air. Then, all at once, they clattered to the floor, together with Arvin’s dagger. The three clerics hurried toward Davinu. Foesmasher stood gaping, his sword hanging limply from his fist.

  Arvin held up his gloved hand, turning it slowly back and forth. “It worked.”

  Marasa uttered the final word of her prayer, sealing the wound shut. She started to turn toward Arvin but then suddenly tensed. She leaned over Glisena, pressing one hand to the girl’s throat. Glisena’s chest was no longer moving. Her eyes stared glassily at the ceiling. “No,” she howled. “By Helm’s mercy, no!”

  A distant voice whispered into Arvin’s mind. The binding ends. I am free!

  The glove bulged. One of its seams split.

  Ah. An exit.

  The palm of the glove humped upward.

  Terrified, Arvin yanked the glove from his hand and hurled it to the floor. “Marasa!” he shouted, allowing his manifestation to end. Too much was happening too fast. “The demon’s breaking free!”

  Foesmasher stared at his daughter. A pained look on his face, he caught Marasa’s eye. “Is she …?”

  Marasa hung her head. Foesmasher gave a griefstricken sob.

  The glove tore open with a loud ripping sound as the demon erupted from it. In the space of a heartbeat, the demon expanded to its full size. Even coiled on its tail, it loomed over Arvin; his head was barely level with its chest. The tail was as thick as a man’s waist, and each of the demon’s arms was twice the length of a human’s. Each hand held a long sword that was utterly black, save for a glowing line of red that edged its wavy blade. Where the weapons had come from, Arvin had no idea. Tendrils of darkness still wreathed the demon: the magic it had used to sap the baron’s strength earlier.

  The demon stared at Arvin, chuckling. A forked tongue, black as the swords, flickered out of its mouth, savoring his fear.

  Arvin backed slowly away. “Marasa,” he croaked. “The demon—”

  The cleric with the glowing mace rushed the demon, swinging his weapon, and shouted Helm’s name.

  Swifter than the eye could follow, the demon flicked one of its hands. Its sword sliced through the cleric’s neck. The cleric fell to the floor in an expanding pool of blood, his head hanging by a thread of flesh. The other two clerics exchanged nervous glances. Behind them, the door finally burst open. One of the soldiers rushed into the room, three others crowding behind him. His eyes widened at the sight of the demon.

  As if awakened from a nightmare, Marasa sprang into action. “By Helm’s all-seeing might,” she shouted, thrusting her palm out at the demon, “I order you to return to—”

  The demon disappeared.

  Arvin blinked. “Did you—”

  The flat of a sword blade tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled.

  The demon was behind him.

  The four soldiers rushed it. With a whirlwind of motion, the demon cut them down.

  Marasa spun on her heel, trying to bring her palm into line with the demon. “To return to the—”

  This time the demon teleported behind her. Its tail lashed out, coiling around the cleric’s torso like a whip. Then it squeezed.

  “To—” Marasa grunted as the air was forced from her lungs.

  The demon squeezed.

  Roaring, Foesmasher slashed at the demon’s tail with his sword. Once again, the tendrils of darkness blocked the weapon and slithered up it. This time, they sent Foesmasher staggering. He stumbled back on wobbly legs then fell.

  Marasa struggled to draw air into her lungs, to finish her spell.

  The demon squeezed tighter, hissing.

  Arvin opened his suddenly dry mouth, closed it, opened it again, and—fighting down the fear that washed through him in chilling waves—at last found his voice. “Hey, demon!” he shouted. He reached down for the ice dagger that was still sheathed in his boot. He watched the tendrils of darkness that coiled around the demon as they shifted, seeking a pattern. “I’m the one you were supposed to kill.”

  He whipped his hand forward, throwing the dagger. Swift as thought, it flew toward the demon and caught it square in the chest. Cold exploded outward from the weapon, etching crackling lines of frost across the demon’s bare skin.

  The demon glanced down at the dagger that had buried itself to the hilt between its breasts. It laughed and plucked it out. “A pinprick,” it rumbled. It snapped the blade in two and tossed the pieces aside. Then its eyes met Arvin’s. “But even pinpricks annoy me.”

  Suddenly releasing Marasa, the demon slithered forward.

