The Price

From: Maureen Lycaon

The Dark Warrior and his warlords looked up as the messenger entered the large tent.

"I'm sorry, honored sirs -- the prisoner is dead," he told them. "He said nothing."

General Ka'alin snarled, his orcish fangs glittering in the lamplight, and the youth paled perceptibly. General Despin muttered a curse, echoed by General Arilliag as he set down his mug.

The Dark Warrior, whom the others called Raven - no one here knew any other name for him -- merely looked at the youth without expression. Despite his name, Raven's mane of shaggy long hair was golden blond, not black. His fine-boned features were almost beautiful, with a long, straight nose and deep, dark, cold eyes.

"Thank you, Rolt," he said. His voice was a thing of beauty, middle-toned, smooth, and melodious -- but an indefinable something in it held an air of lethality.

"You can leave now."

The relieved Rolt wasted no time departing.

"Well, there goes our chance of tracking down Gerei's boys," growled Despin.

Arilliag nodded sour agreement. "Oracles couldn't get a damned thing either. Makes you wonder why we bother taking along the Priests . . ."

"Wouldn't need 'em if the torturers could learn their job," growled Ka'alin in a voice deeper than any true human's. "'Stead of killing half their victims before they can break them."

"Guess we'll have to just find out where they are the hard way . . ." Arilliag mused.

". . .and just hope their priests haven't had time to call down divine assistance." Despin's tone made "divine assistance" sound like a scatological term.

Ka'alin growled, "Y'fools! If'n they have, we're walking into a slaughterhouse --"

Raven raised one hand, silently. The warlords ceased their grumbling as swiftly as if he had shouted.

"Ka'alin is right," he said into the sudden silence.

"We do need that information." He paused for a long moment.

"How? We're fresh out of prisoners --" Arilliag interrupted. And Raven was looking at him. He didn't glower or snarl; he only stared, but something deadly hung in those cold dark eyes.

Arilliag blanched and fell silent.

"I will deal with this," Raven said softly. He closed his eyes for a long moment . . . as if in resignation.

No one dared to break the silence again, but each man felt a sensation like a trickle of ice water down his spine. Even Ka'alin, the half-orc.

The Dark Warrior opened his eyes, then pushed himself back from the map table and rose in a single graceful movement. Standing, he was revealed as taller than any of them save Ka'alin, if not as crudely built -- well-muscled, but not burly as Arilliag and especially Ka'alin were.

He said, "Gentlemen, I thank you for your work this evening, but since I must begin at once, this council is dismissed. Be ready in the morning."

He strode from the tent, not waiting for his warlords to depart. The two orcs who served as his bodyguards fell in behind him, flanking him.

When he had vanished into the night, Arilliag found his tongue again.

"Just how does he -- do what he does? Even the Dark Priests can't get us the help he does."

Despin stared out the opening a long moment, then slowly shook his head.

"I'm not sure I ever want to know. He looked like a man about to walk through fire."

Raven's private tent was ringed by his finest orcish guards, soldiers chosen for their loyalty, deadliness, and watchfulness.

The bodyguards needed no order. They left Raven's side and silently rejoined the others.

The orcs standing in front of the entrance parted to let him through. They acknowledged him with no more than a flicker of the eyes.

He stepped between them and entered the tent, into the room that served as his bedchamber.

Within was his sleeping cot, his map rack, the wooden tree for his armor and very little else. Two oil lamps illuminated the room, revealing the silent body servant awaiting him. Kneeling as soon as Raven entered, the servant remained on his bent knee till the commander nodded to him to rise.

When the last of the black leather armor had been removed, Raven gave him his orders for the evening. "I will be in the inner room. Let no one enter the tent until I am finished."

Past that "room", partly concealed by a wood and fabric screen, was the entrance into another one -- one where the servant was forbidden to go without express orders. Raven picked up one of the lamps and stood at the entrance for several long moments, eyes closed, preparing himself, before entering.

The space within was not large, but it was sufficient. Raven hung the lamp carefully, making sure it had enough fuel for the rest of the night, and began his preparations.

