21. Some People's Idea of Fun

"We're still connected at the shoulders," Séa whispered, "but our legs are free."

"Right," Tash whispered back. "If they look closely, they'll figure it out quick, so let's keep them distracted."

"Uh. What? How?"

"Séa. Think dirty for once. Come on to them. Tease them. Make their blood to flow into their crotches instead of their brains."

"That's disgusting." Séa's nose crinkled. She glanced at Tash's resolute face, then exhaled in defeat. "Great Endurer, sustain me in this trial."

The two incubi strutted down the gentle slope of smooth stone toward the cages. The drider clicked behind them on eight articulated exoskeletal legs, burdened with a large bale of hay. The bale formed a hump on the back of the humanoid portion of its anatomy. Oxter whirled a ring of keys around his index finger. "We're back, ladies! And I find that I'm remiss. Proper introductions were never made! I'm Oxter, the inviting incubus, voted fastest tongue in the entire sex apprentice crucible."

Fazzet scoffed. "Inviting? Ignore-the-incubus, more like."

"Sarophax said we would like you," Tash lied, with an artful dash of uncertainty peppered on top.

The drider closed his eyes as if suffering a splitting headache. Over Oxter's shoulder, the other brilliantly-handsome incubus purred, "I'm Fazzet, and I'll be your favorite. Wait and see. Get the cage open, Oxter. I'm about bursting out of my leathers down there. I thought Sarophax hated us. She does hate us." His eyes widened with dawning realization. "There must be so many good-looking women in the material plane that she tossed us a pair anyway."

Séa strained until she could force words past her clenched teeth. "We want you, um, in us."

Tash jumped in, "You're both my favorite. You'll be gentle with us?"

"Sting me purple," Oxter babbled, "I'm so excited I can't even ... there! Lock open. Happy, Fazzet?"

The drider dumped his bale of hay at Fazzet's feet. "I can't stand this. I'm leaving. If you need me, I'll be curled up inside a wine keg." With a mixture of nobility and petulance, the drider threw his head high. His pumping legs danced him in a circle, then propelled him toward the exit.

Fazzet slapped Oxter on the back. "Happy and getting happier. Help me with the hay."

"Straw," Oxter rebutted as he swiveled to face the bale that Netherlue had dropped.

"You bloody pustule," Fazzet growled.

"Tiny nipple-knob," his twin shot back.

The moment the incubus eyes focused on the hay bale, the women inside the cage galvanized. Trailing webs like silent ghosts, the women curled forward and rolled to their feet. Still webbed together across their chests, they crept in tandem. The iron cork-punch machine trailed from Séa's left hand, glued in place by spider silk. A full bottle of wine dangled from the rogue's right hand.

Tash pushed the cage door. To her chagrin, it squeaked, shattering their momentary advantage.

Bewilderment clouded the chiseled faces of the incubi as they swiveled. Fazzet protested in conversational tones, "No, get back." But the web-draped women accelerated forward.

Upon belated detection of aggression, the incubi reached for the sabers at their belts.

Tash beat Fazzet to his own weapon. Instead of a hilt, he put hand to a sliding, slicing steel edge. With a grunt of effort, Séa swung the cork-punch. Its iron corner connected with Fazzet's head. Bone crunched and bright blood sprayed. His feet left the earth and his body arced to the side as if composed of bags of sand.

"Why are—?" Oxter bleated. He crossed blades with Tash in a lightning thrust, parry, and riposte. Séa trumpeted, "Torugg aid me!" and smashed Fazzet's skull between cork-punch and rock floor. The brutal blow reshaped the demon's head. Gore splashed outwards to paint a shiny crimson asterisk on the smooth floor.

A stone's throw away, a basso voice howled, "Motherspittle!" Blade feet scrabbled on the slick floor.

Because of their sticky connection, Séa's lunge pulled Tash away from Oxter for a moment. The incubus snarled with equal parts fear and rage. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and his skin darkened. His eyes burned red, and claws extended from the ends of his fingers.

Faintly, Ophelle sobbed, "Oh, gods, no."

Beatific peace settled over the paladin's face. "I smite thee—"

Tash hurtled herself at Oxter. He raised his saber in defense, but the rogue bounced back as the sticky strands that connected her to Séa stretched. The next instant, Séa bounced forward.

