He appears in her cell as if he has always been there, carrying with him the scent of rotted lilies and the bear's rancid breath. She hates him for this, for his blatant mockery and enjoyment of her terror. Minette does not know him, or even of him, for her time in Beqanna has been short. All she knows is the aura of control and power and seduction that are wrapped around him like a cloak as he moves closer to her. Helpless rage floods through her veins.
“You may choose,” he says in a charade of magnanimity, “Fire, or ice? Pick now, or I’ll pick for you. And I doubt you’ll like my pick.”
Her eyes flash. Her ears prick forward. She forgets for a moment that she is captive.
“I choose ice.”
She does not hesitate. She is weary of her decisions being made for her, of her world being controlled by those who are stronger. With her words she fights to take back a small piece of what has been claimed from her.
She will not be allowed even this.
“No, little plaything.” the stallion purrs, circling her with cat-like grace. “I think fire would suit you better.”
Minette blanches, her illusion vanishing, all color rushing from her features. She has a deep dread of fire, of the crackling screams with which it purifies the earth. But he cannot know this. He cannot.
“But-” And here Minette tries to gather her courage, although the battle is already lost . “-you said for me to choose.”
“Ah, yes my pet, but I never said that the final decision would be yours.” His fathomless eyes meet hers, promising a world much deeper and darker than the one she has known. “Come now, don't you trust me?”
She bows her head and staggers forward, although she does not have any faith in him. What choice does she have? Like a lamb to slaughter she follows her captor. While others are dragged or tricked or spirited away, she finds that her hooves willingly betray her with each step they take.
Run, run, she thinks.
Wait, wait, says the darker, shadowy parts of her soul. Let us see what he will make of you.
She follows him through the darkness until he commands her to stop. Slithering, clanking things rush across the floor and caress her body. They move swiftly, tightening, wrapping, tripping her and dragging her to her side. She cannot get up, bound by living chains. Her cheek is pressed against a pile of cool, rough wood.
Her breath comes suddenly in short, quick gasps as she realizes where she is, the sacrilegious tableau in which she appears. She is a victim bound on the altar to the dark god. She knows with sudden clarity that she will live or die as it pleases him. Her life means nothing. So why is her terror mixed with unholy desire?
The flames begin slowly, with dancing embers blooming into crackling flames around her feet. The wood combusts with agonizing slowness, the flickering lights reflected in her horrified eyes.
Her hair burns first, a sickening sulfuric smell. Her skin peels away like the bark on a tree, revealing the fatty layer below. The flames feast on this eagerly. The grease from her body sizzles and pops, transforming her into a living candle. Her muscles dry out and contract, curling her body into unnatural shapes. Nothing is left untouched. Even her bones gain a patina of char.
She discovers that fire is torment but smoke is the killer. While her body screams in desperation, her eyes and throat are being ruined beyond reckoning by the toxic gas. She learns that agony is a word too small to describe her burning world. She finds that she has never before appreciated the absence of pain. She is gaining this knowledge too late.
Minette cannot understand why her life is not over., why this torture continues. She begs for death. She pleads with him for the end.
But death does not come to her because it is not His will. As the flames reluctantly retreat from their victim, she is little more than a living skeleton.
His voice comes to her then, softly, lover-like.
“Let us remake you, my pet.”
Her muscles regrow, stretching over her blackened bones. Her organs begin to knit themselves back together, covered by healthy tissue and a tributary of veins. Slowly her sight returns to her, and this too, is a kind of pain, as melted flesh heals and stretches to hide the damage that has been wrought at the command of the dark god. The agony of rebirth washes over her in waves.
She has surrendered, conquered and mastered. She is remade, unmarked, bearing no trace of her agony. But it will never truly leave her. With every step she takes and every intake of breath, the pieces of her body will feel as if they are burning.
He decides she is worthy, then, to carry his brand. He calls for his knife and a shadowy figure whose form is unknowable appears. It bears a jagged instrument dark with poison that keeps flesh from healing.
It is unaffected by her distress and carves her skin relentlessly. And oh, but it is exquisite torture, an almost unbearable pleasure after the extreme suffering of the altar. The knife edge digs deep into her skin, cutting jaggedly, tearing the newly made muscles apart and leaving behind a story. And always he is there, whispering wickedness into her ear and mocking her pain. She begs, but he only grins with a slow and lazy wickedness.
Finally the mark of the dark god is revealed, gracing her left haunch. It is an upward pointing triangle, the ancient alchemical sign for fire, wrapped around a single star.
“To remember me by, if you survive.” he says.
The chains release her. Minette staggers back to her cell, but she does not collapse. She stands, her body trembling, and hangs her head, shamed. For in her pain she has found the barest hint of pleasure and wonder and she prays that no one will know.
"I hate you." she dares to say. It feels childish, insignificant.
“No,” he says aloud, satisfied. “You don't.”
He speaks as if he knows her, as if her soul has been bared before his hungry gaze by the work of the fire. His eyes flash and his mouth curves into a smile as he leaves the cell of thorn and iron.