A small wooden chest in one corner held most of his equipment. For this ritual, he needed little. He pulled out the incense brazier and set it up.

Once the ritual incense was smoldering, he stripped naked, revealing a body as lean and muscular as a panther's. Some might have called it handsome, and it was -- saving for the battle scars of a man who has spent most of his life as a warrior.

Reaching into the chest again, he drew out a black dagger carved with curious runes.

He steeled himself with thoughts of revenge as he had so many times before through the years, clinging to his hatred as a man clings to a lifeline when stepping into a swift-running river.

He would need it, during what followed the opening of the Gate.

A simple woolen rug lay on the floor, a red rug decorated only with a black circle in its center. Holding the ritual dagger comfortably in his right hand, he sat down cross-legged on the rug, within that circle, and closed his eyes.

For a long time, he sat without moving, breathing slowly. The odd musky-sweet odor of the incense slowly filled the room.

After a full turning, deep in trance, he rose slowly to his feet and began to chant the Words of Power.

As he raised the dagger and his chanting rose in volume and in confidence, a darkness formed in the smoky interior of the space, a darkness that had nothing to do with the natural shadows of a lamp lit tent. It was at first only the size of his closed fist.

The orc guards outside glanced at each other. They had guarded their commander's tent during many nights such as this, but even so they were made a little uneasy by that incantation and by the odd feeling of dark energy coming from inside. The spell was far more powerful than the simple rituals of their tribal shamans.

As he continued the chant, the darkness slowly enlarged itself, as if sucking all the darkness of the world into itself, until it was fully as tall as a man. It was impossible to say what was inside it, very difficult indeed even to look directly at it. It was not the difficulty of looking directly at the sun but more it’s opposite, a darkness painful to look at.

Raven stared directly into its depths, the rune dagger now lowered at his side. His fine-boned face, thrown into chiaroscuro relief by the dim lamplight, was a study in rapt trance as the chant wove to its conclusion.

He spoke the final words of the spell.

"I call upon the Gate, and the Gate is open."

There was a strange ripping sound, almost like some heavy fabric being rent asunder by mighty hands. The blackness paled to gray, then cleared to reveal a sort of window -- a window into a dark, featureless plain like old black lava, wreathed in leaden blue-gray mist.

Emerging from his trance, Raven looked through the Gate into the Dark Realm.

He could only see one demon on the other side. It looked more or less humanoid but taller and more slender, its sleek skin a livid blue. Its eyes were huge; they looked like colossal opals, with strange colors slowly moving in them.

He recognized it as a Chehezrim. He didn't recognize it as one he had dealt with before.

The Chehezrim's great almond-shaped eyes settled on him, blinked slowly. They were devoid of pupils, and no human could read them. A less skilled warlock would have been hypnotized by their beauty, pulled into those strange depths with their shifting half-seen colors.

"Greetings, Dark Warrior," it said, speaking in Lesser Demonic, its voice the buzzing of a thousand insects. "State what you seek. It must be urgent indeed, for you to pay us another visit so soon. Unless you enjoy those visits as much as we do?" It smiled.

"I seek knowledge," Raven said stonily, in the same language. "I know that General Garei's Catarals are hidden in reserve somewhere nearby. I need to know where."

The demon nodded. "We have been watching. It was thought you would come to consult."

It paused, but Raven waited. After a moment, it continued.

"Know that even if you take the battle to their hiding place, they have Chareum with them now. Even with surprise on your side, your forces will not be enough to defeat both them and the main army later."

Raven's eyes narrowed. He hadn't bargained on Chareum angels. He unconsciously rubbed a curious-looking scar on his right upper arm. It was not a sword cut, but an irregular burn mark, as if the flesh had been splashed by liquid fire.

"Show me," he demanded.

The Chehezrim laughed and opened its mind to let him look through those appallingly beautiful opal eyes.

He saw a shallow but broad valley between hillsides covered with pines and firs. Garei's men were camped in the bottom of that valley, where the ground was rocky with only a scattering of trees; he glimpsed tents, horses still saddled and bridled so as to be ready for tomorrow, a couple of guards in brigandine armor on the outskirts, almost hidden among the rocks and trees.