"—demon." Milking the extra momentum inherited from Tash, the paladin drove an overhead smash toward Oxter's head. He whipped his saber high to block, but the red-dripping wedge of iron snapped through the thin blade. Shining shards spun away as Séa buried the quadrilateral hunk of iron in her second head in as many heartbeats of time.

The transformed demon tottered in place. Blood from the horrific wound covered his blazing eyes and fountained droplets into the air. A delighted laugh burbled from Séa's lips.

Tash slid her stolen saber between them and sawed at the webs that connected her to Séa. A few strands parted, but not enough. And not soon enough. The clackity-clack of drider feet crescendoed.

22. A Drider's Battle

Netherlue loved to brawl. As for Oxter and Fazzet, the sight of incubus bloodspatter filled the drider with unholy joy. The naked women had downed Fazzet. Oxter appeared addled and blinded. What wimps. The scent of delectably edible flesh added to his giddy rush of ebullience. The skinny woman had taken Fazzet's saber and the one with the big thighs carried a squared-off iron club. Otherwise, they were completely naked and vulnerable.

To bully came naturally to the drider, and to pounce was his favorite intimidation tactic. With a open-mouthed grin of feral delight, he sprang into the air. "Wolf spider!" he bellowed. The sight of a massive drider in mid-air and hurtling down never failed to terrify.

But only the half-dead woman in the cage screamed, and she wasn't even the target.

Netherlue clustered his chitin-bladed feet to land on the naked women. The devastation he wreaked should take any remaining fight out of them. Blood would flow, and the drider salivated. It would be too much meat to consume at one sitting.

His two eyes, atop his elven head, were inferior to the normal ten a spider possessed. His body blocked his vision at the moment of impact. One of his legs sliced into something soft, but most of them missed and skittered on the smooth floor. Heavy glass broke. Pungent wine burst like a grenade, splattering Netherlue's underside with cool liquid.

A sharp crack rang out, and an unsettling shock vibrated up number-one-right leg. A wave of searing pain followed and number-one-right gave out.

With a flash of panic, the drider reversed his leap. An unsettling twinge tickled number-two-left's foot as he left the ground. When he landed, number-two-left also failed to support its share of his weight.

A bitter snarl ripped from his throat, and he yanked both scimitars from his chest belts and brandished them. The women picked themselves up out of the puddle of wine. Wine, demon blood, dirt, and spider silk covered them. Underneath the grime, they bore no obvious injury. Why were they uninjured? What had Netherlue's foot sliced, if not flesh?

The brown-skinned one with pointed ears murmured a few words into her taller companion's ears, and then limped to one side. Oh! The two had separated. Netherlue must have sliced through the web strands that bound them together.

The pale one with the thighs bared her teeth. "Come get me, you aberration." She brandished her lump of metal.

Netherlue might have laughed at the pitiful display, but the pain in number-one-left had obliterated his bravado. He narrowed his red eyes and scuttled closer, twin scimitars at the ready. The drider held every advantage: height, mass, weaponry, natural armor, and reach.

"Suicidal minx," Netherlue spat. She appeared to be the only threat. The drider scuttled close and swung both scimitars. One clanged against the iron lump so sharply that the edge gained a wide notch. But no fighter can parry two weapons with one. The pale woman caught the edge of his second scimitar with her chest.

Netherlue's crow of triumph died on his lips. Instead of slicing deep into her meat and bone, the scimitar bounced off his own web of spider silk. The slice left a paltry red track of blood across her skin instead of bisecting her as he had planned.

She riposted. With a snap, pain lanced through his left wrist and his scimitar bounced away.

A primal scream ripped from his throat and he swung and swung and swung at the pale woman. But she bounced away from his reach and parried when she needed to, adding more dents to his sole remaining blade.

Belatedly, it occurred to Netherlue to question why her strategy had switched from attack to defense.

In answer, bare feet softly alit on top of his abdomen.

A/N: I guess that's what the oldsters call the tramp of doom.

*

ONC recommendation: Enjoy this fantasy tale from aj_ortega :

A lonely boy named Angelio encounters a gateway in the forest to the enchanted world of Realania. There, he's promised a solution to his problem in the human world -- but all is not what it seems.