Brother Qown didn’t think Dorna could hear him. The old woman shook off his arm and mumbled something under her breath, her attention focused on Janel and the demon.

**I ALMOST FORGOT. WHAT WAS IT YOU SAID YOU’D DO TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?**

Dedreugh grinned. He dropped his shield and put his remaining hand’s gauntleted fingers into his mouth.

He yanked downward. Bone and muscle broke away with a sickening crunch.

Dedreugh ripped his own jaw off.

People screamed, fainted, fled.

**I WON’T NEED THAT ANYMORE.**

Popping sounds filled the air as the straps holding his armor in place broke under the stress of his expanding form. Thick black blood oozed down the cracks in his flesh. The severed arm began regenerating, tumorous warping flesh flowing from light to dark blue at his fingertips, which ended in wicked black claws.

“Kasmodeus, I presume? Did you think that would frighten me? Because the next thing I’m going to do is rip your entire head off and—”

**YOU KNOW ME?**

“Oh, I know the name. We haven’t met, but you know what gossips demons are.”

His tongue licked his cheekbones. **I WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL.**

“Aren’t you the flatterer.” The count laughed and raised her shield. “You’re going to have to use more than honeyed words if you want to impress me.”

He screamed and leapt at her. They rolled together. A terrible growling sound filled the air.

The crowd panicked. Half the audience didn’t know if they should run or nudge closer for a better look. No one was doing anything helpful.

Brother Qown began going over any possible action he might be able to take to help the count.

She’d given him the demon’s name. Brother Qown struggled to remember the names and qualities Father Zajhera had demanded he memorize.

Kasmodeus. A mid-level demon, associated with brutality and the desperation of those so starved by winter they turned to cannibalism. He preferred using a male form and liked sacrifices given to him as burnt offerings. His weaknesses included the first year’s snow melt and clean water blessed by holy men.

Clean water …

Nothing in the stands would be water. Plum wine or green tea or pepperleaf beer, but not pure water. Brother Qown reached inside the railing and grabbed Dorna’s stolen flagon and then sprinted for the horse troughs near the nobles’ box.

Behind him, Brother Qown heard screams. People ran, trying to escape the demon’s growling laughter. Qown dumped the cider as he ran.