He could just see, when he looked at it the right way through the Chehezrim's mind, the faint shimmering of protective spells that lay over the camp, and he knew why the Dark Priests hadn't been able to divine its location. They had not had enough power to conceal themselves from demonic knowledge; if they had, even the Chehezrim wouldn't have known where they were.

The view changed, and now he was looking into the camp itself, into an area of level earth at its center. He glimpsed the Torgelin Priests sitting on their dark prayer mats marked with white circles, eyes closed, gathering the forces that crackled white around their bodies when he used his mage-sight . . . and the two Bright Mages among them, also deep in meditation, also wrapped in white fire.

And then, as the perspective changed yet again, he saw at least one Chareum, its white-winged form shimmering as it stood sentry just outside the camp. Then another, standing on an outcrop on the steep slope overlooking the camp below . . . and another, on another outcrop.

He gritted his teeth. It would be a slaughter -- unless he could get minions of his own to counter the Chareum.

"You see?" the Chehezrim said. "You *will* need our assistance."

"Very well," he growled. "I demand your Masters' help, then."

A rush of ruby light passed through those eerie eyes.

"There's a price for that aid, Dark Warrior," the demon said. "We need the power to cross over."

Raven nodded coldly. "I will pay it, demon. So I swear by the Black River."

The demon nodded, acknowledging the Oath. "So be it."

Raven lifted his left arm, thrust it through the Gate. The Chehezrim grasped it in a thin but immensely powerful hand and pulled him through into the Dark Realm.

He was still naked. His rune dagger was not with him here, nor anything else he possessed. He knew his material body lay crumpled in the ritual room; this was his spirit body.

They were waiting for him -- the Chehezrim, two Phorim, a Phlegazeum, four Belarim and a pair of great black Darkhounds. The place in which they stood was no longer a barren plain but a huge room, its walls carved stone, lined with torches that filled it with wavering firelight.

A stout chain dangled from the ceiling lost in shadows above, ending in a pair of shackles. There were more chains attached to the slate floor.

He tried not to look at the implements and curious furniture also in the room, but his guts knotted as he recognized some of them.

Others he could not identify, despite his extensive knowledge of torture devices -- and that frightened him more.

Once again he called upon his hatred, his anger, steeling himself.

He recognized the white-winged Phlegazeum; it nodded once and smiled back at him, and the smile was more chilling than the Chehezrim's open smirk. Two of the Belarim were familiar, too; he recognized the slightly crooked left horn on one.

The Chehezrim's inhumanly strong hand on his shoulder pushed him down to his knees. Of his own accord he crossed his wrists behind his back, as he had long ago learned to do.

One of the Belarim walked behind him. Raven felt the cold, heavy iron of the rune collar slide against his skin and close with a final-sounding clank around his neck. His magical knowledge, his intimate understanding of the flow of energies, the Words of Power -- all were restrained, paralyzed, and would be until it was removed. He suppressed a shiver.

In the mortal world, he was the terror of the Torgelin priests and their Legions of Light.

Here, in this place that was the very denial of Light, he was a kneeling, naked mortal slave. Until the demons chose to release him, he was their whore.

He kept telling himself he was used to it; that he had reconciled himself to the terms of the bargain he had made years ago.

Sometimes, when he was in the mortal world, he almost believed it.

He felt his guts clench tighter. He gritted his teeth, refusing to show his fear. The stone floor was cold under his knees.

"Before we begin, Dark Warrior," the Chehezrim smiled mockingly at the title, "you can start by giving us the Kiss of Obedience."

The demon stood before him, its thin legs spread. Its sex was already uplifted. It was a long, thin thing as blue as the rest of its form, devoid of glans, unaccompanied by testicles. The other demons circled, grinning, some already openly fondling erections of their own as they watched.

I have no choice, Raven reminded himself. Not if I want my revenge on the Priests of the Light.

He leaned forward and took the Chehezrim's strange organ in his mouth.

