Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [87]
“What was that?” he whispered. He didn’t expect an answer, so much as he needed to test his voice. To his surprise the words indeed sounded, though he distinctly remembered his vocal cords having burned to bloody ribbons at least twice.
“Did you think the transition would be easy?” a voice from behind him asked. The hands that were gripping him released him, and a wave of panic nearly overcame him at the sudden loss of contact. There was no doubt in his mind that without Karril’s touch he would have been lost in that pain forever. A numbing fear grew in him, that perhaps he had indeed taken on more than he could handle this time. If that was just the gateway to Hell, what lay beyond?
And then he grew aware of the voice that had spoken. Not Karril‘s, nor anything like it. A more musical voice, higher-pitched, that was painfully but indefinably familiar. He turned around suddenly, so focused on the source of that voice that he hardly saw the surreal landscape surrounding it.
It was Rasya. No, not Rasya exactly. It was a woman of Rasya’s height and coloring and general form: sun-baked bronze skin, short-cropped platinum hair, long, lean limbs with capable muscles playing visibly beneath. But the face was different, and the clothing also, and this woman’s eyes were so like Karril’s that he shivered to see them set in a body so like that of his lost lover.
“Why?” he gasped. The stink of sulfur was stronger now, and it was getting difficult to breathe. It was hard to say whether anger or mourning played louder in his voice as he demanded, “Why, Karril?”
“My life is on the line here, too,” he said. She said. “And I can’t change form in this place, any more than you can. I needed a body that would be strong, enduring, and versatile. Given your orientation, it had to be female. Given your memories....” The woman shrugged stiffly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch the mourning until it was too late. I meant no disrespect.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, painfully aware of the heat that was baking through his boot soles. “Do you expect some kind of response from me?” he whispered hoarsely. “Is that what this is about?”
“If I required that to survive, would you be so quick to deny me?” She reached forward and took Damien’s hand again, in a grip more reassuring than affectionate. “Like you, I try to keep all options open.” She pulled his hand, gently but firmly, forcing him to move. “Come on. Time matters.”
He forced himself to look away from her, toward the bizarre landscape that surrounded them. The land all about was black and glassy, and it smoked with a heat that made the very air shimmer. Overhead a sun blazed, not the wholesome white star of Erna but a bloated yellow shape that sent streamers of flame down almost to the landscape, sparking explosions which in turn sent gouts of lava spouting into the air. The sky surrounding it was as dark as night, as were the shadows its harsh light etched upon the landscape. Beneath his feet the ground seemed to tremble, and as he watched, it cracked not ten feet to the right of him, revealing a glowing red subsurface.
“Damn,” he breathed.
“What?”
“Too vulking realistic for my taste.” He glanced toward the demon, then quickly away. “Which way’s out?”
“Out’s the way we came. Which route I will gladly point out to you, whenever you’ve had enough. As for what we came here to do ...” She looked out over the landscape, and at last indicated a direction. Thank God, it was away from the crack. “That way, I think.”
“You think?”
“This isn’t my realm,” Karril said testily. “I wonder if it would even exist without your Church doing constant publicity for it. Come on.”
He needed no urging to move, and he moved quickly. He had been in a place like this once and had almost gotten killed, and that was just on its border. How much of the black rock beneath them was solid, and how