Free Demon Lord by T C Southwell Page A

powerful torso. Each muscle was defined, sharp-edged,
rippling as he moved, but her eyes were riveted to the terrible
scars that marred his chest in a deep 'V'. They looked ritualistic,
carved in patterns of evil meaning, stark against his skin. They
were runes, she realised, symbols of dark power cut into his
flesh.
    Bane sneered, "Do these shock
your puritanical little mind?"
    Mirra shook her head as she tore
her eyes from the scars. "How could anyone do that to you?"
    "No one did it to me. I did it
to myself, to gain power, girl. Power is what matters. The power to
rule the world."
     
    Bane swung away from the
infuriating pity in the girl's eyes. He remembered well the cosy
glow of the Underworld, and the massive, stifling cavern in which
the ritual had first been performed. The inner fire had thrown red
light onto the tortured stone ceiling from the cracks that crazed
the floor. The magma river that flowed under the cavern heated it
to an unbearable temperature, but Bane was the only one who
sweated. The scars were not self-inflicted. His father had cut the
runes into him on his sixteenth birthday. Bane had been chained to
a bulbous rock column, his arms spread.
    The Black Lord had stood before
him and warned him not to cry out.
    "Only cowards feel pain, boy.
You will learn to enjoy this, and do it to yourself. It gives
power. Blood must flow, and yours is the most powerful blood of
all."
    Bane had panted harshly as his
father cut the runes, and the Black Lord did it with exquisite
slowness, enjoying every moment of his son's pain. Bane had ground
his teeth as sweat rolled down his face. After that, he had been
made to do it himself, and, although he had not learnt to enjoy it,
he had learnt to bear it.
    Mord returned, cringing, and
placed a flask and two pots on the table. The troll fled, and Bane
smiled, drawing the dagger from its belt sheath.
    "Now we shall see how much you
suffer, witch."
     
    Knowing the futility of arguing
with him, Mirra gazed at him sadly as he raised the weapon. He held
it poised, steeling himself for the coming pain, she guessed, then
sliced into his skin with slow, precise movements, following the
old scar. A hiss escaped him, but Mirra writhed, straining at her
bonds as agony flooded her. Her healing power rushed through her,
seeking outlet. A faint golden glow ran under her skin, and her
hands tingled. Bane carved another rune with deliberate strokes,
blood trickling down his belly.
    As he cut on the third rune,
Mirra cried out, tears stinging her eyes. Her power thrummed,
seeking outlet, and her hands burnt, aglow with healing light. In
an effort to stop it, she gripped the arms of the chair. Bane
smiled, watching her as he cut another rune. Mirra screamed, and
light streamed from her fingers to sink into the chair. Bane put
down the dagger. There were seven rune scars on his chest, but he
seemed to feel that four were enough. Mirra noted, through the haze
of pain, that he had cut them in a specific order.
    Bane picked up an empty cup and
scraped the blood into it. Mirra noticed that his blood was not
clotting. It continued to run from the wounds. Bane was a bleeder!
She sagged as the pain dulled, but her healer's instincts blazed
with the realisation that he could bleed to death from those small
cuts. Bane put down the cup and picked up a pot. He scooped up a
dollop of green jelly and smeared it on his chest. Mirra screamed
as fire coursed through her, and Bane gave a harsh bark of
laughter.
    "Enjoy it, girl, this is the
best part," he grated through gritted teeth.
    Bane rubbed the burning jelly
into the wounds while Mirra writhed and whimpered. At last the pain
eased again, and she gasped, sweat cooling her brow. Perspiration
also filmed Bane's skin. He leant over her, the cuts now blackened
and puckered, no longer bleeding, his chest smeared with blood and
green paste.
    "Feels good, does it not?" he
sneered. "There is more to come."
    Bane picked up the second pot
and scooped out a black