The demon's flesh was curiously hard and unyielding, but it was the same heat as a man's, no hotter and no colder, and that was a mercy. He hoped he would never be ordered to perform this service for a Zhalerim or a Phlegazeum. He doubted any mortal could.

Massively powerful taloned hands pinned his wrists behind his back -- who’s, he didn't know and hardly cared. On his knees, restrained, he worked to bring the demon before him whatever pleasure such a creature could feel, careful neither to hurry nor to dawdle.

Once, he would have hoped that the Chehezrim would soon be satisfied, that he wouldn't have to perform this degrading act very long. Since then he'd learned better. At least this service was free of pain.

One Darkhound approached from the side, whimpering savagely, crouching as if to mount him then and there. A hoofed leg brushed it aside, and he heard a bawdy chuckle behind him. "Not yet," an inhumanly deep voice growled -- a Belarim. "Later, D'zaerel."

There was no opening to the Chehezrim's penis; it didn't spurt as a man would. Nor did it show any outward sign of pleasure such as moaning or tensing or thrusting its hips. Instead, when the demon was satisfied, it simply uttered a strange whispery chuckle and stepped back, saying "Enough."

Perhaps the act did not even give it any pleasure at all, except for the humiliation it brought Raven. In that, it was highly effective.

The other demons followed, stepping before him to be serviced one by one, except (mercifully) for the Phlegazeum and the two Darkhounds.

The sexes of the goat like Belarim, at least, were more traditionally human, if as dark as their shaggy hides -- a glistening blue-black. What was less human was the amount of musky-tasting seed they shot into his reluctant mouth; twice he nearly choked on the stuff, which brought cruel chuckles from his tormentors.

The near-hairless, vaguely catlike Phorim were a different matter. Their phalli were inhumanly large, and cool to the touch of his lips -- disturbingly like what one might expect of a corpse's, an effect that was not helped by their leprous-white skin or their foul odor. But there was nothing corpselike about the way they stiffened or thrust their hips into his sucking mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he gagged. Their seed was equally cool but as vile-tasting as sewer filth, and only long practice enabled him to swallow it.

One grasped his hair in its paw and dragged his head into its groin as it achieved its satisfaction, the inhumanly stiff, bristly blue pubic hair scratching against his nose. At least that way he didn't have to taste its discharge.

The final Belarim climaxed with a bass bellow, arching its back, and then another hand twisted in Raven's long hair and dragged him away, and he was thrown to the floor to lie there fighting down his heaving stomach and his sore, gagging throat. It would not do to vomit up what he had swallowed; the inevitable punishment would make this session more painful than it needed to be. The collar felt as though it was choking him.

He wiped his aching mouth with his arm as the Phlegazeum laughed, its voice disturbingly sweet, like the tinkling of bells. The others joined in.

"You are most skilled at that," the Phlegazeum intoned. "A pity you cannot perform for me in that fashion. But you will make up for it."

A shudder ran through Raven's entire body, which brought another laugh from the assembled demons.

The bent-horned Belarim stepped forward, a great yellow-fanged grin seeming to split its black face. "Since that was so well-done, let us reward him. Just a little. Enough to whet his appetite for more."

It squatted beside Raven's prone body and reached toward his groin with a paw like hand, and then it ran a leathery finger down his manhood, lying limp on his thigh. The sensation sent yet another shiver through his body.

Then the demon took his member in its paw and began to fondle him, pleasuring him.

Raven lay still, knowing better than to resist or move. There was nothing he could do to fight the impulse of lust that flooded his loins, making his member stiffen in the demon's paw, and that paw moved up and down, much like the way he would have pleasured himself, and his manhood grew harder and harder.

He clenched his fists and his jaw, trying to make no sound. His hips began to flex, thrusting into the demon's accursedly gentle paw as his need grew.

The other demons had gathered in front of him and were now watching intently, varied eyes glittering with excitement.

