Demon's Promise: a high fantasy femdom novella (2 page)

He looked down at his hands. His gloves were
encrusted with frost.

The air smelled both acrid and sweet.

Like magic.

Ruen dropped to his knees. He laughed and laughed and
laughed, until he could laugh no more.

* * *

Everything after that was a blur. The hirelings
dragged him back to the castle. The servants locked him in his
quarters, leaving only a pair of golem guards standing watch at his
door.

Ruen, whose head was hammering with pain like a
thousand nails even as his stomach threatened to revolt, couldn’t
bring himself to give a damn.

The nausea was overwhelming. And made worse by the
fact that his gag reflex was refusing to kick in.

All he wanted to do was stick his head in a tub
somewhere and drown himself.

Since there was no tub available, he threw himself
face-down onto his bed and tried to get what rest he could.

But there was no respite to be had.

He imagined goats. Multiplying, nagging. Evil glints
in their eyes. Jumping over fences and rooting around in the waste
bins. He gave each one a number as it rambled past, only for his
count to be interrupted at random intervals by a giant troll that
stomped past and squashed all the goats into pulpy red messes.

He tried listing the names of the stars, but they
were too long, and their titles too many.

He tried reciting the old epics, but poets were a
bunch of blathering fools.

He tried working through the beautiful proofs his
tutor had demonstrated for him the other day. But what had seemed
so wondrous and elegant then seemed now utterly trite and
banal.

He rolled onto his back. Stared outside the tall bay
window at the foot of his bed that had always been the one saving
grace of his cramped and miserably drafty little room. Outside, the
sandtower in the courtyard glowed against the dark night.

The magelight, instead of worsening his headache,
soothed him.

Down the sand trickled. Then back up once more.

And at long last, Ruen drifted off into a deep,
dreamless slumber.

Only to be woken again, all too soon, by a tapping at
his door.

Ruen flung his arm over his eyes to block out the dim
light seeping through his lids. Noted that both nausea and headache
had subsided, but the desire to drown himself had not.

The tapping repeated.

Why bother keeping up the pretense of deference?
Whoever it was could damn well come in on their own. If they
expected him to crawl out of bed just to greet them and subject
himself to whatever they meant to do with him now –

Once more the tapping repeated, this time followed by
a clatter.

Wait a moment. That wasn’t the door –

Ruen rolled off his bed and sprang to his feet at
once, reaching for the dagger he kept hidden inside his robes –
only to remember that it had been confiscated, along with his sword
and any other possible damaging implements in his room the previous
night.

Chair – too bulky. A quill? Did he still have a
quill, or had they taken those away too?

A gust of bone-chilling wind swept through the room,
scattering his papers.

He looked up and froze.

There was a woman perched on top of the windowsill,
right where the glass had previously been.

She was beautiful beyond words. Her skin was lighter
even than that of the Vyrish barbarians who lived east of the
Empire, almost as white as the snow falling outside behind her,
smooth and utterly unmarked save for the dark blood red of her
full, enticing lips. Her black hair, glossy as a starling’s wing,
framed her face in a severe cut, silky fringe caressing the sharp
line of her jaw.

But most stunning were her eyes: pale glittering
silver, wide and still like a cat’s.

It was the eyes that gave her away.

Ruen steadied himself against his desk, mouth dry,
heart pounding.

“Who sent you, demon?”

The demon blinked slowly at him. Tilted her head,
revealing her slim, creamy throat.

She smiled.

“My, what a beautiful child.”

Her voice possessed a soothing, hypnotic quality,
robbing him of his own speech. She stepped down from the windowsill
with liquid grace, the filmy black cloth of her dress fluttering
and clinging to her curves.

The cold clearly did not affect her.

Ruen dug his nails into his palms, anchoring himself
with the pain, forcing clarity back to his senses.

He smiled back.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

The demon stared at him again, then raised her hand
to her mouth and laughed. The gesture, surprisingly girlish, sent a
jolt straight down to the pit of his stomach.

