The dark cavern echoed with the sonorous tone of his chanting, the echo of the vile words rising above the swirling draft till the vaulted walls vibrated with his malice. Well, perhaps malice was too strong a word—mother wouldn’t approve of vibrating malice. It was more like the walls vibrated with anger. Eldritch power—whatever that was—coursed through the veins of the black sorcerer Nokturne Casis, pulsing with the terrible cadence that would awaken his demonic patron.
“Da mihi fermentum, insidiari—,”
“Please let me go,” his captive shrieked. Sigh. He winced under her shrill voice, his concentration shattered once more. The Princess Sarah Aphrodite was certainly an attractive offering to the demon god, but she was so noisy.
“My father the king will pay you anything.” Crocodilian tears fell as she squirmed in futility upon the bloodstained altar. “He’ll—”
“Be silent, wench!” Nokturne raised a pale, scrawny arm as if to strike her. She silenced with a whimper. Good thing ,too. He couldn’t bear to hit a girl.
“Sniveling child.” He sneered his most wicked sneer, “What use have I for your father’s riches? Once the dark ritual is completed the Black God Gadaborgin will live again and lay waste to your pitiful kingdom of Feytail. Then I will be master of this land and all its riches. Muwhahaha!”
He was quite pleased with himself. He had spent most of the morning practicing that speech.
He took a deep, wicked breath.
“Da mihi—,”
The princess’ voice smashed through his spell yet again, causing the sorcerer to set his yellowed teeth a-grinding. “My love, the great general Erik Hiro, will soon come to save me. He’ll make you sorry. He’ll…”
“Oh, will you just shut up already?” Nokturne’s voice cracked a bit before he cleared his throat. “I mean, foolish princess. Your beloved cannot save you, for I have prepared a most fiendish trap for the noble Erik. By the time he arrives—no, if he arrives—it will only be to find that the virgin sacrifice is complete, and my lord Gabadorgin returned to this mortal plain. Then he shall suffer an agony few have ever felt.”
The princess convulsed in what was no doubt panic-stricken horror.
“You fiend!”
“Fiend, indeed,” he said with an evil chortle. He raised his eyes to the snarling, four-armed statue of the demon, the shrine’s only other adornment besides the horned altar and bone-crafted lectern.
“Now where was I?” He moved beside the lectern and ran his hand over the oily parchment of the great, leather bound grimoire, tracing each rune with tender reverence. “Ah, yes.”
With another clearing of his throat, the sorcerer raised his hands and voice in demonic prayer.
“Da mihi fermentum. Mortuus redire somnum. Crusta Insidari. Rotha convortit XXII preteria longus.” Yet again the dark power of his master filled his being, a trembling ecstasy which called to mind every twisted delight he had ever indulged in. He was no longer the sickly weak child he had been ten years before, but a true master of the darkness. He was power, he was freedom, he was—
“You’re doing it wrong.”
The dark power evaportated as Nokturne froze. His captive was staring at him with mournful blue eyes. No, it wasn’t despair, but pity! He raised himself to his full (admittedly unimpressive) height and demanded in his most imperious voice, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