Raven felt his climax near. He couldn't hold back a moan as he lay there suffering the demon's touch, loins tightening. He kept his eyes closed; shutting out his surroundings and his tormentors, but that did not stop the waves of hungry lust washing through him. He didn't even dare roll onto his back, but his thighs spread of their own accord, offering the demon all the access to his privates that it could wish. Finally, another moan forced its way between his teeth, which brought chuckles from the watchers.

"Yes, whimper, dog," hissed the Chehezrim.

The Belarim's paw retreated, just short of when it would have given him his satisfaction. Then one thick finger touched him again, lifting and teasing his manhood for his tormentors' enjoyment as he actually whimpered with frustration, beginning to squirm on the stone floor, his control breaking. He wanted to beg for the mercy of release; only the knowledge that that mercy would be denied kept him from doing so.

The teasing finger finally retreated entirely. Slowly, ever so slowly, the lust eased just enough for the shame to truly sink in. He kept his eyes tightly closed; taking what refuge he could in the darkness behind his eyelids, refusing to acknowledge his tormentors' mocking laughter and crude jests, feeling his skin burn with humiliation.

The Belarim's cloven hoof kicked him as he lay there, hard enough to bruise. "Get up, slut. Cease your groveling."

Raven reluctantly opened his eyes. He rolled to all fours, and then rose up on his knees, assuming that was what was wanted of him. Instead, the Chehezrim's buzzing voice snapped, "Get up! Do not risk our anger."

He got to his feet quickly.

A Belarim stepped up behind him and seized his wrists, bringing them behind his back again. It shoved him, and Raven realized he was being directed toward the chain hanging from the stone ceiling of the dungeon room. He obeyed, walking over to it, and then a Phorim's paw on his collar tugged downward, urging him to bend over. It wasn't satisfied until his spine was nearly parallel to the floor. Another hand tugged at his wrists, forcing him to raise them behind his back until his shoulders ached at the strain. Then his wrists were shackled to the chain.

His skin crawled as he realized what they were going to do next. He was already in a near-perfect position for it -- bent over at the waist and helpless to resist. A hoof kicked his feet apart, and then the Belarim attached more shackles to his ankles, keeping them that way.

He stared down at the floor, refusing to look at them as the bent-horned Belarim stepped up behind him. He closed his eyes, preparing himself as best he could. He felt its powerful paws on his muscular buttocks, opening him.

"Do not struggle, mortal man," the Belarim's voice intoned. "We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself too badly and have to use an extra healing on you."

He tried to relax as the demon's massive maleness sought entry, but even after all these years of bitter experience, there was no way to accept it into his body without pain -- it was just too large. He wished the Chehezrim had been first, at least. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give the demons the satisfaction of a groan or whimper, but the pain seemed to fill his entire soul and tear it asunder as the Belarim's fleshy member entered him.

There was no use in resistance, and he tried to relax every internal muscle as he was violated by the demon. Even when the Belarim was all the way inside him, the agony scarcely eased. He couldn't help but squirm a little, sweat dripping down his face to fall in droplets to the dungeon floor.

At least it was only the pain of a huge organ. The pain the Phlegazeum would inflict would make this seem like a mere caress. The thought did little to comfort him -- particularly when the Belarim began to thrust back and forth inside him.

He would not shame himself, he told himself sternly. He would not shame himself by crying out -- not at rape by a mere Belarim, not when he had suffered Phlegazeum and Zhalerim and would again. Let them taunt him and use him. He could bear worse than this.

The Belarim exploded inside him, its warm seed filling his bowels. In moments it had slipped out of him and was replaced by another Belarim.

Later, it was replaced by one of the Phorim, and then by the Chehezrim. They each violated him to their own satisfaction, and the pain eased as he grew accustomed to the intrusions.

The demons' overflowing seed dripped down his legs onto the stone of the floor, creating a little pool of strong-smelling slime.

Worse, the rapes began to arouse him again. He actually *wanted* each thrust into his guts, wanted to lift his hips to meet it, relishing the sensations as he was violated, the demons' savage, loveless embrace. Even the pain added its own special spice to the pleasure. He tried to control himself, but every now and then a little hankering groan or wordless sound of longing would escape his throat. His skin became slick with sweat.

