He fully expected Hazoth to turn and glare at him, eyes blazing with some spell that would tear his flesh from his bones. Or perhaps Hazoth would simply vanish before he could reach him. Instead he caught the magician completely off guard. He felt the point of the bodkin part the fibers of the sorcerer’s nightshirt, felt it sink into the hated flesh, felt it scrape on bone. He pushed and shoved with all his might until it broke free from the sorcerer’s back. He did not feel hot blood pour over his hand, but that surprised him less than the look on Hazoth’s face.

The sorcerer simply looked disappointed.

Malden fell backward, pulling the bodkin free. He stared down at the length of iron in his hand and saw no blood on it, nor ichor nor living fire nor any of the things he supposed might flow through a sorcerer’s veins. He looked up and saw the hole he’d cut through the nightshirt . . . but the flesh underneath wasn’t even scarred.

“A violent response to a threatening stimulus. The hallmark of an unenlightened being. Rodent, you have surprised me so many times tonight—now you prove that there is a limit to what a primitive creature can do with cunning. Ah, well. I suppose even the most advanced of the species must eventually revert to rodentlike behavior. Oh, and now look at what you’ve gone and done.”

Cythera cried out. Malden looked over at her and saw her staring at the palm of her left hand. The ink there looked like it was boiling. Flowers bloomed and their petals fell away, driven up her arm by a howling wind entirely contained within her skin. Vines circled around her wrist so tight they looked like they would constrict her pulse. On her face a hundred snowdrops wilted, while roses erupted in blossom across her shoulders, their thorns gleaming with painted poison.

It would seem the link that bound Cythera to Hazoth wasn’t just for inimical magic. It could absorb physical damage as well.

“Cythera!” Malden shouted. “No—please, forgive me, I didn’t know—”

“It’s . . . all right, Malden,” she said, straightening up. “It doesn’t pain me. It just startles me a bit when it happens, that’s all.”

Hazoth looked from one of them to the other. Then he clucked his tongue and faced Malden again. “You interested me, briefly. That’s why I’ve let you live for so long. But not for your animal passions, rodent. For the way you seemed to exceed the limitations of your upbringing. But now I see you’ve only been so clever, so brave, for one thing—that prize Cythera keeps between her legs.” He shook his head sadly. “Pathetic. I’m afraid that attacking me was the last mistake I can permit you.”