“I see I shall enjoy this more than I expected.”

He was sure now that she had come
about the previous night’s incident. Not that
that
hadn’t already been obvious. But
for what reason, what purpose? Even if the main branch of the
family had decided they wanted him dead, there was no reason to
send such a powerful servant all the way here when there were far
simpler methods to be rid of him. A drop of poison in his food, a
pillowcase around his head as he slept, a knife in his back while
he visited the baths.

He was a prisoner in his own castle. There were any
number of ways to kill him, and he was powerless against them
all.

With that realization came a second.

He was not afraid.

“I apologize for my lack of courtesy. How am I to
address you, milady?”

“I am no lady,” she said, laughing behind her hand
again. “But you may call me Astarte.”

“Miss Ash?” he tried, gazing back at her with a glint
of challenge.

Her hand dropped. Her eyes narrowed, almost
imperceptibly. She stepped forward with a snap of her fingers, and
the glass behind her melted back into place, inky runes spidering
briefly across its surface before fading.

“Il-Ruen Okarzad,” she said, each syllable falling
slow and clear from those blood red lips. “Seventh son of Ruvaz, of
the line of Yekabin. I greet you on behalf of your esteemed aunt,
the honorable Il-Sava Okarzad of Mojuna, who has commanded me to
take leave of the multifarious delights of the imperial capital and
come to this place so that I might take charge of your education.”
Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly as she added, “Which, I am told,
has been quite lacking.”

So she was Aunt Sava’s bondservant. Sava was the
youngest of his father’s sisters, the only one who bothered sending
him yearly holiday greetings, the only one who had deigned to speak
more than a handful of words to him during the one family gathering
he had attended as a child. Which was perhaps ironic, since he
remembered her vividly, even after a decade, as a silent, watchful
woman with an air of detached amusement, one who preferred fading
into the background while her siblings and cousins traded barbs
beneath silken compliments and perfumed pleasantries.

“My warmest welcome to you, then, Miss Ash, as the
lord of this manor.” He bowed to mask the wry grin that threatened
to betray him, then straightened again. Walked over, holding his
hand out to her. “Your presence here graces us. I hope you find
your stay here pleasant, humble though it may be compared to the
glories of our capital.”

A smile crept back onto her face.

“You’ve learned your manners well, at least.”

She accepted his hand and alighted from the elevated
bay with the same weightless grace as before. Ruen was startled to
find her skin hot to the touch, and as soft as human flesh, despite
the look of lucid alabaster.

“I would offer you refreshments,” he said in attempt
to cover his surprise. “But I’m afraid I am currently a bit
inconvenienced.”

Her smile did not falter.

“Oh? Refreshments do sound nice. The journey here was
quite taxing, even for one such as me.”

Were he one of the cruder servants or hirelings, he
would have tried offering her his own personal variety of
refreshment – and no doubt been smote into dust the moment the
words left his mouth.

But what now? For all he knew, the golems were still
standing guard at his door. And whatever martial skill he
possessed, there was no way he could disable them unarmed.

He hesitated for too long. Astarte’s lips curled.

“For such a clever child, you seem to possess some
remarkable blind spots.”

This was a test, he realized.

Of course. A test.

The golems. He could do nothing against them with his
measly human strength.

A test he was doomed to fail.

“Think, silly boy,” hissed the demon. “Prove to me
that I have not wasted my time in coming here.”

His education. She had come to teach him. Teach him
what? His tutors had already taught him almost everything they
knew.

No. Astarte was right. He was being silly. Refusing
to face reality. Too afraid to admit to himself what he already
knew to be true. Afraid to hope – only to be disappointed, in the
end.

What reason had he to be afraid? After all these
years, tucked safely away in this little corner of the empire,
harmless and easily forgotten. It hadn’t been a difficult life. He
hadn’t minded. Or so he’d thought.