Inevitably, the demons took notice. He endured their jests and mockery in silence. Their whore he might be, but his silence was his last shred of pride and he was grateful for it.

Finally, when all the others had used him, it was the Phlegazeum's turn. He had prayed to whatever Dark Gods would listen that it would choose to wait until later, when more severe tortures had left him too exhausted to feel as much pain, but the prayers had been as futile as he had expected.

The strangely beautiful creature stepped before him, a smile on its androgynous face. Most demons appeared as warped as their natures, but the Phlegazeum were exceptions to that rule. With their white forms as flawless as the most beautiful human's, their feathery white wings and hair, they could easily be mistaken for Chareum -- and unwary inexperienced sorcerers sometimes did, to their bitter cost. Nothing about their appearance hinted at their true nature -- except for their weird purple eyes.

Raven often felt he would rather suffer the worst tortures of a dozen Belarim than be at the mercy of a single Phlegazeum.

The Phlegazeum smiled as it stood before him for several long breaths, showing him its erection, giving time for his fear to bloom into terror. To the eye, it looked no more frightening than the Phorims' massive members; it was smaller and, unlike those of some demons, it had no hooks or barbs or other features to agonize its victims. The only hint of its true nature was the unearthly chill he could feel on his face, emanating from the innocent-looking member before his eyes.

And then the creature walked behind him, seized his hips with both cold hands, and began its assault.

Being impaled on a giant icicle or an ice-cold spear wouldn't have begun to resemble the sensation; it was far worse than that. The very first touch of that member was enough to make his entire body try to double up in a contraction of pain and denial. It was unbelievably cold -- an unnatural cold far deeper than snow or ice -- as cold as the empty void between the stars, as cold as the hearts of the lords of the Dark Realm.

There was no way that he could simply relax and permit that frigid member entry. His entire body jerked frenziedly out of control as the Phlegazeum impaled him on its icy length with a sweet, mocking laugh that was drowned by the savage scream torn from him. The cold was so intense that, paradoxically, he felt it as fiery heat.

The demon began thrusting, and he screamed again, struggling in the chains until his arms were nearly torn out of their sockets, heedless of the more ordinary agony of tearing ligaments and overstrained muscles. He was filled with the pain and nothing but the pain of that frozen phallus, blind and deaf to all else.

After those first few awful thrusts, he regained a tiny fragment of control. He concentrated his efforts on not screaming again, no matter what the cost. He couldn't keep himself from weeping at the agony; traitorous tears ran down his face and the whimpers came shamelessly as the lining of his orifice froze to that horrible member and was ripped and torn away. The cold filled his being, chilling the slick sweat on his writhing body; great waves of shivering wracked him.

He had endured this anguish more times than he could easily count. The suffering did not ease one iota with repetition.

Mercifully, he couldn't see his frozen blood and dung now soiling the demon's member, or the bits of torn flesh that adhered to it.

The Phlegazeum's coming was a pain beyond all pain. Though the member was cold, the demon's seed was not; instead, it was hot as boiling lead spewing into his guts. His agonized scream as his tormentor burrowed in with one final powerful thrust brought explosive laughter from the watching demons. Every muscle in his body spasmed with tearing force against his bonds.

The sated Phlegazeum backed away as he slumped in his bonds, nearly fainting, unaware that one shoulder was now dislocated. When a Phorim unfastened the shackles, he collapsed to the floor, his right arm bending at a grisly angle.

The demons convulsed with laughter. It was some time before any of them recovered enough to approach him. Unfortunately, long before then, he began to come to his senses, feeling the excruciating pain from his damaged shoulder joining that of his rectum as the stink of burned flesh -- his -- reached his nostrils. He moaned and shook his head; the movement sent jagged shards of fresh agony through his shoulder.

Had this been his physical body, he would now be dying, his torn, frozen and burned guts bleeding out his life's blood into the pool of gore and demon seed already on the floor.

His spirit body was denied the mercy of death, even of full unconsciousness.

