Lucivar stormed into Saetan’s study at the Hall and slammed the door behind him. Saetan didn’t even flinch, just set the documents he’d been reading aside and leaned back in his chair.

It figured that the High Lord wouldn’t have much reaction to that kind of entrance. After all, he’d been dealing with Jaenelle, the coven, and the boyos for the past five years, and the combination of adolescence, power, and those particularly agile minds when it came to using Craft would have shattered the nerves of a less strong- willed man.

But that lack of reaction annoyed Lucivar. He needed a battleground on which to vent the emotions churning inside him, and his father wasn’t being accommodating. So he shaped the battleground himself.

“This isn’t going to work,” he snarled as he paced in front of Saetan’s desk. “It just isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t?” Saetan asked.

“Marian.”

Saetan sighed, but there was exasperation underneath the sound. “The woman has barely had time to unpack. What has she—”

“I can’t stand this!” Lucivar shouted. “This is my home. I don’t want this in my home.” He stopped pacing and raked one hand through his hair. “She’s bringing out everything that’s savage in me.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid! She’s afraid of Tassle and—” It burned him to say it. “—she’s afraid of me.”

“She has good reason to be afraid of you.”

Oh, now. Here was a battleground and an opponent who wouldn’t flinch at his temper. His voice became quiet and deadly. “Meaning what?”

“Do you know how Marian came to live in Kaeleer?” Saetan asked.

“Jaenelle brought her in.” Another battleground. “And what in the name of Hell was Jaenelle doing in Askavi Terreille?” he roared.

“Rescuing a hearth witch.”

He heard it then. It wasn’t anger under Saetan’s calmly spoken words; it was rage. So he chained his temper, no longer sure if he was dealing with Saetan, his father, or Saetan, the High Lord of Hell. He didn’t understand why Andulvar Yaslana, the Ebon-gray Eyrien Warlord Prince who had been Saetan’s closest friend for more than fifty thousand years, made a point of warning him to be careful when he dealt with the High Lord, but the fact that the Demon Prince felt the need to make the distinction was reason enough for him to be cautious.

Saetan rose, came around his desk, and leaned against the front of it. That informal stance, rather than his remaining behind the desk, usually signaled a discussion between equals.