7.1

Zyrdicia's purple eyes roamed the battlefield. A tiny, sporadic trickle of southern soldiers moving across the landscape in several directions brought a frown to her face. "Damn it, I can't believe I missed so many."

"What's wrong?" Dirk asked.

"The fleeing forces."

"There are hardly enough of them alive to notice. I'll send clean-up parties after them as soon as the camp is secured. They won't get far. They'll be dead by sunrise."

She shook her head, her pretty brow still furrowed. "That's too imprecise. If anyone escapes, it spoils the perfection of the slaughter entirely." Her mind worked quickly. She scanned the distance to the furthest of the escapees and calculated. There were several hills at the southern mouth of the valley. She remembered from the map that the vast, fertile plain of Tronin lurked on the other side of those hills. She wanted to stop them before they reached it.

Her expression changed as the death strategy formed in her mind. There was precious little time. Some of the soldiers were almost to the hills. She dispatched both sword and dagger into their magical holding space and telekinetically unseated one of Blackpool's captains from a nearby horse. She took the horse at a full run toward the valley's southern edge.

"What are you doing?" the prince asked using the mind speech, confused by her sudden departure.

"Have your forces herd the fleeing southern soldiers southward, toward the valley's edge. Use two contingents - cover both east and west flanks of the camp and simply move them south. The escapees will naturally move away from your advancing line. Your troops don't have to engage them-all they have to do is direct the momentum. It won't take many. Hurry!"

There was a long pause before he answered. She hoped he was issuing orders to his commanders.

"Done. What is your plan?"

"Total annihilation. I'll have a surprise waiting for them at the end of the valley. There will be no survivors to chase down with clean-up parties." She severed the connection as she reached the hills. She needed to concentrate upon her magic. The distance she needed to block was greater than she had anticipated.

Using the hills as anchors, she invoked a series of magical barriers, blockading exit from the valley. Alternating walls of stone, metal, and brick barred passage to the Tronin lands beyond. Each wall was about ten feet high, and presented a sheer, vertical obstruction which connected smoothly to the material adjacent to it. She jumped off of the horse and levitated to the top of the wall.

From atop it, she looked toward the south and realized with dismay that a small group of escapees had thwarted her. The band of soldiers made haste in the direction of Castle Tronin. They were already too far to reach with magic. Pursuing them now might give their comrades and opportunity to scale the new walls. She forced the group from her mind and focussed on the ragtag bunch slowly approaching the walls. The southern soldiers arrived in a slow trickle through the gloom. They soon found themselves boxed in between her barrier and twin advancing lines of torture troopers.

Zyrdicia watched them panic. She sat upon the wall's edge and curled her long legs beneath her. She was in no hurry now and took a moment to think about her artistic vision for their deaths. A few of the soldiers vainly tried to climb the sheer wall. In the darkness, they were completely unaware of the danger staring down upon them.

She took a deep breath and invoked the violet Tenaebran fire she favored. A thin line of flames cascaded down the entire length of the meandering wall, creating a continuous fire-fall. It illuminated her barrier beautifully. She was certain that it would be visible from a distance, certainly from the camp. Using the flaming surface as a backdrop, she cast a spell creating second burst of purple fire. This fire she gathered into an enormous ball at the base of the wall directly below her. She adjusted the color of the flames to a lighter hue of purple so that it would properly contrast with fire on the wall.

She focussed intently upon the orb of flames, willing it to grow larger. When its massive diameter pleased her, she began rolling it with her thoughts. It swept up the scattered soldiers, pursuing them as they ran. Catching each of the dispersed men was a slow, deliberate process.

There were more of them than it had originally seemed. Once they were gathered in the trap between her wall and Blackpool's line, it was easier to gauge their numbers. At least a hundred had fled the camp's slaughter, only to be chased and eventually incinerated by the rolling globe of hellfire.

A few ran back toward the line of torture troopers, preferring capture to the certainty of death from the unholy purple sphere. Zyrdicia was careful to keep the lethal orb well away from the northern forces.

She lost track of time as she played the game. It became harder to find targets. There were so few left. Finally, she had to halt the fireball's rolling motion for lack of prey. There was no one left to kill. The sad sigh of a light breeze stirred the ashes of the incinerated, scattering them. She echoed its sigh. Game over.

She dispelled the glowing orb, though she let the darker fire-fall on the wall linger a little longer. Its aesthetic effect made her seat upon the wall pleasant. Her hunger was sated. A pensive tranquility settled over her. She replayed each of the night's kills in her head, savoring each one. Her mind lingered fondly over each act of devastation.