At last, the Chehezrim stepped forward -- ignoring the hoots and catcalls of its comrades telling it to wait until the mortal had had time to fully appreciate his suffering. Only the Phlegazeum remained silent, watching with an amused smile as it let one of the Darkhounds lick its befouled member clean.

The Chehezrim squatted beside him, setting one hand on his hip. He screamed one more time as spell-power tore through his pain-wracked body like chain lightning, and then the demon stepped back as the horrible pain began to recede, his shoulder back in its socket, his shredded bowels already knitted.

The sudden cessation of pain was a shock in itself. He lay on the floor, eyes closed, trying to recollect his wits. He still felt chilled to his core, as if nothing could ever warm him again. Slowly, strength returned to him, and he opened his eyes.

"Get up," the order came again from the Chehezrim, standing over him. Not a muscle in his body wanted to move, but he slowly got to his hands and knees -- and a hand came down on his shoulder, keeping him there. "Stay on all fours, mortal. You will crawl like the animal you are until we tell you otherwise."

He crouched on the stone floor, head hanging, waiting for whatever torment would be inflicted next.

He did not see that the two Darkhounds had circled behind him, didn't know they were there until one of the huge black beasts reared up and mounted him. He jerked in surprise as the sudden crushing weight came down on his back; it weighed almost twice as much as he did, and he wouldn't have been able to support it if he hadn't been on hands and knees. Powerful forelegs embraced his torso, and he could feel hot, reeking animal breath on the back of his neck; but he offered no resistance, no protest.

The demon-beast hunched, probing for entry, and he could feel the tip of its heated member jabbing repeatedly against his flesh. When it found what it sought, it buried itself deep inside him with one mighty shove.

He threw his head back, his eyes screwing shut; but he kept his jaw clenched and uttered no sound, even when the Darkhound began to thrust. After what he had endured from the Phlegazeum, the pain and humiliation of being raped by an animal seemed of little consequence.

More pain flared in his innards as the giant beast's knot swelled, stretching him until he thought he would be torn open.

As it began to climax, the hound howled a loud, deep howl that echoed through the great chamber. Blunt claws dug into his ribs, drawing blood. All the while, it continued digging in with painful little thrusts, panting eagerly, and his nostrils were filled with the carnivore stink of its breath. It remained inside him for what seemed like turnings, filling his bowels with seed until the fluid once again ran down his thighs and he wondered if it would ever end.

When it had at last spent its lust and softened, slipping out of him, it was followed by the other one.

When the Darkhounds were done, the Chehezrim walked to his side, hooking fingers in his rune collar.

"Exhausted so soon, mortal?" it rasped. "Such a pity. We will have to use stronger measures, so we can hear your sweet voice beg us for mercy." And the cruel hand shifted, twining in his sweat-soaked hair and yanking savagely, forcing him to look up. The demon pointed toward the iron flogging post on the other side of the room. "Go!"

He crawled on all fours across the huge room, the stone rubbing his knees raw. The journey seemed to take an eternity, and the Chehezrim followed him step for step. Twice it kicked him in the ribs, for no other reason than cruelty.

When they reached the post, a powerful hand on his arm pulled him roughly to his feet. As his torturers gathered around him, he stared at the flogging post and was surprised he could still feel humiliation. The lash was for slaves and condemned criminals of low rank, in mortal lands. The demons always insisted he suffer under it, every time.

"Lift your arms," the Chehezrim directed.

He obeyed, and his wrists were shackled to the ring at the top of the post, stretching him out.

Once again his ankles were spread apart and chained with floor shackles.

His pride, or perhaps it was the fascination of the condemned man for the axe, forced him to watch as one of the Belarim stumped over to a nearby table that was covered with a neatly-laid-out arrangement of varied scourges and whips. It studied them for a few moments. Finally, the creature picked out one whip, lifting it, looking at it.

Then it straightened up and walked toward him, smirking. When it reached his side, it held the implement up for his inspection: a ten-foot-long bullwhip, studded with dozens of tiny recurved metal barbs ending in sharp points.