  Marasa sagged, facedown, onto the floor.

  Terrified, Arvin backed away from the approaching demon. Then he turned and ran. Leaping over the mangled remains of the soldiers, he sprinted out through the adjoining room and into the hall. Behind him, he heard the hiss of scales on stone. Soldiers ran toward him up the hall; he dodged around them, shouting at them to get out of the way. Metal clashed against metal and wet thunks sounded as the soldiers rushed up to attack the demon—and died. Arvin ran past the council chamber, past other rooms in which servants startled then screamed as they saw what was slithering after him, and past the practice hall.

  As he ran, he manifested a sending. The image of Marasa formed in his mind’s eye. She was being helped to her feet by someone Arvin couldn’t see. She was shaky and unsteady—but alive. She startled as Arvin’s face appeared in her mind.

  I’m leading the demon to the chapel, Arvin sent, praying that the demon wasn’t also capable of reading thoughts. Get Foesmasher to teleport you there. I’ll keep it busy until you can banish it.

  Arvin, she croaked. Even her mental voice sounded awful; absorbing Glisena’s hurts had taken its toll. I’ll come as quickly as I can.

  “Little mouse,” the demon taunted from behind Arvin. “I can smell your fear. What a tasty little morsel you will be.”

  A blade swished through the air just over Arvin’s head. A second blade thunked into the doorframe next to him as he pelted into the chapel. He raced for the gauntlet at the far end of the room, his breathing ragged and heart pounding. Leaping onto the dais, he slapped both palms against the gauntlet. He skittered around behind it, both hands still on the polished silver, placing the statue between himself and the demon.

  The demon halted at the edge of the dais. Lazily regarding him through slit eyes, it coiled its scaly tail under itself. “Little morsel,” it hissed. “Come down from there.”

  “Make me,” he said, staring defiantly into its eyes.

  The demon bared its teeth, hissing. Its incisors were long and curved, like a snake’s. Arvin wondered if they held venom.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway: Marasa?

  The demon’s head started to turn.

  One palm still pressed tight to the gauntlet, Arvin plunged his other hand into his pocket and found the monkey’s fist. “Here,” he said to the demon, hurling the knot of twine. “Catch.”

  Even as the monkey’s fist unknotted, the demon
raised its swords. Six blades flashed through the air, chopping the magical twine to pieces. The frayed remains fell at its feet. The demon cocked its head then frowned. “I grow weary of this.”

  “So do I,” Arvin said in a loud voice, hoping to cover the sound of footsteps in the hall. Marasa would have a better chance if she was able to surprise the demon. She could banish it before it got a chance to teleport out of the spell’s path.

  “But I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve,” Arvin bluffed. “One that’s bound to—”

  He faltered as he saw who was coming down the hall. Not Marasa, as he had desperately hoped, but Karrell.

  “Arvin!” she called. “What is happening? Are you—” She jerked to a halt just inside the room as she saw the demon. Her eyes widened.

  The demon turned.

  Karrell immediately began to cast a spell, but even as she raised her hands, the demon lashed out with one of its swords. Karrell twisted out of its path, but the blade caught her raised right hand. Blood sprayed and fingers flew to the floor. Karrell gasped and clutched her wounded hand.

  The demon snaked its tail across the doorway, blocking it, and prodded Karrell with one of its swords. “Go ahead,” it hissed with malicious delight. “Try to flee.”

  Arvin tried to manifest a distraction, but though a loud droning filled the air, the demon’s eyes remained locked on Karrell. He leaned out from the dais and kicked the demon in the back. A shock of weakness flowed up his leg as his foot struck one of the black tendrils that coiled around the demon’s body. Ignoring the numbness it caused, he shouted at the demon’s back and kicked it a second time. “Hey, scale-face! Behind you!”

  Almost absent-mindedly, the demon turned its head and slashed backhanded at him with one of its swords. Arvin flinched as the blade came to a jerking halt a palm’s width from his head, halted by the magic of the gauntlet. A heartbeat later, a whirling circle of blades appeared, this time surrounding the gauntlet and trapping Arvin inside. Cursing, he shrank back from them, his sweaty palms still on the statue. A moment ago, the gauntlet had provided sanctuary. The demon had turned it into a prison.