Her left hand brought up the crossbow and she grasped it in both hands to steady her aim. The quarrel streaked out and struck Gestal in the shoulder. He looked down at it, idly, and finished his second spell. Shadow blasted the crossbow from her fingers.
Now Twilight drew Davoren's stiletto, palming it under her arm as before, but Gestal finished his third spell. Every inch of her flesh ignited with abyssal pain. The thin knife clattered from her nerveless fingers, and Twilight staggered to a halt. It wasn't the binding magic, this time-Gestal wasn't so kind. Phantom pain wracked her. Her bones shivered, tearing at the inside of her flesh, and she gasped and sobbed despite herself.
With a cry, she fell to her knees, eyes staring down helplessly at her fallen sword. The flames had burned away the last of the gray film over its steel. It was a white sword now, for all the good it did her. She would not have the strength to lift it.
"To come against me alone, wounded, weak…" The demon priest grinned. Light and flame roiled in his eyes, which darted back and forth wildly. "I had thought more highly of you." He gestured upward. "Stand."
His voice carried the same compulsion Davoren had used to slay Asson, except with many times the power. Twilight's body jerked upright, grinding her broken bones, and she could not move. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she grit her teeth. Twilight found that her voice worked, with great effort.
"You'd have… killed me anyway," she managed. She marshaled her strength of will, and attempted to slide around his enchantment, as she had before.
"How fatalistic. How like you," he said. "And have no fear-your mind won't slip out of this enchantment."
Even as he said it, Twilight felt hope fading as the spell bound her mind with greater force-strength that was supple and flexible, with the adaptability of the mad. "Come… closer…" she said. "I… have something… to say…"
The priest took a step closer, and Twilight lashed out, clawing for his eyes.
And fell short.
Her cracked nails snapped within a thumb's breadth of his nose. Her hands twisted into claws, and Twilight strained, her teeth clenched, and veins stood out on her temples and forehead. If she could only break his will, she could free herself of his magic and gouge out his distorted features. She scratched desperately, praying, but she couldn't reach that wide stare.
Gestal hissed a single laugh. "You amuse me."
She let the hands fall. "I amuse you, you disgust me," she said, somehow finding the strength for a quip. "A fair trade, I suppose."
Gestal smiled-a sickening expression, because it lit flames in her heart even as it made her want to retch-which she could not do.
"I have an offer to make you."
"No," Twilight said.
"You have the choice, moonflower," he said. "The choice that is offered only to those strong enough to seize destiny in their teeth and wrestle it bleeding to the ground."
"Like you?"
Gestal's snarl was more like that of a hyena than of a man.
"Like my master," he corrected. "And those who serve him well." He stepped away from her and spread his arms wide, indicating the walls with their old bloodstains and perverse murals as though they were something grand.
"What choice?" Twilight asked. She could work through this enchantment, given time. Just keep him talking, just keep concentrating…
"I have controlled these depths for many years, seeking and searching for a companion-a powerful swordswoman, or a sorceress, perhaps, to serve my master. For the glory of Demogorgon. And now, I have found one."
Twilight blinked and her concentration went away. Her body jerked itself erect again and she stared. "What?"
"Join us," Gestal said.
Hope fled Twilight along with her will, fighting the spell. So that was his play-she had thought it merely part of her dream, to lure her to death and madness. But she saw now.
And she was tempted.
"My prince is the storm and the fury, Twilight of the Fox, the bloodstained hurricane," the demonist said in his emotionless, calm voice. "Demogorgon offers power beyond imagining, strength of sinew and will to control and ruin." He held out his scarred arms. "Stand at my side-serve him with me. With us."
A thought occurred to her, along with the will to pit her mind against the spell once more. Not for the first time, she thanked the gods for her wit.
"You run this bedlam…" Twilight managed. "Just to find… love?" She forced a smile. "That's pathetic, or just sick."
Gestal shrugged. "Some search taverns, some festhalls," he said. "Some wander for gold and prestige to impress lovers. Some go to war for love, some shatter decades of peace for love." He lowered her hands. "Do any of these make more sense?"
"Correction," Twilight said. "That's pathetic and sick."
He looked at her hard where she stood, back arched.
"We are beyond your lies," he said. "Erevan Ilesere, prankster of the decadent Seldarine, is your scapegoat-the name upon which you blame all of your pain. I shall not begrudge you this, but it is a false path you walk. And what does it bring you?" He shrugged. "Suffering. Blindness. Emptiness masked by brief illusions like joy and purpose in a world without them. Your way of avoiding the inevitable-the truth."
"Purpose," the elf repeated.
"A delusion," said Gestal. "Desire, will, and consequence- these are the only truths. You must choose. You hide from this, and that is weakness."
"Weakness is in my heart." Just a little more. She could feel the magic eroding.
"What is the heart?" Gestal asked. "A muscle-a muscle that tastes just like rothe meat." He appeared to take Twilight's nauseated silence as an avowal. "It feels nothing but the blade that parts it."
"You are wrong. I don't run-I have chosen."
"Perhaps," Gestal said, inclining his head to that irrelevance. "But he-Erevan-is the wrong choice. You seek a way to define yourself, and he is not it. He is an illusion. Whether he exists or not, he is nothing but illusion to you. A lie. A deceit. You, only."
Like Liet, she realized.
"Who is real?" Twilight snuffled blood back into her nose. "Liet… or you?"
Gestal looked taken aback. "Why both," he said, "but I was the first. Liet is but a lost, love-lorn boy-a pathetic child."
No, Twilight thought. He's more than that.
"Are there others?" she asked, though she wasn't sure why.
Gestal furrowed his brow, as if searching his mind. "No," he said. "None of consequence-merely me, and my tool, Liet. I am his strength, and he is my weakness."
"Yes," she murmured.
Gestal grinned-hideously. "And yours." His skin swam and ran like butter slopping over a pail, and Liet stood before Twilight once more-Liet with Gestal's bastard eyes. "You choose devotion to a lie over your lover?"
Twilight realized he was mistaken. Firstly, Gestal was wrong-or rather, he was right, but he had just slipped and given her the truth. Secondly, his power was failing. The spell was fading, slipping from her mind. Twilight might have smiled.
"What do you choose?"
Twilight did smile. "I choose myself," she said.
Then the demonflesh flowed back. Gestal looked at her for a long time, his breathing increasing in rapidity until he panted, then dissolved into mirth. "You choose death, then?" he asked lightly. "Very well. All is desire, will, and consequence, as I say. And there are consequences for denying our desires." His hand came up, glowing black.
"One plea," Twilight said tightly.
That putrid grin returned. He pointed at the yawning pits-two holes in the stone, from which flames arose. "You want to go into the pits, instead?" He sighed. The blackness died around his hand. "I shall enjoy watching the climax of your fall, as I have watched its course these last days."