Free Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) by James A. West

He had never believed in demons harboring in folk, until he had seen the Khenasith with his own eyes.
    “Once the demonic spirit of the Khenasith has chosen its quarry,” Nesaea said, “it feeds off the misery inflicted upon its prey.”
    Rathe shuddered at the memory of that creature of smoke, with its horned head covered by four ghoulish faces. He saw again how it had ripped free of the woman who had briefly taken it from him in a bid to tap the demon’s power for her own ends. Yiri, Horge’s sister, had been little more than a waif, but she had also been a born witch. The powers she sought to hold had ultimately destroyed her. Afterward, the demon had returned to Rathe, making his soul its home.
    “I turned my back on a fight today, if not a true battle,” he said, frightened and exhilarated at the same time. Nesaea gazed silently at him, and he added, “Just before I came to you, I met a man, Edrik, some priest or other. He wanted me to come with him. When I told him no, he drew a dagger, and I took it away. I itched to plant that blade in his heart…. Instead, I let him go. I let him live .”
    She touched his face, her fingers cool and soft. “It’s good that you denied the Khenasith its desires, but the demon won’t always allow you to do so.”
    “I know,” Rathe said just above a whisper, imagining he could feel the demon’s ire building in his heart.
    “I have something for you,” Nesaea said at length.
    “A gift?” Rathe asked, surprised.
    “Yes … but after what you told me, I’m not sure I want to give it.”
    He laughed wryly. “There’s nothing you could give me that I would not want.”
    “Very well.” She bounded off the bed and padded lightly to the wardrobe shoved against one wall.
    He watched the sway of her hips. She cannot help but dance wherever she goes, my goddess of snow and silver . He tried to look away when she opened the doors and bent to root about on the lower shelf, but his eyes had a will of their own.
    “Here it is!” she announced, spinning with a scabbarded sword held in her hands. He guessed her delighted expression had more to do with catching him looking at her, than with the weapon she held. Trapped me again. He smiled, because her traps were hardly traps at all.
    As she came back, Rathe sat up, curious.
    “I had it forged for you,” she said, holding out the sword. “Captain Ostre might count it bad luck that we’ve stayed in Iceford this long, but for me it’s been a blessing.”
    The scabbard was of tooled black leather covered in intricate silver filigree. He gripped the leather-wrapped hilt above a silver crossguard fashioned into a pair of scorpions locked claw-to-claw. With a soft whisper of steel sliding over leather, he drew the burnished blade. The edge was free of nicks and deadly bright, and an etched chain of scorpions marched along the length of the fuller. The balance of the weapon was perfect. The sword was masterwork, making his previous weapons seem like crude utensils. It was also of virgin, unblooded steel. He wondered how long it would remain so.
    “I can never repay such a gift.”
    “I can think of a few ways you can try,” Nesaea said, joining him on the bed.
    Rathe hid his smile. It seemed that she had fallen into his trap.

Chapter 7
     
     
     
    Cloaked by a heaving and unnatural darkness, Algar’s lips twisted as the sounds of lovemaking began again, thrusting through the wooden door and into his ear like a cold dagger. His thin lips contracted in disgust. Do they ever stop?
    He had trailed Rathe for years, ever waiting for the right moment to strike. As such, he knew well the man’s penchant for tumbling any woman foolish enough to have him. Nesaea, Rathe’s current wench, was mistress of an entire troupe of likeminded sluts who concealed their true purpose behind singing and dancing. She apparently didn’t mind that the once esteemed Rathe Lahkurin had fallen so low as to be considered a common brigand in his