A demon may look however she wishes, be whatever gender she wishes, but Xaltorath prefers to be female for me.

She knows it hurts me more.

***IS SOMEONE BEING TOO HARD ON HER PLAYMATES? THESE TOYS FIGHT BACK.***

“I’d say it’s nice to see you, but I hate lies.” I interposed myself between Xaltorath and the village. Its people would remain trapped in their cellar houses, nailed to their arbors, until Thaena’s servants arrived to rescue them. If the demon to whom they’d been sacrificed didn’t find them first.

Xaltorath observed my movement, knew what I meant by it.

***THOSE ARE MINE.***

I glanced behind me. “From the runes, I’d say those are Kasmodeus’s.”

***ALL THE MORE REASON I SHOULD CLAIM THEM, DON’T YOU THINK? I NEVER LIKED KASMODEUS.***

I raised my sword against her.

She smiled at me. ***ADORABLE. THIS IS WHY YOU’RE MY FAVORITE DAUGHTER.***

“I’m not your daughter,” I spat.

***NOW WHO JUST SAID THEY HATE LIES?*** The demon queen cocked her head to the side and studied me with an expression that always made my laevos stand on end. A brutal, alien look, heralding anything from a lecture on courtship rites to a lesson on torture with myself as the test subject.

She is not my mother.

She’ll never be my mother. I remember my mother, vague memories of dark hair and hearth fires. I recall her sweet apple scent, her fingers brushing my laevos, the nights spent counting stars when those distant jewels made themselves clear past Tya’s Veil.

No, Xaltorath isn’t my mother. But by her cursed race’s rules, I am her child. Her adopted child. Her claimed child.

Thus why Kalazan’s overheard prophecy bothered me so.

Xaltorath turned to face the village. ***YOU HAVE BEEN SUCH A GOOD DAUGHTER, DEAR CHILD. I WONDER: WILL YOU ALLOW COLDWATER TO HAVE DIED IN VAIN?***

My sword wavered. Coldwater village lay a short ride from Barsine’s capital, Mereina. I’d been there several times as a child, when my parents visited the baron’s family. Coldwater had prospered as a small village of skilled craftsmen. They made a watertight reed basket so fine it resembled cloth. My mother had bought a basket on a visit years before. I still owned it, left behind in Tolamer when I’d been forced to leave.

I didn’t recognize this place as Coldwater, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t.