Reunion

Author's note: This story was an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge) 5, a collaborative competition among Lit authors. Every story for this FAWC began with the exact same line. Where it went from there was up to the author.

Those participating in sexual acts are 18 or above (or nonhuman).

*****

Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife. Rhomar's gaze was drawn to them again and again, although he himself had placed them there.

The handkerchief was old, threadbare and crumpled, the grey fabric stained with dark splotches.

The book was bound in thick leather-scorched black, with metal fittings protecting the corners and the spine. A slender iron chain was wound around the book several times, held together by what looked like a silver rod enclosing the ends of the chain. It was no small book either; the spine longer than Rhomar's forearm.

And then there was the knife. No mere kitchen utensil, this. The light of the sputtering candle played along a foot-long blade, tapering to a needle-thin point. The hilt was made from one seven-sided, dull grey gemstone, two-thirds of it wrapped in leather made from human skin. Intricate runes were etched into the shiny metal, unintelligible to those outside the Order.

But Rhomar knew full well what they meant: eternal imprisonment in the soulstone hilt for those whose body was pierced by the razor-sharp weapon. A fitting fate for the one who wronged him.

With a sigh, he rose from the chair he had been sitting in for the last two hours, his robes rustling. He stored the blade in a hidden sheath on his hip. Then he picked up the book, soothed by its familiar heft and weight. His Book of Secrets, pages upon pages of demonic lore.

Rhomar was a warlock, cursed with demonic ancestry and well-versed in the ways of the Burning Pits. The book held the true names of several denizens of the Pits, along with information to bend them to his will. Combined with the infernal magic which infused his blood, Rhomar was a force to be reckoned with.

He had travelled the Western Continent for decades, honing his powers to a masterful edge. But where others of the Order tried to use their accumulated power for personal gain or in the service of some Lord of Hell, Rhomar's ambition was far simpler. He desired revenge. His teacher had wronged him, and Rhomar had spent every waking hour since then to prepare her eventual demise. And today was the day.

The plan was laid out, the preparations were all but complete; all that was left to do was to buy a few crucial items and then confront her. Rhomar hooked a long leather strap into the chain holding the book closed and slung it over his shoulder, then gingerly picked up the handkerchief and stowed it in a pocket inside his robe. The old piece of fabric was all that was left of his twin sister, the dark stains the last bit of ashes that remained of Serena's body after their teacher had finished with her.

Rhomar gnashed his teeth in barely-controlled fury. His reflection scowled back at him from the small mirror over the washing table, two burning orange eyes in a skeletal visage. His demonic ancestry, amplified by dark rituals he had performed over the previous decades, had burned away nearly all of his humanity. His parched skin was pulled taut over the bones of his skull. Rhomar was bald and instead of hair, three rows of tiny horns went along his skull, framed by a pair of pointed ears. With a final snarl, he pulled the hood of his robe up and left the small room he had rented for the previous night.

* * * *

"There are three main tenets in regards to demonology," Meruru explained. A claw-like hand gestured at the glowing runes hovering next to her. A quartet of apprentices sat opposite her, their eyes looking from their notebooks to her and back again. As she spoke, text appeared on the pages of the books, unwholesome runes which seemed to move as the eye passed over them. She noticed the disgusted and uneasy looks her apprentices had for her. No wonder. Meruru's body looked terrible, with skin pulled taut over her bones. Her face looked more like a skull, with flaring eyes deep in their sockets and wispy strands of hair dangling out of her hood.

"Loyalty, Diligence and Ingenuity. These three are the foundation from which we draw our power. Be loyal to your subjects and to your superiors, because you will need every ally in this world where holier-than-thou clerics will be after you more often than not.

"Always be diligent. A single mispronounced syllable can spell disaster. Your carefully crafted incantation could hit the wrong target, or instead of praising your lords and masters, you could offend them, with dire consequences. Yes, Vargain?"

One of the apprentices flinched as she called his name.

"I- I thought we were to learn demonology. The art of shaking the world to its foundations. So far, it sounds like pretty much every kind of magic. My old master sounded exactly like you. Hard work, devotion, blah, blah." The apprentice tossed his head back and his hood slipped down, revealing long, well-kempt hair and distinguished features. Meruru imagined him beneath her, moaning as she rode him. But so far, he had refused all her advances. He said he wanted to keep their relationship "strictly professional." Her mouth twisted into an angry scowl at his rejection.