She watched the moon set over the western horizon and realized she was very tired. Her magic was ideally suited for short, explosive bursts of destructive force. It was terribly inefficient at producing sustained enchantments like the flaming orb or the solid walls. Such lasting effects took a profound toll and sapped her strength, particularly when invoked in series.

In the direction of the camp, she saw tongues of orange flame spring up as a massive pyre ignited. They were burning corpses. In a few minutes, the breeze would bring the scent of it to her.

The sound of a horse's hooves in the darkness below the wall broke the stillness. She knew it was Blackpool without bothering to look down. Her eyes were still transfixed on the flames in the distance. Her own fire was so much prettier. She perceived nature's artistry with the element to be vastly inferior, utterly lacking in creative vision. Were she in charge of the palette at Creation, she would have never selected orange. Black flames with violet smoke, perhaps, but never orange. Her gaze fell from the pyre to the man on horseback who now looked up at her.

Their eyes met for a moment in the violet firelight. "Hi," he greeted softly.

"Did you see it?" she asked.

"Of course. The spectacle was marvelous!" The exhilaration of victory still raged in his eyes.

"Wasn't it?" she sighed blissfully. "Anyone with power can kill; it takes a special sensibility to make the execution aesthetically pleasing, to create a perfect fusion death and beauty."

"Such a fusion might describe the spectacle's creator as easily as her product."

She smiled, knowing it was true.

Her apparent preoccupation with the visual aspect of mass-destruction amused the prince. Beyond the vanity that undoubtedly lurked at the heart of it, the obsession was so obviously female. As he regarded her in the light of the silent, purple fire still cascading down the wall, he could see that she looked drained. Given the number of men she had slain and the awesome effect of her magic on this night, it was no wonder. At some level, he found it comforting to know that her power had some limits, such as they were. "Come, my little destroyer. I'll give you a ride back to the encampment."

She shook her head. "I prefer the stillness here. " In other circumstances she might have found the carousing atmosphere among the northern soldiers entertaining. The sating of her bloodlust, however, left her languid and introspective. Revelry would undermine the deep reverence with which she viewed mass-destruction. Individual acts of violence were fun and amusing; monumental masterpieces of death were truly sacred.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"A bit weary. Otherwise, splendid. I just don't have any desire to share the society of the species that was so recently my prey."

"Shall I leave you alone then?"

"I didn't mean to include you in that. I don't mind your presence here. Go or stay, as you prefer." She hoped he would stay. Company was always preferable to solitude when such moods struck. His facial expression told her his preference was to remain. "Use the monocle to levitate yourself up here."

"How?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

"I'll formulate the spell for you in your mind. I'm too tired to do more than that." She sent him the structure of the magical evocation telepathically. She saw the monocle's glow and cried out, "WAIT!" It was too late. He was already in the air. He flew up past her, his eyes wide.

"Use your will to control the motion. Play with it up there. When you have a feel for it, will yourself down SLOWLY." She craned her neck upward to see him hovering in the darkness, high in the air. A few minutes passed as he developed a sense for controlling the vertical movement.

She sat back and waited. She cradled her head in her arms and rested it upon her knees. She was so tired. She trusted that he could learn the necessary skills without any further coaching from her. His mind was more than capable. If that belief proved to be erroneous, he would crash to the ground and break his neck, in which case he deserved to die anyway. Either way, she perceived no cause for concern.

She realized with some annoyance that her head ached. It had, in fact, been aching for some time, but only now did she allow herself to acknowledge it. It was such a rare occurrence that it took a moment for her to even recognize the sensation. It was the result of magical over-exertion. It was too dull an ache to classify as pain, and consequently, couldn't be enjoyed.

A disturbance in the air told her the prince had mastered the magic. She looked up to see his cloak billow as he landed softly on the wall near where she sat. He looked thrilled with his new ability.

She smiled faintly. "Soon it will be second nature."

He pulled his sword from its scabbard and sat down next to her. "You could have warned me," he observed.

"I tried to warn you!" she protested. "But it's better that you learn it this way. Mistakes are integral to the study of magic. I certainly made enough of them along the way."

"Vector makes them still," Dirk commented drily. "Given your performance tonight, it's hard to imagine you not in control of your power."

"The first time I summoned the hell-fire, I burned down a huge section of Lyr." The image was still vivid in her photographic memory. The passing of a century did nothing to dim her recollection of the night Azriok had rescued her from the Crusaders and taught her to use Hell's most beautiful element. Such magic was as natural as breathing now. "That was a long time ago."

