Kiss of a Demon King

And Omort, her half brother and king of the plane of Rothkalina, was wiping off his bloody hands-which meant he'd torn the oracle's head from her neck in a fit of rage, piqued no doubt by whatever she'd foretold.

Standing tall and proud in front of his ornate gold throne, he wore a raised armor guard over his left shoul­der and a dashing cape on the right. A sword scabbard flanked his hip. Atop his pale hair sat the intricate head-wear that served as both a crown and an armor helmet.

He looked suave and sophisticated, and utterly inca­pable of yanking a woman's head off her body.

Omort had stolen so many powers-pyrokinesis, levitation, teleporting-all seized from his other half siblings before he killed them. Yet he couldn't see the future. The lack often enraged him. 'Something to comment about this, Sabine? Growing soft?'

She was the only one who dared defy him in any way, and the creatures at court quieted. Lining the halls were members of many of the factions who allied with the Pravus, Omort's new army.

Among them were the centaurs, the Invidia-female embodiments of discord-ogres, rogue phantoms, fallen vampires, fire demons with their palms aglow . . . more beings than could be named.

Almost all of them would love to see her dead.

'So hard to find good help these days,' she sighed. Sabine could scarcely be expected to feel sympathy for another. For far too many times she'd dragged herself up from a pool of her own blood. 'Which is a shame, brother, because without her we are as good as blind.'

'Worry not, I will find another seer directly.'

'I wish you all the best with that.' Soothsayers didn't grow on trees, and already they were wading deep into the recruiting pool. 'Is this beheading why you summoned me?' Sabine's tone was bored as she gazed around her. She studiously avoided the mysterious Well of Souls in the center of the court, taking in other details of the opulent throne room.

Her brother had drastically changed it since the rule of the mighty Rydstrom. He'd replaced the demon's austere throne with one made of blazingly bright gold. Tonight, blood lay splattered over the gleaming metal- from the oracle's squirting jugular.

Been there. . . .

On the walls, Omort had hung his colors and his banners emblazoned with his talisman animal: an ouro- boros, a snake swallowing its own tail, to represent his deathlessness. Anything simple, he'd made lavish. And yet, this place still didn't suit the outwardly sophisti­cated Omort.

According to legend, the premedieval Castle Tornin had been created by a divine hand to protect the well, with six bold towers encircling it, and the central court. Though the stones that made up the fortress were rug­ged, they'd been placed flawlessly. Tornin was perfectly imperfect.

As rough-hewn as its former king was reputed to be.

Omort drew back his cape before sitting. 'I sum­moned you half an hour ago.'

'Ah, just so. I recall that now.' She and Lanthe had been watching DVDs in Lanthe's solar-powered room. The sisters probably logged seven hours a day watching movies. Alas, cable wasn't forthcoming.

As she passed the Viceroy centaur, Sabine peeked down and asked him, 'How's it hanging? Low and to the left, I see. Your left, my right.' Though his fury was undisguised, he would never challenge her. She had far too much power here.

She gave him a wink to remind him of just that, then continued to Omort, 'I was going to be here on time. But I had something very urgent to take care of.'

'Did you really?'

'No.' And that was all she'd say on the matter.

Omort stared at her in fascination, his yellow irises glowing. But when she removed her own cape, he seemed to shake himself, casting a disapproving look at her garments-a scanty bandeau top of gold weave, a leather micro-skirt, claw-tipped gauntlets on her hands, and thigh-high boots.

After raking his gaze over her body, Omort settled on her face. She'd drawn her bold scarlet eye paint in the shape of wings that spread out from her lashes up over her brows all the way to her hairline.

In ages past, Omort had wanted to make it law that females of value were to obscure their faces with a tradi-tional silk Sorceri mask instead of mere paint mimick­ing one, and to cover their bodies entirely.

He'd swiftly learned how Sabine felt about that idea.

'Actually, Omort, I just came to drink my medicine'

'You'll get your dose later,' Omort replied, waving a

negligent hand.

How easy it was for him to dismiss. He wasn't the one who needed it to keep from dying a horrific death.

'For now, we have something more important to

discuss-'

Hettiah, Omort's half sister and Sabine's arch-nemesis, arrived then, hastening up the dais steps to stand beside Omort's throne-her rightful place, since she was his concubine as well as his relation. She must have run here as soon as she'd heard Sabine was at court, frantic to make sure Sabine didn't steal Omort from her.

Hettiah was woefully confused on two points: Omort was Sabine's for the taking, and she would never be

taking.

Omort ignored Hettiah utterly, keeping his eyes on

Sabine.

'Important to discuss ... ?' she prompted.

'My spies have long been searching for Groot the Metallurgist and monitoring the activities of his most trusted followers.'

Groot lived in hiding from Omort, and was one of only two half siblings outside Tornin who still survived.

'I've just learned that he sent an emissary to meet with none other than Rydstrom Woede.'

At last, an intrigue! 'Rydstrom and Groot, our two most dangerous enemies allying. This is bad news.'

'Something must be done. One of the spies heard the emissary promising a sword forged to kill me.'

Everyone at court stilled-including Sabine.

Omort exhaled wearily. 'It won't, though. It can't.' He almost sounded regretful. 'Do you know how many bombs, spells, spears, daggers, and poisons were sup­posed to have ended me ?'

Indeed, Sabine had seen Omort stabbed through the heart, beheaded, and burned to cold ash. And always he rose from a dirty mist like a phoenix, stronger even than before. His very name meant without death.

'But Rydstrom must believe it will work,' he said. 'The infamously coolheaded demon was seen storm­ing from the meeting, and heard calling his brother Cadeon as he got into his car to speed away toward New Orleans.'

'Rydstrom must be on his way to meet him.' Cadeon the Kingmaker, a ruthless mercenary. He was rumored to be able to put any king on a throne-except his brother. For centuries, the two had worked together to reclaim Tornin.

Which was now her home. Get over it, demons. Not moving.

Hettiah cleared her throat. 'My liege, if the sword can't kill you, then why worry about it?'

'Because the belief is nearly as dangerous,' Sabine answered impatiently. 'The sword could be seen as a rallying point, used as a propaganda tool.' Already little rebellions erupted over the countryside, the demons continuing to clamor for their deposed king.

Clamoring still-after nine centuries.

Sabine often wondered how he'd earned such fervent loyalty. 'So it's clear I can't let the brothers meet,' she said. 'I'll intercept Rydstrom before he can reach the city.'