Frost by Robin W Bailey Page B

fear she had angered him. Quickly, smoothly she lied, “It is cunningly wrought by the most skilled craftsmen in Esgaria.” Her voice dropped a note, gently insistent. “Look at the blade."
    He grinned suddenly and seized the dagger's hilt. Perhaps it was some instinct that made him hesitate, and Frost squeezed the cell bars until her knuckles were white. Look at it , she willed, look at it .
    She clenched her eyes tight, hearing the faint scrape of the blade's edge as it moved on the inside of the sheath.
    And Demonfang came alive. The shrill screech of its hunger rattled the dungeon stones. The jailer's grin turned to terror as the unholy sound shook the roots of his dull soul.
    In fearful awe she watched the transformation that came on Orgolio. Fear flashed over his face; the need to kill burned in his small black eyes. The two emotions—terror and bloodlust—warred for possession of his body, a battle reflected in his contorting expressions.
    Then, he rose from the chair, gripped in the dagger's irresistible power. Unwilling, he took the keys from a peg on the wall and shambled toward her cell, fighting with every step the force that compelled him.
    A key grated in the lock.
    It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own . She gambled her life on that curse, steeled for a fight, and begged aid from all her gods.
    The cell door swung back. Orgolio stood silhouetted blackly in the dim light, and Demonfang shone in his fist like ice from Hell's deepest level and screamed like the souls imprisoned there.
    Warily, she backed to the center of the cell, allowing room to fight. The jailer was a giant, more than twice her size with a frighteningly long reach. She'd already lost one fight to him this night. She dared not lose this one. She took a breath, unconsciously held it and watched the eerie emotional changes that rippled on her opponent's face: confusion, terror, madness.
    A deep-throated cry joined with the dagger's shrieking as the giant lunged. She moved, a swift blur, leaped aside and chopped at the hand clutching Demonfang. The arcane blade screamed angrily as it clattered on the floor.
    Better than she had hoped, to disarm him so easily. She dived for the weapon, but Orgolio's massive weight smashed into her, sending her sprawling, the breath rushing from her lungs. Clambering to her feet, she whirled, prepared for attack—and froze.
    Demonfang gleamed once more in that huge fist. That infernal screaming intensified, resonated in the dungeon's confining places, assaulted her senses like a tangible foe. No one would hear it so far beneath the palace, or if someone did—well, it was a dungeon, after all; who would care if Orgolio played noisily? The cold wall pressed her back. The possessed jailer leered, extended his apish arms in a wide, menacing semicircle as he advanced. Run, dodge or leap—she would never make it past those grasping limbs. The blade's insistent, thirsty cries rang in her ears until she feared for her sanity.
    His right arm dropped; the dagger swung upward. A desperate cry—reflexively, she caught the driving wrist in both hands, halting death's point mere inches from her vitals.
    A short moment they pitted strength against strength, but Frost had the advantage of leverage. The jailer roared; with his free hand he swung viciously at her face, and the force of the blow made her head ring. Still, she would not release the captured wrist. She anticipated his next swing, ducked it, and kicked him in the groin with all her might. In the fat sockets his eyes rolled wide with pain that doubled him over. She sidestepped, grabbing his neck, the belt of his trousers, and the stone wall fairly shivered as she smashed him headlong into it. Not stopping to judge the result, she sped into the corridor, slamming the door.
    The key was not in the lock. Possibly Orgolio had carried it into the cell. Frantically, she glanced through the barred window. Her opponent