He’d almost fucking died last night.

But he hadn’t. He’d lived. He was alive.

The main branch could not ignore him anymore.

He took a deep breath and strode to the door. Flung
it open.

At once, the golems whirred into action. But Ruen was
prepared. He flung his hands out, recalling the sensation of energy
flowing into his fingertips.

Sure enough, pale blue light flashed out, dancing and
squiggling into an icy net of power. The golems struggled, their
limbs flailing comically, sending tremors through the floor, and
for a moment Ruen thought they would break free after all, or bring
the walls crumbling down about him. But the light held, and soon
enough the golems ceased to move, the magic that powered them
completely drained.

Ruen dropped the bind, wheezing, feeling nauseous
again. The sickeningly sweet smell lingering in the air, pure
earthly magic, did not help at all. But he steadied himself,
breathed in the crisp morning air through his mouth, and turned
back to Astarte with a grin he could not hide.

It was real. This was real. He hadn’t just imagined
it, hadn’t just dreamed it all last night.

His magic had awoken.

He was no longer powerless.

“Shall we?” he said, holding out his arm again.

Astarte licked her red, red lips. Her silver eyes
studied him, wide and still.

“Raw,” she murmured. “Very raw. But it’ll do.”

She accepted his arm, and let him lead her down the
stairs and the halls, all the way to the kitchen.

Neither Nairee nor her mother were present. The other
servants, a few of whom Ruen vaguely recognized, gasped upon seeing
him, and seemed ready to turn and flee.

Ruen raised his hand, and smiled dryly when they
froze, gaping in terror simply at that slight movement.

“A light luncheon, please, for myself and for my
guest.” He gestured at Astarte, who stood behind him, coolly
observing the proceedings. The servants’ eyes widened in
recognition, and still they dared not move. “It’s a bit early, I
know, but something simple will do. Oh, and a fresh pot of
tea.”

“Yes, milord, of course!” stammered the oldest of the
servants, who seemed to be in charge in the head cook’s absence.
“Right away! Will you – will you be dining in your rooms,
milord?”

“Yes, that’ll be fine. Thank you.” After a moment, he
shook his head. “Actually, have someone prepare the guest quarters.
We’ll dine there.”

“Of course. At once, milord.” The servant turned
away, shouting orders and waving people into place, putting on a
great show of it.

Ruen watched for a moment, with an odd, wistful
twinge. He’d never been particularly friendly with the servants,
Nairee notwithstanding. But they had never treated him unkindly
either.

They had pitied him, he thought.

And now they feared.

He buried the thought to examine later, and turned
again to his demonic guest.

“If you’re not too weary after your journey here,
Miss Ash, would you care to see our library? It is humble compared
to the great collections at the capital, I’m afraid, but it is at
least well stocked with the classics.”

“Certainly, Il-Ruen,” replied Astarte, her tone
mocking, but not cruel.

And so it was back down the halls, back up the
stairs, to the library, where a fire burned already in the hearth
behind the protective mage barrier, suffusing the room with toasty
warmth.

Ruen gestured along the shelves, giving Astarte a
brief overview of the collection, but his mind was far away. He
wondered if his other tutors would be dismissed now that he had
come of age. It would be a pity if they were. For so long they had
been his only true connection to the outside world. But it was the
family who paid for them to come all the way out here every month,
and Ruen had often suspected it was not an assignment any of them
relished, though like the servants, they were always unfailingly
courteous to him, and had seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm in
learning.

And that wasn’t all. He’d introduced himself as the
lord of the manor. But that was little better than a joke, and a
terrible one at that. Who really was in charge of this castle, at
least officially? One of his distant male cousins, if he remembered
correctly. If so, most of the funding must come directly from that
particular cousin’s pockets. The hirelings were no doubt his, but
the servants – just convenient locals, or did they report back to
him too?

He’d never given any of this much thought at all. Had
simply accepted it all as a given, an unalterable fact of life.