"Sa'Graz'zt, sa'za, sa'za," was the chant. "Graz'zt, sa'za, rzal'za! Sa'lza, rzal'za!"
Lord Graz'zt, come, come, Cythara translated silently. Graz'zt come and slay us… Come into us, slay us…
Then there was a hush. Gradually, the darkness deepened and beat down harder upon her, heavier and denser, burning and sweltering. She became aware, with a start, of two glowing green-white eyes that peered down out of the darkness.
That was when Cythara's certainty faltered. She who had met no equal in a mageduel, she who had never suffered a genuine threat, she who had never known real fear-she recognized true terror in that moment.
If she had been afraid before, this sensation completely destroyed her resolve. It bore down upon her as relentlessly and as mercilessly as the headsman's axe fell upon the neck of the condemned. Her skin crawled, and her body inched away as far as it could. She could not think- all her power, all her security, all her will vanished from her in that moment.
Then she saw him, and breath left as well.
An ebony, muscular chest loomed over her, balanced on powerful, double-jointed goat legs. Powerful arms branched out, the hands spread wide, as though summoning forces of darkness to do the demon lord's will. And his face; it was beautiful, in the way that a perfect murder is beautiful, with strong, angular features like an elflord's might be. But this creature was so much more than an elf-any mortal-could ever be. Her mind roiled in horror even as her body twitched with desire-Cythara who had never known a lover, nor considered one.
Then he smiled, and her spirit melted away.
One six-fingered hand hovered up her body, and
Cythara shrank from its touch even as she longed for it. Graz'zt bent over her, and Cythara's body strained toward him.
One of his fingers found her forehead and traced its way down her face, lingering over the lips and dipping into her mouth-he tasted of honey, blood, and ashes- then down. The finger made its way down the hollow of her throat, down her chest, and over her belly.
Then the dark lord paused. And grinned.
He snapped two of his twelve fingers, and Cythara's restraints fell away.
She tingled to throw herself into his arms. Either that, or scurry away in terror. But no, she could not move, could not think beyond the burning desire in her body and spirit.
The demon lord waved his hand, and Cythara felt a hundred hands grasp her. Before Cythara knew what was happening, the thralls turned her onto her belly.
The dark lord renewed tracing his finger along her skin, flesh that tingled for him. His finger glided over her buttocks and came to the hollow at the base of her spine. He touched her there, and she felt with unholy ecstasy a mark burn itself into her skin. She gasped and rolled over to face him, eye to eye, but it was done and could not be undone.
"Now I claim you, Cythara Nathalan," said Graz'zt. "Wear my mark, and know that you are mine."
He pressed his lips to hers. Cythara could not think, could not react, could not flee. She had lost all control, and she loved it.
"Yes!" she gasped.
And Cythara knew an ecstasy she had never imagined: the ecstasy of darkness.
As he laced his hauberk of elven mail, the morning after taking in Reverie with Twilight, Yldar chanced a look at the rogue as she slipped into a pair of sleek black breeches. He marveled at her back and the gentle curves that defined her hips. Had he dreamed last night, or had it really occurred?
Then Yldar's eye caught a twinkle of gold against her creamy skin, at the base of her spine, as of a mark. He took a step closer, looked, and blinked. It had not been a trick of the light-truly, there was a star with eight asymmetrical rays snaking out like blades seemingly etched with gold into her back.
With the kind of boldness only a lover can know, Yldar moved to Twilight and embraced her from behind. The rogue smiled mischievously and swayed in his grasp, reaching around to his rump.
He would not let her change the subject, though. Yldar ran his hand down her spine and paused at the star.
"What's this?" he asked, placing his palm on the mark. Yldar felt a ripple of power like a jolt of electricity run through him, and he was stunned.
Twilight recoiled and spun away, sliding out of his arms as out of loose manacles. She turned on him with dangerous eyes and reached to her hip as though to draw steel.
When Yldar only stared, Twilight shivered and straightened once more.
"The mark of Erevan Ilesere," she said. "Borne by all his maidens."
"A birthmark?"
That same wry smile. "A gift," she said. "When his whim moved from me, Erevan sent me on my way, but he was not ungrateful for the nights we spent together."
Yldar blinked. "Y-you mean," he stammered. "You have lain with… with a god?"
"He always called me his little Moonbow," she said. "A fantasy, mayhap?"
Yldar gave a little strangled cry. "You can't-you can't be serious!"
Twilight smiled, walked up, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Make you feel special?" She patted him on the shoulder and glided on. "Oh." She turned back. "More skilled than you, of course."
Yldar blushed a fierce golden red. "Well, perhaps with practice," he said.
Her eyes smoldered. "I rather doubt that."
The elves made their way back to the stairs that led to the temple again that afternoon. Twilight had argued against it, but Yldar had insisted. They owed his sister at least an attempt.
The door they found open and the passage yawning. The darkness, reeking of the sacrifice of sentient beings, felt lighter, somehow empty. Yldar allowed himself a sudden flare of hope.
Had Cythara slain the cultists? Perhaps she had escaped!
They found no one in the lower levels. The acolytes' doors all hung open, the cells empty. The double doors to the altar chamber, charred and splintered from the events of the previous day, stood closed. Though Twilight tried to stay him, the determined Yldar crossed to the doors and shoved them open.
The altar chamber was empty, all its vileness cleaned away, all traces of sacrifices expunged. All except one figure who stood, facing them, in a robe of purest black. She pulled back her hood, revealing a familiar golden face.
"Sister!" Yldar shouted, moving to rush forward.
A gesture from Cythara stopped him, as surely as if he had run into an invisible wall. Yldar dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword.
"Brother," Cythara said. She spoke Common, he noted. "You still do not understand. All these years, and you have learned nothing."
She turned and let her sheer gown slip down her back.
There, nestled at the base of her spine: a demonic rune-a six-fingered hand. The mark of her new master.
"You-" Yldar breathed. "You've become one of them!"
"Be silent, and let me speak," Cythara said. Her voice stabbed him like a knife. Dark charisma dripped from her like sweat and passion. "Too long I have dwelt in your shadow, aiding in your quests, helping you reclaim your honor. I have tolerated enough, brother. I have chosen my path-that of darkness and power. Now you must choose."
"Choose?"
"The Bracer or me," Cythara said. She pointed at Twilight's wrist, where the silver armguard gleamed. "Which is the greater treasure? The dust of Ynloeth's legacy or Cythara's beating heart? That treacherous thief or your once-loved sister? Your duty and honor or your kin and blood. Choose."
Perhaps it was his pride. Perhaps it was his inability to change. Or perhaps it was Twilight.
Regardless, Yldar hesitated.