Daughter of the Blood

Witch and Witch is Jaenelle."
    "They never want me." She thumped her chest with her fist. "Not me. They don't want me inside the body. They want to mate with Jaenelle, not Witch."
    He felt her fragment more and more.
    "This is Witch," she screamed at him. "This is who lived inside the body. Do you want to mate with Witch?"
    Anger made him lash out. "No, I don't want to mate with you. I want to make love to you."
    Whatever she was about to say went unsaid. She stared at him as if he were something unknown. She took a hesitant step toward him.
    She'll take the bait, the Sadist whispered inside him. She'll take the bait and step into the pretty trap.
    Another step.
    Deadly, deadly silk.
    Another.
    A sweet trap spun from love and lies . . . and truth.
    "I've waited seven hundred years for you," he crooned. "For you. "His lips curved in a seducer's smile. "I was born to be your lover."
    "Lover?"
    Almost within reach.
    Without his body, the seduction tendrils weren't as potent, but he saw the change in her eyes when they reached her.
    Still, she hovered out of reach. "Then why do you want the body?"
    "Because that body can sheathe me so that I can give you pleasure." He watched her think about this. "Do you like my body?"
    "It's beautiful," she said reluctantly, and then added hurriedly, "but you look the same here. And Witch can sheathe your maleness."
    The Sadist held out his hand. "Why don't we find out?"
    She took his hand and gracefully settled over him, straddling his thighs. Then she looked at him expectantly.
    He smiled at her while his hands explored her, soothing and arousing. When his fingers tickled the underside of her fawn tail, she squeaked and jumped. He resettled her tighter against him, wrapped one arm around her hips to keep her still while his other hand slid through the gold mane and cupped her head. Then he kissed her. A soft kiss. A melting kiss. She sighed when he caressed her breasts. She trembled when he licked the tiny spiral horn. When he was sure she'd taken the bait, he whispered, "Sweetheart, you're right. This place is too dark for me. The chalice is too fragile and I . . . I hurt." She looked at him regretfully but nodded.
    "Wait," he said when she tried to move away. "Can you come up with me? Up to my inner web?" He licked her ear. His voice became a throbbing purr. "We'd still be safe there."
    He leashed the urgency he felt and waited for her answer. There was no way to tell how much time had passed at the Altar, no way to know if their bodies were still there, no way to know if hers still lived, no way to know if those monsters from Briarwood had reached the Sanctuary. No way to know what his body was doing.
    He pushed the thought away. He didn't have a link now; the Priest did. Whatever he was doing, it was Saetan's problem.
    The rushing ascent caught him by surprise. He grabbed her at the same moment she wrapped her legs around him.
    "Lover," she said, smiling at him. Then she giggled.
    He wondered if, with a lifetime of wandering in that strange blend of innocence and formidable knowledge, she knew what the word meant.
    Doesn't matter, the Sadist whispered. She took the bait.
    They rose until they were high in the Black, comfortably above his inner web.
    "Better?" she asked shyly.
    "Much better," he answered, fitting his mouth to hers.
    He kissed her until she relaxed, and then he sighed again.
    Hurry, the Sadist whispered.
    He leaned his forehead against hers and yelped when the tiny spiral horn jabbed him.
    She giggled and kissed his forehead. "Kisses make it better?"
    Revulsion swamped him for a moment. That was a child's voice. A young child's voice.
    He looked over her shoulder, trying to reconcile the female shape wrapped around him with that voice, and saw fragments of shattered crystal floating through the Black.
    Pieces of her. Pieces and pieces of her. Part of her was still intact. Had to be. The part that held the knowledge of the Craft. How could she have put him together otherwise? But if she kept slipping in and out of those fragments . . .
    Like Tersa. Worse than Tersa.
    "Daemon?"
    The midnight voice, with a deadly edge to it.
    Remember this side of her, the Sadist warned. Ignore the rest.
    Daemon smiled at her. "Lover," he said, nipping her lower lip. Then he used every trick he'd ever learned to sweeten the bait.
    But he wouldn't let her raise her hips to sheathe him.
    "Still too dark," he gasped when she began to whimper and snarl. "Let's go to the Red. It's my