Keshiema tore through every guard that came at her, painting the walls red as she made her way through the corridor. A fire ignited in her soul the moment her ice shield had been torn down. Her entire being burned fiercely. Her glowing eyes shifted haphazardly between purple, blue, and red. Her hair remained its silvery blue, but took on an ethereal shine. When she had left her cell, she went to the castle gate in a moment of clarity. But when the sentries at the gate tried to stop her, the fire demanded she kill them. And so she did. But the fire had a voracious appetite; it hungered for more than a few lowly guards or living statues. It was bloodthirsty and maniacal, and it demanded the lives of all who sought to harm her. Its thirst would not be quenched until the blood of her enemies ceased to flow.

  A wave of crimson flooded her mind, jolting her to a stop. A Soldier tried desperately to grab at her as he ran up from behind. He yanked at her hair, but recoiled, screaming in unexpected agony, staring at his shredded hands in disbelief. With a wicked, razor-sharp grin, Keshiema grabbed his face and slammed his head into the stone wall. Two more soldiers came at her, weapons drawn. Pulling the sword from the fallen soldier's hand, she decapitated one and swiftly impaled the other.

  Her blood boiling, she raced down the hall as fast as she could, her aura trailing behind her. But something was wrong. She knew she could run faster, and yet, try as she might, she could not pick up her pace. She was not tired. Her injury had healed. Her aura overflowed. Her loss of speed had no explanation, adding to her growing fury, stoking the fire raging inside her. Two bodies, painted scarlet, flashed before her eyes, washing her in guilt.

  Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she continued, not knowing exactly where she was going. An ominous aura lured her deeper into the castle. Shimmering turquoise tendrils, floating in small swirls, grew steadily denser the deeper into the castle she went. Those sickly coils of bright teal aura infuriated her. She wanted to believe that had been what enticed her. 'Cimeies and Moloch.' The splash of red again consumed her vision. Gritting her sharpened teeth, she growled at herself and continued. Embers followed her, floating in the trail of lavender aura she left behind.

  Another group of guards tried to corner her, pushing her into a room and onto a terrace overlooking the entryway courtyard, where several other slain soldiers already lay. The first guard to reach her was sent flying over the balcony, landing on his head with an audible crack. The next followed suit, as only one could fit through the doorway at a time. Seeing how easily the small woman overtook his comrades, the third tried to run. Rushing forward, she grabbed his collar and shoved her sword into his back before spinning around, shoving him off the balcony to join his fellow soldiers.

  ***

  Adramelech sat slumped in his throne, staring into a goblet of bloodwine. With a disgusted grunt, he poured the crimson liquid onto the stone floor. The human maid cleaning the stain of Beelzebub's blood closed her eyes, reminding herself to remain quiet. When Adramelech stood from his throne, he looked down at the too-skinny young woman. With a grimace, he kicked her in the stomach. “You’re not done yet?”

  Picking herself up, she coughed, trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I’ll work faster.” Taking a washcloth from her bucket and ringing it over the floor, she returned to scrubbing the stain. Adramelech spat on the blood and wine-soaked stones before proceeding to pace about the room. He wanted to go to the dungeons, to see for himself the wretched woman. For a young halfblood to hate its life enough to attempt rebellion was more than believable. Hell-children were downtrodden, persecuted and tormented by all races. Rightfully so; the despicable, awful things deserved no respect. Only the females had any use, and that was limited to providing pleasure. But to think Fate thought one of those deplorable creatures might actually defeat him? "HA!" He scoffed, causing the human woman to flinch. His ears went back, flattening against his head. Fate was losing it. "No damn Hell-Child is going to defeat me. Especially not the offspring of that filthy fucking WHORE!" His shout turned into a ferocious roar.

  The thought of Lily of the Snow both enraged and aroused him. In the same way he experienced phantom pains, his body "reacted" to the memory of the Ice-Daemon Priestess; hungering for her, longing to experience her again, with a thirst that could not be quenched by drink alone. He returned to his throne, closing his eyes and picturing the woman he so desired. The way she struggled and fought, determined to escape him; The tears and hatred in her eyes when he took what he wanted. Even on the night she had escaped the dungeon and attacked him, her beauty and strength were captivating.

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  That was when he knew she was the one who would provide his true heir. And he had been correct, Stolas was exceptionally powerful. Fortunately, he had found a cure for the curse the Primordials had placed on him, as temporary as it was. At least the remedy had been enjoyable. Ipos's icy, shimmering blood was like drinking liquified moonlight. Adramelech nearly drooled, remembering the exquisite taste of the demi-god's lifeblood. After Ipos had escaped, he considered calling Ayperos to the castle to drain him. Ultimately, he decided that consuming the blood of his own son would be a poor look, especially if he wound up killing him in the process.

  And it was not as if he planned on needing an heir. Thanks to Lilith, he had been able to obtain a piece of fruit from the Tree of Life. That was back when she was still obedient and easily manipulated. He would need to acquire another, eventually, but the first had extended his life considerably and increased his power exponentially. Still, the blood of the dream-walkers tasted divine, and he would not mind consuming it again. Even if a cure for the curse no longer did him any good.

  "Intruder!" A messenger scout burst into the room, shouting at the top of his lungs. “We’re under attack!” The Royal Guards drew their weapons, circling the king defensively. With the rising confusion, the maid quietly snuck away, leaving the demons to figure everything out.

  “Do we know how many?” The head guard asked. When the messenger shook his head, the head guard ordered him to find out. "Incompetent scouts," He huffed, "coming in here with incomplete information."

  The assassination attempts were getting old. Everything was getting old. Adramelech could not remember the last time he felt true excitement. He wondered if he should have the Elemental-Daemons create some entertainment. A massive earthquake or monsoon, perhaps. A disastrous, high-casualty event might alleviate the boredom. Maybe a famine. Looking down at the blood-soaked stones, he grimaced. Without Beelzebub, controlling a food scarcity would be nigh impossible.

  Adramelech clenched his fists. All of his children had betrayed him; Such a wretched inconvenience. Forging any natural disasters would prove challenging until he could at least replace the horsemen. He would need to take the other three alive to transfer their powers to more loyal demons. The spell for such a transfer required the recipient to have at least as much essence as the original possessor. At least two or three Grand Dukes would need to be sacrificed to transfer Merihim's power to another. Closer to four or five for Asmoday. Eurynome would be more complicated than a simple sacrificial spell, as he would need to find a loyal Reaper-Daemon. He could always keep Eurynome in the dungeon until he found a young one he could manipulate. The whole thing was going to be a logistical nightmare.

  The messenger scout returned, breathless and bloody, but it did not seem like the blood was his own. “There is just one." Adramelech's ears perked up. This was new. Usually, there were at least a few; most often, more than a dozen. "But I’ve never seen anything like it. She is doing nothing to stay hidden, and slaughtering everyone in her path.” The fear in the scout's voice told a glaring tale.

  'A woman?' The last female who had dared to invade his domain was Snow Lily. If this one was just as daring, just as strong, just as beautiful... The king salivated. “Tell me everything you know.” Adramelech stamped his hoof, the suspense eating away at him.

  “The attacks started in the dungeons, Your Majesty. Cell eight. It appears Moloch and Cimeies were the first victims.”

  'Snow Lily's daughter,' he stroked his goatee. 'So it is time.' Adramelech smiled as he thought of killing the daughter of the woman who maimed him. "Guards, I will be going to the rooftop. The sunset over my capital city will be a perfect scene to accompany my impending victory over Fate's little plaything.”