He would have been a good Warlord if he’d been allowed to come of age, Saetan thought idly.

Andulvar, Mephis, and Prothvar stood behind Char’s chair in a half circle, effectively cutting off any means of escape.

“Who makes the butterflies, Char?” Saetan asked too quietly.

There were winds that came down from the north screaming over miles of ice, picking up moisture as they tore over the cooling sea until, when they finally touched a man, the cold, knife-sharp damp seeped into his bones and chilled him in places the hottest fire couldn’t warm. Saetan, when he was this calm, this still, was like those winds.

“Who makes the butterflies?” he asked again.

Char stared at the floor, his hands clenched, his face twisted with the emotions raging within him. “She’s ours.” The words burst from him. “She belongs to us.”

Saetan sat very still, cold with the fury rising in him. Until he had an answer, he had no time for gentleness.

Char stared back, frightened but willing to fight.

All of Hell’s citizens knew the subtle nuances of death, that there was dead and there was dead. All of Hell’s citizens knew the one person capable of obliterating them with a thought was their High Lord. Still, Char openly challenged him, and waited.

Suddenly, something else was in the room. A soft touch. A question running on a psychic thread. Char hung his head, defeated. “She wants to meet you.”

“Then bring her here, Char.”

Char squared his shoulders. “Tomorrow. I’ll bring her tomorrow.”

Saetan studied the trembling pride in the boy’s eyes. “Very well, Warlord, you may escort her here…tomorrow.”

4 / Hell

Saetan stood at the reading lectern, the candle-lights spilling a soft glow around him as he leafed through an old Craft text. He didn’t turn at the quiet knock on his study door. A swift psychic probe told him who was there.

“Come.” He continued to leaf through the book, trying to rein in his temper before dealing with that impudent little demon. Finally, he closed the book and turned.

Char stood near the doorway, his shoulders proudly pulled back.

“Language is a curious thing, Warlord,” Saetan said with deceptive mildness. “When you said ‘tomorrow,’ I didn’t expect five days to pass.”

Fear crept into Char’s eyes. His shoulders wilted. He turned toward the doorway, and a strange blend of tenderness, irritation, and resignation swept over his face.

The girl slipped through the doorway, her attention immediately caught by the stark Dujae painting, Descent into Hell, hanging over the fireplace. Her summer-sky blue eyes flitted over the large blackwood desk, politely skipped over him, lit up when she saw the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered most of one wall, and lingered on Cassandra’s portrait.

Saetan gripped his silver-headed cane, fighting to keep his balance while impressions crashed over him like heavy surf. He’d expected a gifted cildru dyathe. This girl was alive! Because of the skill needed to make those butterflies, he’d expected her to be closer to adolescence. She couldn’t be more than seven years old. He’d expected intelligence. The expression in her eyes was sweet and disappointingly dull-witted. And what was a living child doing in Hell?