Raven breathed harshly through his open mouth, but he refused to look away from the Belarim's black gloating eyes. He tried to ignore the cold fear in his belly, the fact that his skin was crawling at the thought that that *thing* was going to be used on him, but every muscle in his body was tensed to the point of pain. The demon grinned broadly and looked him up and down, savoring his terror.

It broke the gaze, not because he could have outstared it, but in order to walk behind him. The other demons watched and waited with glittering intensity.

He didn't see the Belarim raise the whip; he did hear the leather rustle as it moved, and then there was a sudden, powerful impact on his back. He didn't feel the pain until a moment later, but when he did the agony was tearing. He began writhing. He wasn't sure whether he had screamed or not. The lash's barbs had torn raggedly through his skin, leaving a long red stripe that began to bleed freely.

"Go ahead and scream," the Chehezrim buzzed, as the next blow fell. "Lose your shame, mortal. None of your underlings can hear. No one will care."

Raven gritted his teeth and refused to cry out, refusing to satisfy the demons for as long as he could, even as the tears streamed down his face.

The Belarim kept up a maddening slow rhythm, working its way down his shoulders and back and buttocks and then starting over again, shredding the skin as Raven writhed in torment, jerking his head up at each blow, his chains rattling. Fresh blood dripped wetly to the stone floor to mingle with drops of sweat.

In the end, despite his best efforts, he *did* break, *did* wail in anguish, again and again.

He never knew how long the flogging lasted, but the Belarim healed him afterward. As he hung limp in his chains, dizzy with relief, sobbing, it waited for him to regain his senses. When he had, it lifted the bloodstained whip to his mouth.

Raven knew what was expected of him. He kissed the lash, tasting the old-meat flavor of his own blood, and then spoke the degrading words of submission. His voice sounded strange to him, hoarse and ragged from screaming.

"Thank you, Master."

The Belarim chuckled again, a chuckle that was joined by the other demons.

When the shackles were loosed, he staggered, barely able to stand, as they gathered around him hungrily.

Then the Phlegazeum stepped in front of him and seized his shoulders in both cold hands. The demon's face was directly in his, and then it kissed him full on the mouth. Its lips didn't freeze or burn as its phallus had -- they were cool, not cold. Its breath held a strange sweet odor of mint, not the carrion stink of so many demons.

It occurred to him, not for the first time that between him and his torturers there existed a strange sort of tenderness. Perhaps it was the same tenderness wolves felt for the lambs they slaughtered and devoured.

He found himself opening his mouth in surrender to the kiss, though he could not have said why. Maybe there was a way in which the captured lamb offered its throat, too, he thought.

"You can never suffer enough for us," the Phlegazeum said.

He experienced several more of the implements, including two that were new to him, before they were sated by his pain.

Toward the end, he *did* beg them for mercy - mercy he was denied.

Then he was bound again, and each demon used him at least one more time, the Phlegazeum included. Only after that did they remove the rune collar from his neck.

Their taunts still rang in his ears as they left him lying on the floor, a discarded plaything. Only the Chehezrim tarried.

"They are in the Valley of Jackals," the demon rasped, as he lay drenched and gasping. "We will join you in the morning."

The Chehezrim motioned, and both it and the Dark Realm faded, leaving him blessedly alone.

Back in his material body, Raven lay curled up on his side on the rug, arms across his belly, hugging himself as the pain and humiliation faded into memory.

Every time he returned, he half-expected to find his physical body fouled by their slime, the marks of the tortures in bleeding stripes on his flesh. The nausea, the revulsion at what had been done to him (and what he had done) was all too familiar.

So was the raging desire that burned in his veins. Never once, through all the years he had called upon the Dark Realm and traded his pain and humiliation for its aid, had the demons permitted him to achieve his own satisfaction. The payment they took from him was for their pleasure, not his own.

Hating himself for it, for his own lust, he reached for his aching manhood.

When he had eased himself, bathed again -- and vomited -- dismissed the ritual circle and put on clothing, he called in the messenger, though by now it was past midnight.

"They're in the Valley of Jackals, to the south," he said. "Have a contingent of two hundred ready to ride there with me just before dawn."