Thinking of the dark angel reminded Zyrdicia of her need to speak with him about the events in Lyr. The thought of it filled her with a strange mixture of ambivalence and anticipation. He would have been so pleased with her tonight. It had been a long time since he had seen her put his teachings to use against humans. In light of his entrapment, Azriok would probably never see her kill again. This realization layered upon her mental weariness to tinge her contemplative mood with a somber quality. She leaned her throbbing head back down to rest upon her arms at her knees, turning it so that she could regard the prince with the eyes whose color matched the hue of the flames still cascading down the front of the wall.

"Your solemn demeanor is hardly the reaction I would have expected to a magnificent victory," he observed.

"There is no victory tonight. Tronin still stands. My hunger for bloodshed is temporarily satisfied. That is tonight's only meaningful outcome for me."

"You have a physical need to kill?" he asked, surprised.

"No, a spiritual one. It's what I am. It's as intrinsic to my nature as conquest is to yours." Her eyes seemed to twinkle as she added, "Now perhaps you better understand the futility of trying to prevent me from direct involvement in battle."

He smirked. "Your trick with the gates was terribly annoying."

"No less annoying than your insistence on interfering when Greystone was certain to die."

A smug smile played across his lips. "Tell me again about how he will suffer terribly before dying."

"I already explained it," she sighed.

"Yes, but I want to hear it again. I'll never tire of hearing it."

She groaned and turned her face away from him, toward the camp. "I just transported your entire army, killed two hundred and twelve of your enemy's soldiers, summoned more magical force than all of your continent's Wizards put together could muster and feel as though my skull could explode from the headache gripping it. Now you want me to entertain you by reciting predictions of that imbecile's demise."

"It isn't much to ask. I did, after all, provide a venue for you to fulfil your need to kill."

She ignored him. She heard him remove his gloves.

"Turn," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and directing her back toward him. He took her head in his hands and gently massaged her scalp and neck. She sighed happily at the sensation. "Now tell me again about Erick's suffering."

As his hands banished the headache, she delighted in the simple, soothing effect of touch. She explained quietly, "The weapon is forged of evil itself, matter from the darkest part of Hell. The metal is poisonous to humans. The more virtuous the human soul, the more toxic its effect. When it bites into mortal flesh, minute traces of its material enter the bloodstream. Pain is one of Zyr's unholy gifts to mankind, so the weapon was designed to lavish it in abundance upon its prey. The wound cannot heal. The demonic toxin causes it to grow and fester as the victim wastes away in a brutal agony which only Hell devise. It will burn its way through Erick's body, digesting his flesh as though an inferno raged inside him. No earthly torment could compare to the excruciating misery of Tenaebran darkness poisoning the blood of a virtuous mortal."

"It's wonderful. Absolutely glorious," Dirk whispered as he visualized it. The image enraptured him.

"You are so easily gratified."

"I've waited my whole life for his death."

"You are assuming the Wizard doesn't intervene," she commented.

"Shh. Don't spoil the image." His hands continued to massage her head and neck. He felt her relax into them. "I want you to show me how to use the monocle for acts of great destruction."

"Such as?"

"Start with magical fire."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"The magic in the monocle contains the same limitations inherent to Vector's magic. I doubt very much that it could be lethal in and of itself."

"I'm not interested in magical rules."

"The hell-fire I use draws on Tenaebran energy that belongs to Zyr. I can access it because it's part of me. Humans access a more diluted form of it. You cannot directly draw upon Zyr's energy stream with the monocle..." Her voice trailed off. An exception just occurred to her.

"Unless?"

"Unless nothing."

"No human has ever accessed it?"

"The few that tried met with an unhappy end. Eternal damnation is such a high price to pay for a few years' worth of magical power."

He thought a moment. "I've heard tales of humans making pacts with great demons in exchange for something they desire."

"Exactly. Utter foolishness."

"And you know of mortals doing this?"

"There have always been humans daring enough to make an appropriate pact with the dark angels. Historical records document magical practitioners who traded their souls for access to the power." Her mind raced as she spoke. Was this what Zyr was after? Was she merely bait to tempt the prince?

"What do you know of such bargains?"

"Zyr is a trickster. Humans are always duped when they try to negotiate with the Sephiroth. The deal inevitably brings defeat and regret. They always die an untimely death, never fully profiting from the tremendous power they acquired. And there is always another one deluded enough to think he'll be the first one to win at the game."

"How are the pacts made?"

