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 Birthright.*

She tried to shake off the seduction tendrils he’d woven around her, but he’d spun his trap well.

*We can have a bed there,* he coaxed.

She shuddered. Whimpered. There was no pleasure in the sound.

An image appeared. A bed just big enough for the game. A bed with straps attached to the ends to tie down wrists and ankles.

He dismissed the image and replaced it with his own. A large room with deep, soft carpets. A huge bed, its canopy made of gauze and velvet. Silk sheets and downy covers. Mounds of pillows. The only light came from a slow-burning fire and dozens of scented candles.

Blinded by romance, she sighed and melted against him.

He held the image, teasing, tantalizing as they rose to the Red.

As they settled among the silk and pillows, he tried to reach for some link—his body, the Priest, anything—and choked on frustration. So close. So close and there was nothing for him to tap into to finish it—except the power Jaenelle had shaped around his chalice to hold the pieces together.

Caressing and soothing, loving and lying, he kept her focused on the pleasure while he cautiously sipped the power forming the skin inside the chalice.