Free Going Under by Justina Robson Page B

admiring of how brave you are, sticking with all this demon junk, death obsessed pigs that we are.

    Blam, blam, blam. The pavement suddenly went green with blood and demons scattered, those closest to the victim leaping in to loot him as he fell, three wounds in his chest.
    And then there's the elf-style junk one must always suspect is still thereall that holier-than-thou vomit loitering beneath the surface. It's swallowing one horrible shock after another like oysters, yum yum, very sophisticated and grown-up you are. Then suddenly it tastes just like a can of crap because now some bunch of chickenshit duellists have ganged up on you, and even in a three they're so incompetent it physically hurts to smack than down. And you hate it. Where's the glamour?
    Lila dropped from the sky like a stone, making no effort to check her near-terminal speed. The demon was fighting its way to its feet, groping for close-range weapons, its ugly head snarling, body becoming scarlet and violet with extreme fury. Gore trickled from its chest. Lila's boots struck it squarely on the head, the jet burns vanishing as she landed with full force and smashed its skull flat under her feet. She stood, pain rocketing through her hips and spine and into her own head like fire. Through the soles of her feet and the long metal lines of her legs she felt the demon's soul flow like a thousand angry bees, hauled in on the fine, deadly line of Tath's expertise. It vanished as he consumed it, slowly but surely going silent. Neither of them had a thing to say to one another.
    Heh. So that's rage. Congratulations, babe, you won the jackpot. Say, are you sure you're not getting some nether? I coulda sworn I smelled something.
    "I'm starting not to like you," she said quietly to the imp as a polite riffle of applause rose out of the standing crowd. Without a second's acknowledgement of it she took to the air in search of the third conspirator.

    I'm glad you're the cold, quiet kind, not one of those shouty ones, Thingamajig said contentedly, stabbing a hold on her ear. There's a kind of sad dignity in the quiet ones, like they believe they still have a hold on things.
    The third demon met her on the Bulwark, a place where the mass of the city cornered itself against the eroding stone of the continent at its back. Here homes and palaces were carved into the rock rather than built from it and their roofs were the smoothed planes of irregular basalt that had hardened there millions of years before, spewed from the mouths of ancient volcanos. Many traditional duels took place here. The stones were marked with thousands of years of demon feet, hands and claws raking through the moves of their martial arts. They'd patterned the surface until it resembled instructions on a dance card.
    To remove her advantages this demon-a blueblack creature with a huge wolfish ruff, a lion's head, and the four-armed body of a Hindu godhad chosen to establish hand to hand fighting. She knew that was its best chance. At close range her metal body could not be damaged significantly but her remaining human body was vulnerable if it could get through her guard. At base she wasn't a fighter at all-she was a secretary with addons and attitude. At times like this that didn't seem so comforting.
    The demon stood on its starting spot, twenty metres away. She stood on hers, behind the line cut in the rock. It put down its gun and knives, undid its belt of strange-looking devices and threw it aside. She showed her empty hands. She could no more throw down her weapons than remove her limbs, but the gesture was considered enough. She'd been here before.
    I should probably turn off the Al, she said guiltily to Tath, her shoulders sinking as the demon readied itself and raised its arms.
    It rushed her, completely ignoring the usual steps of the first encounter. To Lila its approach took an age. Her Al mind accelerated and time slowed down. She had a year to step forward, block, and strike. It was over