"What do you expect? You snap your fingers and naked servants appear for your amusement?" she hissed. "And if you want to question my teaching methods, you should wait until I'm done. Now shut up and listen.

"Ingenuity. Don't be shackled by rules, but don't be stupid about breaking them either. Grasp every chance to increase your power. Just make sure you can hold on to it. What good is the true name of a Pit Lord when he will rip you to shreds once you call him? Be wise in what you do and don't be afraid to try something new, and the rewards will be spectacular."

Her hand slithered down the front of her robes and stopped over her sex. One finger dipped between her thighs.

Vargain spoke up again. "So you say we can do what we want? What about the other two tenets? What will keep me from torching you to get at your grimoires?" He raised his hands, menacing orbs of flame forming between curled fingers.

"That's what I get for letting one into my tower who isn't of the Order? Oh well," Meruru sighed. "At least now I have a practical example to illustrate what I mean."

She flung out one hand and a brazier in the corner of the room flared up, the flames lapping at the stone ceiling of her instruction chamber. She barked one harsh word, the syllables reverberating off the old stone walls, and Vargain was hoisted to his feet, a look of utter panic on his handsome features. The other apprentices scrabbled to get out of the way, their eyes never leaving their comrade. A deep rumble shook the room to its foundations and a shadow of something large, winged and muscular appeared within the flame.

"Come, oh my lord and master. I have a tasty morsel for you," Meruru beckoned. She curled her fingers and Vargain stumbled closer, terror in his eyes. Grinning, the female warlock sauntered over to him. She placed an arm around his waist and walked him closer to the brazier. Vargains gnashed his teeth, sweat pouring from his brow as he tried to fight the compulsion Meruru had cast upon him. But to no avail, his body acted without his consent and staggered along next to her.

"You see? I didn't even need a lengthy summon. Gral'zu, my lord and master, knows that when I call upon him, it will be worth his while. My loyalty and diligence are paying off, wouldn't you agree?" They were close to the brazier now. The infernal heat singed Vargains eyebrows and his hair began to smoke.

A huge, scarlet arm shot out of the flames and grabbed the apprentice by the front of his robe. Flailing his arms and screaming at the top of his lungs, Vargain was pulled into the blaze. Within moments, only the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh remained.

Meruru turned back towards her remaining apprentices.

"Let this be a lesson to you all. Class, dismissed."

Her apprentices bolted from the room. Meruru leaned against the wall and used the cooling brazier for support. Despite her boast, calling upon her master had drained her badly. Even the simple act of keeping upright was enough to nearly overwhelm her. Only when she couldn't hear the panicked steps of her apprentices any more did she allow herself to sink to her knees. This body was quickly nearing the end of its usefulness. When her heart stopped thumping in her head, she slowly made her way into her private study. Maybe some tea would do her good.

Meruru busied herself at the large samovar near her desk. Her hand shook too much as she tried to pour herself a cup of tea. She had to use her other one to keep the teapot steady, and even then she spilled some onto the old, ornate side table. Reading the ancient texts had been a chore for a year, but she knew the day would come when her body would reach the end of its usefulness. Sipping her tea, she tugged the bellpull next to her massive desk and summoned one of her servants.

"You have called, mistress?" the raven-haired woman asked when she entered Meruru's study. She even bowed a little. The old woman smiled as she rose from behind her desk.

"I have need of you," she rasped, fiddling with the belt keeping her robes together. The servant tried her best to hide her true feelings, but Meruru saw her flaring nostrils, the eyes widening in stifled revulsion. Rustling softly, the black garment slid off her, revealing a skeletally thin body, the skin taut over the bones, except for her breasts, which were two floppy sacks of empty skin. The servant slapped a hand over her mouth as Meruru advanced on her, licking her lips.

"Don't make me cut you out of these rags," Meruru threatened. She curled her fingers and a curved dagger appeared in her hand. The servant staggered back a step, then turned and ran. She made it to the door of the study, but the massive slab of wood slammed shut in her face and the lock turned.

