Ice glazed the mirror over the fireplace, formed a crust over the carpet. In the moments when he and the Warlord stared at each other, he created a bubble shield and an aural shield, both ready to snap into place in a heartbeat. Then he rose from the abyss, his Black power delicately surrounding that weaker mind, preventing the Warlord from reaching anyone through a psychic thread.

“So,” Daemon crooned as he drew his left hand out of his pocket and rubbed a finger over his chin, “just when did you sleep with my wife?”

Horror filled the Warlord’s eyes as he stared at the plain gold band.

The aural and bubble shield snapped up around the Warlord at the same moment Daemon’s Black power smashed through all of the man’s inner barriers.

The Warlord’s mouth opened in a scream of terror and pain, but no sound filled the room. He tried to run—and crashed against the shield that contained him.

Daemon gave his prey a few moments to stare at death before he ripped into the Warlord’s mind—and found all the answers he needed.

One flash of the Black. The Warlord’s torso burst open, his guts spilling out. Ribs snapped as they were ruthlessly spread open. The heart burst out of the body to hang, impaled, on a shattered rib.

Another flash of the Black. Witchfire filled the Warlord’s skull—and it burned. As the Warlord hit the floor, the skull broke open. Hot ash spilled out on the ice-covered carpet. Steam rose as the ice melted, soaking the carpet enough to keep it from catching fire.

One last flash of the Black drained the Warlord’s Jewels and burned out all of the man’s psychic power, finishing the kill.

Daemon studied his work with a critical eye—and smiled a cold, cruel smile.

Lucivar flung the parlor door open and rushed into the room, pulling up fast when he saw the body on the floor. His gorge rose, but he braced himself for whatever would come. He knew what that glazed, sleepy look in Daemon’s eyes meant, what that smile meant. The Sadist had gone cold, and there was no one strong enough to control him.

Daemon glided up to him—and waited.

“Annoyed about something?” Lucivar asked.

“Not anymore.” Stepping around him, Daemon walked to the door and stopped. “Shall we go? I have an appointment to quarrel with my Lady.”

No. Sweet Darkness, no. Lucivar moved to the door. “You don’t have to quarrel with Jaenelle.”

“What my Queen wants, my Queen will have.”

Knowing better than to argue, Lucivar walked out of the parlor. Daemon followed him. The door closed behind them.

“Don’t worry, Prick,” Daemon said. “It won’t be much of a quarrel.”

Daemon walked away. Lucivar hesitated, then turned back to the parlor. Better to get rid of the corpse before someone else found it.