Demon Angel

subjected her to now, as if he were trying to probe her mind's darkest recesses.
    "Is it thus Below?"
    She searched his eyes, but could not see the purpose behind the question. No reason not to answer, though. "In part. Rivers and lakes aflame." She waved her hand toward the Thames. "But our cities do not burn. Nor are they constructed of wood, and infested with a plague-ridden population. Perhaps," she mused, "this destruction will be of some benefit; purify the city of that which keeps it corrupted, diseased." She raised her amused gaze to his. "Below, we are the plague, and cannot be purified by fire."
    He did not laugh. "Aye, it might release it from corruption. But at what cost?"
    Acrid air filled her lungs as she drew a sharp breath. Did he ever think of aught but saving her? She pretended to misunderstand him. "The cost will not be dear; how many did you and your students save this night? When they make a history of these days, will it not be with amazement that more did not perish?"
    "I saw you carrying children from their homes," he said quietly.
    Grateful for her red skin and the orange glow of the fire that hid her embarrassment, she grinned and said, "It is difficult to tempt people who are not living. I fully intend to return later, and lead them to eternal damnation." Pursing her lips, she added, "Only do not tell Lucifer. He will not like that explanation, and would have preferred death and grief. I do not think he would consider it a service."
    He shook his head. "I imagine not. Why do you still serve him?"
    The question and the powerful thrust of his Gift took her unawares; she dug her claws into the buttress and held herself still. But his attack struck when her resistance was low, and she could not stop the words from tumbling from her mouth. "I am bound by my bargain."
    He froze. "A bargain?"
    "Yes," she hissed. Her sword glinted in her hand. "I will kill you if you do that again."
    His lips tilted, but the smile held no warmth. "You will try. Why do you need a bargain to serve?"
    Again that wave of power; she was prepared and leapt forward. His blade met hers, but he never halted the flow of his Gift. Impossible to fight and resist it—it was likely what he'd planned, to provoke her so that she was so busy with her weapon she could guard neither her mind nor her tongue.
    Only him—why did he have to be Gifted with truth, the one thing that could destroy her? She had to hide it even from herself; if she failed in her bargain, her Punishment would be more terrible than any Lucifer had given her before. And it would be an eternal Punishment, not simply a hundred and fifty years of torture.
    She transferred her strength to her shields, and fell.
    His body was heavy atop hers as he held her down on the steep roof, his sword at her throat. His Gift smashed into her mental defenses, and she gasped as she felt them begin to crumble. No, no . She lifted her hips, trying to dislodge, trying to arouse—but there was no hardness in him except of muscle and bone.
    There hadn't been since he'd become a Guardian—since she'd been able to test through the flimsy barrier of his monk's robe. Why would there be, now that he knew what it meant to be a demon? Yet still she tried to distract him with touch; once, it had been his weapon against her—but with his Gift, one he no longer needed.
    "Tell me. The others put him on the throne Below, swore their fealty. But you say you were never an angel—that, like the hellhounds, Lucifer created you; you should have no obligation to serve. Yet you do."
    Her scream was of anger and fear. Desperation. She called in her heaviest sword. It was impossible to bring it from her cache directly into another body, or anywhere but empty space—she had to hold it separate from other objects. Yet she could place it a hundred feet into the air, directly above him.
    Any lower and it would not have enough force from the fall. It would likely pin them together in death, but she would be fighting… if she did not fight it would be a betrayal of her service.
    He must have heard the whistle of air across the sharpened blade; he rolled, taking her with him. Not fast enough; it sliced her side as it embedded deep into the softening roof.
    His face whitened beneath the mask of soot, his skin drawing tight. His left hand still pinned her wrists, but he vanished his sword to staunch the flow of blood with his right. "Lilith?"
    She laughed, though the metallic scent filled her lungs and