"Forget what I said. It's much more fun this way," Meruru laughed, a horrible, dry sound filled with malice. She caught up with the servant and spun her around. The woman tried to hit her, but Meruru swatted her flailing hands aside with one of her own. Despite the look of frailty, her iron will infused the limbs with a strength far beyond what this body would have managed on its own. Then she barked one knotty word and the servant stopped moving, face frozen in a mask of utter panic.

"Come on, it's not like I'm trying to kill you. On the contrary." With careful movements, Meruru cut the simple garb off the woman's body. Nodding to herself, she passed her claw-like hands over the soft, rosy skin.

"Yes, you will do very nicely." Meruru bent low and licked at the servant's nipple before looking into her eyes. She saw only terror and madness there. The woman before her was fearing for her life. She had no idea.

Meruru relaxed her paralysis spell a little and bent the woman's hand, so that her palm was facing up. She used the dagger to cut the woman's palm. Not deep, just enough to draw blood, then she repeated the action on herself. Sighing in anticipation, Meruru pressed her hand onto the servant's and invoked the name of her patron, an unwholesome string of syllables no mortal should be able to utter. But she had centuries of practice, and the name rolled off her tongue easily.

As always, her master responded, flooding her body with the irresistible rush of unbridled power, and Meruru cast off her feeble, old shell. For one glorious second, she was nothing but pure thought, until her consciousness shrank to a single point.

The taste of ashes filled her mouth. Blindly, she fumbled around on the floor until she found a piece of fabric. Pressing it to her lips, she spat, then she forced her eyes open. The ceiling of the study greeted her. Coughing up the rest of the ashes, she sat up, taking stock of her situation. It was much brighter than she remembered, and every movement felt smooth and easy. She would need to order the servants to clean up her study, to remove the remains of her former body. But ashes were the least of her concerns right now.

Her lips curled in a triumphant smile and she passed her hands over her naked body, kneading her breasts. Her hands slid lower, over her taut belly, until her fingers brushed through the light fuzz covering her mound.

Meruru loved the first moments in a new body the most, the delicious sensation of exploring every curve. Giggling, she dipped two fingers into herself. This one was a virgin for once. It was hard to believe that the servant had managed to ward off the advances or predations of Meruru's apprentices that long.

Meruru withdrew her fingers and licked the few drops of moisture off them before rising from the carpeted floor. Thinking about her apprentices, fit young men, gave her an idea. It was time to properly break in this body. Naked and humming a bawdy tune, Meruru left the study.

* * * *

Rhomar tossed a few coins on the counter.

"Have yerself a safe journey," the bald innkeep spat. He swiped the coins off the counter and dropped them into a pouch of his apron with a a scowl.

"My coin not good enough for you?" Rhomar asked, fixing him with a long, hard stare.

"It's not the coin, it's you. The sooner yer gone, the better. We don't like yer kind here." The barkeep grabbed a rag and began to scrub his bar with a vengeance, pretending Rhomar had already left.

The warlock shrugged and exited the sparsely populated taproom. He still had one last thing to take care of. This town in the foothills of the Frostguard Mountains, Roarfell, was the only place where he could get a special ore crucial to his plan. His familiar, Fraternus, had found a supplier and Rhomar was eager to get things over with. The imp had a knack of finding improbable items, one of the few reasons Rhomar kept him around. He was the one who brought back the handkerchief with Serena's ashes when he came back from a spying mission in Meruru's tower.

Outside, Rhomar made his way around the inn, until he was well out of sight between the main building and the stables. He placed a small wooden bowl onto a hay bale and produced a knife from his sleeve, then proceeded to cut his wrist.

The enchanted blade bit into his flesh and he squeezed a small rivulet of blood into the bowl before his flesh knit on its own. His patron gave him unparalleled powers, abilities most other spellcasters would die for, but it all came with a price. Rhomar sprinkled a black powder into the bowl and hissed a few syllables. The powder soaked up the blood and expanded until the small bowl was filled to the brim with a brownish sludge.

"Come, Fraternus," the warlock ordered. At first, nothing happened. Rhomar drummed his fingers against his thigh and waited. After a few more moments, the bowl lifted off the hay bale and tilted. But instead of plummeting towards the ground, the brown sludge just vanished into thin air.

