Chapter 12: The woman and the demon

Zarisha's workshop, her home, her entire life and future lay in ruins. The ashes from her oven, now smashed to pieces, covered the rest of the wreckage like a thin layer of black snow. Every jar, every pot, every piece of furniture and every apparatus lay shattered upon the floor. Plants, books, clothes, they were all cut to pieces. Only her valuables, the coins, amulets, rings, and figurines were unharmed. Or so I can assume, as they had all been stolen.

"No," I said.

Zarisha raged.

"No," I said.

She howled and screamed an tore her face and hair.

"No," I said.

She threw the remains of her life into the walls, smashing the few things that were left to smash. She cut her claw-like hands on the sharp shards, the physical pain not enough to heal her mental hurts.

"No," I said.

She attacked me with a fury that was only matched by the hate in her eyes when I refused to let her leave, standing like a shield in the broken door. Her face and hands becoming more those of that vile demon hiding in her soul than of the beautiful woman now losing the battle.

"No," I said, again and again.

Later all was quiet. Quaila and I looked at each other as we stood in the doorway. In the furthest corner sat Zarisha. Her body was deadly still but her eyes, so full of hate beyond what a mere human might ever show, followed mine however I turned or fidgeted. I had never felt such malice directed at me before, such willingness to cause my death without hesitation. To say it unnerved me was to say that she was just mildly annoyed.

"What now?" I mouthed at Quaila. The ebony-haired woman looked at me with raised eyebrows and just shook her head slowly.

"Can't you... ?" She made some mystic gestures with her hands.

"I have tried," I replied. The Glory was simply not there now.

"Draw the sword!" she said suddenly.

I looked down at the Sword of Black Flame where it hang from my belt in its hastily made sheath. What good would that do? I shrugged, but Quaila pointed insistently at it until I relented and slowly pulled it out. No sooner had I done so before the soft glow started to reappear, illuminating more of the room than it had done just a little more than an hour ago. The blade itself seemed less tarnished, more elegant in its bronze colors, a clear and sharp form with an unadorned, simple pommel, and the flames very visible now.

The golden light fell on Zarisha, and my mouth fell open. I could not believe my eyes, so I took a step closer and held the Sword up to get a better view. A better view of both of them.

Zarisha was beautiful, no doubt about that. Not in the almost overwhelming way of Quaila, but enough to turn a man's head and make him walk head first into a brick wall. It was an intelligent beauty, that of the charming scholar intently reading an ancient scroll that you yourself would have no hope of ever understanding. But behind the intelligence there was a tantalizing glimpse of passion, the emotion and sheer drive of the witch dancing under the moonlight, caught up in some ritual even older than that of any moldy and brittle scroll. The sarcasm and cynicism that touched her features was merely a layer over the loyalty and friendship that her eyes, her true, pale blue eyes, could not hide from the light of the Sword. The light also shone on her deep red hair; not lank and lifeless anymore, but silken and smooth and burning with an inner fire.