"The Sephiroth aren't playful mythological figures. They are the essence of destruction. They are the oldest, most magical creatures in the universe. You can't play manipulative games with them-they invented such games. If you want to destroy yourself, you'd be better off running yourself through with your sword. Your suffering at their hands would make Erick's seem trivial. Believe me when I tell you that it's better not to be involved in their world." Zyrdicia surprised herself with the words. She had never tried to talk a mortal out of such a pact before; she rather enjoyed watching foolish men ruin their lives. Leading Dirk down that path seemed like a terrible waste of an otherwise likeable acquaintance.

"Such disloyalty to your family and former beloved?" he mocked.

"You have no idea."

"Is access to their magical power the only thing one can gain through such a pact?"

"No, some mortals have demanded wealth and political power."

"I have already have that," he muttered absently. He thought a moment, then added in a whisper, "What about demanding ownership of something else, some precious possession belonging to the demon king?"

She stiffened slightly, fully cognizant of the implication. He was very clever, perhaps the most clever mortal she had encountered. Over the years, dozens of monarchs, mages and warlords had tried in vain to woo, capture or even buy access to her destructive power. No one had ever tried going behind her back to deal directly with Zyr for it. In fact, such a possibility had never occurred to her.

Dirk earned her respect at that moment. She admired the ingeniousness of the strategy. In fact, it endeared him to her. Although she wouldn't hesitate to kill him if he actually tried to pursue the idea, as long as it was just musing, she could appreciate its wicked innovation.

It flattered her to consider that someone might sell his soul for the privilege of commanding her destructive power. The notion of the ensuing conflict with her father was unsettling. She wondered if this was the subject of Azriok's warning. At least she knew her former guardian was certain to intervene on her behalf, should it come to pass. Azriok probably would be furious that any mortal dared to steal that which he still regarded as his own.

She didn't answer Dirk's question for a long moment. Her silence confirmed that his hypothetical deal would, indeed, be within the realm of possibility. "You would have to exercise care to ascertain whether the possession you desired actually belonged to Zyr, and whether ownership of the possession wasn't already contested by another. You would also have to consider whether your action would annoy the possession, and perhaps cause it to turn your quest for power into an operation in torment unlike any you've ever known."

"Perhaps the possession would find my dominion preferable to Hell's. I take very careful care of my weapons." His hand moved softly against the pale skin of her graceful neck. Her head rolled to the side as he caressed her. "I would see to it that the possession's appetite for pain and need for bloodshed never went unfulfilled." He added drolly, "And I would certainly never send it out to other realms to become involved in distant wars, assisting unknown, dangerous princes."

Zyrdicia couldn't help laughing at the last remark. "I don't doubt that. But even if you could coax the possession into temporary acquiescence, you would undoubtedly find its demonic spirit impossible to subdue. Worse than that, you might discover that other entities with claims to the possession wait to snatch it away. Such entities would destroy you for your arrogance. The plan is doomed to failure."

"I'm not convinced of that." His hands dropped to her shoulders and lingered.

Zyrdicia leaned her body back against him. She wasn't surprised when his arms encircled her from behind. In the company she usually kept, such contact was simply an expression of camaraderie between friends. She enjoyed his touch. If he lived in Lyr, she had no doubt he would be part of her inner circle. "For whatever reason, Zyr has given you a gift already, Dirk. Enjoy it while it is available to you, but be mindful of the gift's limits."

He gently pulled her head back against his shoulder and whispered very near her ear, "I abhor limits. Especially when they're intended to constrain my power."

She turned her head slightly and held his relentless gaze. As they looked into each other's eyes by the light of the hell-fire, there was a strange chemistry between them. Something in his facial expression told her he was about to kiss her. It was out of the question.

Still leaning against him, she pulled her head off his shoulder and looked away. She stared out toward the destroyed camp in the distance. She could see a supply caravan had already moved through her enchanted gates now that the battle was well over. She was surprised to also observe northern troops streaming down from the pass. The torture troopers toted long lines of chained southern prisoners. She thought she could even see Geoffrey's form in the firelight. "Did you already take the pass?"

"Of course."

"So quickly?" She was perplexed as to how it could have happened already without magic.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Hours ago. While you were incinerating the remnants of the force camped here I sent a regiment up to finish off their defensive line holding Geoffrey back."

"That was hours ago?"

"Several. You obviously weren't exaggerating when you claimed to have no sense of time."

She was shocked. In her mind, the entire undertaking with the fireball, including the introspective time at its conclusion, had lasted no more than an hour. That it had, in fact, been much longer disturbed her. To have lost track of such a large block of time suggested that her mind was as fatigued as her body felt.

He heard her sigh. "I would have expected you to be gleeful about the slaughter. No laughter mocking the dead?"