Someone burped, loudly.

"How nice of you to show up. You forgot to mention where exactly your supplier resided," Rhomar said in the harsh language of the Burning Pits.

"Now, did I? I'm terribly sorry, master," a high, squeaky voice answered him. From one moment to the next, a small naked humanoid was sitting on the hay bale, toying with the bowl. It was tiny, maybe a foot tall and covered head to toe in reddish-brown scales. The head sported a pair of slender, curved horns sweeping back over the cranium. The thing had wings, like those of a bat, and a tail almost twice as long as it was, topped off with a curved stinger. It was an imp, a demonic familiar, and an especially ugly one at that, with a sharp, hooked nose, mean red eyes and a forked tongue which lapped at few errant drops of sludge between words.

Something thumped in the stables, loud enough to cause Rhomar to look up from the grinning imp.

"I wonder what's happening," Fraternus said, tail twitching. Rhomar's gaze was drawn to the long, curved stinger at its end. It was coated with a vile poison and Fraternus enjoyed using it on anyone he perceived as a threat to himself or Rhomar. The venom turned the victim's blood to acid in mere seconds, leaving the poor soul to die in agony. Rhomar carried an antidote on him at all times, just in case Fraternus decided that the warlock wasn't useful to him anymore.

"Skittish horses are nothing new around me," Rhomar said, shrugging. "About that supplier-"

"Oh, right. You want to see Shaldyn the Sticky-Fingered, off Minecart Road," Fraternus explained, long, thin arms gesturing.

"Thank-" Rhomar began, only to be cut off by another loud thump, followed by a muffled moan.

"Huh, skittish horses my spindly ass. Sounds more like two lovebirds getting it on," Fraternus chuckled, playing with his tiny member. "Can I go have a look?"

"You know full well how humanoid reproduction works. We have more pressing business, with this Shaldyn fellow," Rhomar said. He bent low and reached for the bowl. A scream, high and fearful and loud despite the wooden stable wall caused him to freeze.

Unbidden, the memories came. Serena, his twin sister, had screamed like that when Meruru had shed her robes to proudly display her skeletal, spent body, just a heartbeat before she slit Serena's arm and pressed her wizened hand onto her rosy flesh. And then there was only silence as the ash drifted to the floor and Serena's body just lay there, breasts rising and falling. No matter how hard Rhomar tried to shake her, no matter which of his few measly spells he tried, nothing was able to rouse her.

Rhomar blinked. He was back in the inn's courtyard, and the sounds of fighting behind the stable wall continued. Rhomar snapped off a simple spell and stepped into the wall, passing through it as if it were made from smoke. He ended up in a box with a few hay bales, on top of which two people were wrestling. He recognized one of the serving maids from the previous evening. She was struggling to keep a cursing man from shoving his thick cock into her. One of her eyes was swollen shut, her lip was bleeding and her clothes were ripped and torn.

The woman's head tossed wildly on the hay, but then she caught sight of Rhomar.

"Help me, for Mercy's sake!" she pleaded.

The man, smelling of sweat and beer even at this early hour, turned around. His bearded face twisted into a leering grimace.

"This is none of yer business. Leave. Or d'ya wanna join?" He pumped his dick twice, then he turned back towards the woman. She used his distraction to plant a foot straight into his stomach. Coughing, he bent over. The woman tried to scrabble past him, but he was quicker and caught her with a flailing arm across her chest. The blow pushed her back onto the hay. When he straightened up again, the man wielded a short hook, the kind used to haul hay bales around. The tip looked razor-sharp.

"I'll gut ya for that, ya fucking cunt," he roared, winding up for a blow.

Rhomar didn't hesitate. He called upon one of the demons he knew, offering the rapist's soul as a token of loyalty. In an instant, the box was flooded with an ominous red glare. The hook-wielding man stopped mid-swing and tried to make out what had happened. Around him, the floor heaved and burning yellow cracks formed in the packed dirt.

"What- what sorcery is this?" he rasped, dick deflating.

As if to answer him, the floor burst upwards, revealing a multitude of arms. Some scaled, some armored, some nothing more than slimy, pulsing tubes of flesh adorned with suckers or sharp spines shot up and grabbed him around the legs.