In other times, that might, indeed, have been her reaction. Right now, though, summoning such happy emotion was impossible. She was exhausted and still had to face Azriok. She expected Zyr to use any means necessary to prevent that meeting. There was little enough reason for joy in her universe right now. "I have other concerns unrelated to your world."

"You've been preoccupied with something since we arrived at the Citadel."

"Am I that transparent?"

"Your eyes hide nothing."

The first dim graying of dawn already lightened the sky. Its appearance sapped what remained of her strength. She dreaded the sunrise. "It's a story for another night. I lack the energy."

Some distance from the scene of the mayhem, new tents were being raised. "The supply crew is already setting up camp for the troops. We'll move on to Castle Tronin at sunset. The army needs to rest. It appears you do too. One of the tents usually used by a general is being prepared for you. Unless, of course, you anticipate difficulty sleeping alone..."

"I appreciate your concern. Portia will return from Lyr shortly," she lied. She might have to call Portia back to her eventually, but she had no intention of doing it until the situation in Tiny Town was resolved. She felt the heaviness of mental exhaustion weighing upon her. The few hours of sleep she enjoyed in the prince's chamber in the Citadel seemed like a distant memory.

"Let's go, then."

She nodded and extinguished the fire-fall on the wall. In the darkness, she jumped off her high perch as easily as a cat might have. Dirk followed using the monocle, this time without any difficulty. She then turned and dispelled the walls, causing them to vanish completely. The barriers' disappearance lifted a considerable magical strain.

His horse waited nearby. He mounted, then offered her a hand to pull her into the saddle behind him. As he pulled her up, she saw a brief look of shock cross his face. "You weigh less than a jinx!"

"Only half of my being is material," she responded, disinterested. Her friend, Philip, the demonologist who studied her, found her body mass inexplicable. He had numerous theories to explain it, none of which particularly intrigued her. Azriok used to refer to humans' weight as their flesh's bondage to the earth, a sad limitation inherent to the species' status as a lower life form.

As they rode, the first glimmer of sunrise filled the eastern horizon. Its color was a bright crimson, devoid of the usual peaches and golds. The uncommon red seemed fitting following the battle. "Even the sun bleeds in honor of the slaughter," she observed to Dirk, using the mind-speech.

"Is that part of your creative vision as well?"

"No. If I controlled the sun I would extinguish it and bathe the world in darkness forever."

When they reached the camp, they passed celebrating northern soldiers. The men's heads bowed in reverence. She knew the gesture was for her. They did not salute their lord in such a fashion. She recognized the look in their eyes. In her, they saw the only trace of earthbound godliness most of them would ever witness. She had seen the phenomenon so frequently that she would have been disappointed if it had failed to manifest itself. With little prodding, by the time she left Aparans, they would be invoking her name in battle and setting up shrines in her honor.

A handful of officers approached to congratulate their lord as he rode into camp. They seemed to be coming toward the horse from all directions. Incapable of teleporting herself away with any accuracy, she chose the next best alternative. She disappeared in a mask of invisibility. She had no desire to talk to any of them. She leaned her forehead against the back of Dirk's of shoulder and tried to tune out the banal, endless babble all around her. A strange conversational turn, however, held her attention.

Someone piped up, "The Landeshexa has returned to grace the North with victory. Her appearance is a sign that you will be the greatest king the land has ever known, sire!"

"I don't need any manifestations of forgotten gods to affirm that fact, General."

"Of course not, my lord."

Someone else offered, "The troops cannot stop talking about the goddess' return, Lord Blackpool. There's a collective belief that Mother Karteia has returned to avenge her nation's suffering at the hands of the South. They think you summoned her."

"What is the Landeshexa?" Zyrdicia asked silently, still invisible behind him.

"Apparently the fools think you are."

"I told you they would worship me at the battle's end."

"And what makes the troops certain that I've summoned the old goddess rather than a demon?" the prince asked the officer before him, intrigued.

"Everyone believes the rumors of a demon's presence were disinformation to hide the goddess' proximity until the battle." A knowing silence settled over the group.

The first general spoke again. "Her coloring, sire. Looking at her face is like looking at our battle flag. The purple fire against the darkness, too. Everywhere she goes, the North's colors walk with her."

"How charming. Shall I start selecting temple locations?"

"I think not."

"In this world, I think I'll prefer blood sacrifices of virgins on the equinoxes. Small children will be acceptable offerings on the solstices." She felt him stifle a laugh.

"You are so wicked! Your vanity truly knows no bounds. Lest the worshipful attention overwhelm your ego, let's see if your tent is ready so that you can rest."