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old he was-several hundred years, at least. And he was as ornamental as he was witty: graceful as a cat,
pale-skinned, dark of hair, with a thin, sculptured face. Only his eyes gave him away for what he was;
there was no mistaking the eyes of a demon for anything else. They were a peculiar color: an odd dark
red, with golden flecks, like gold-dust floating in rich, unwatered wine-and the human looking into them
suddenly felt the weight of every year of his many centuries.
In fact, a human looking into them too long stood a chance of becoming mesmerized by them. That was
one of the many powers that demons possessed, powers they were sworn not to use against the women
of Mazonia, although they were perfectly free to exercise them at the expense of the freedmen. The
demons who swore their oaths to the Queen had a great deal of commerce among the freedmen. They
often acted as the Queen's agents in trading outside the borders.
The demons were useful in other ways, such as supplying lifelike female surrogates: a kind of conjured,
animated doll, as an outlet for men's primitive urges. Adria had a shrewd idea that a great many of these
surrogates bore her face and the faces of other prominent Mazonites. It didn't matter. Whatever the
freedmen got into within the walls of their private quarter made no difference to her rule. So long as no
one actually dared bring such indiscretions to her attention, she could afford to ignore them. It made the
freedmen content with the illusion that they were beyond her control.
Ware had never been anything but a pleasant guest with her, never alluding to any commerce he might
have with the freedmen, never being the least insolent to her. Yet, despite the fact that he was as comely
as any of the men in her companion-quarters, the Queen felt no attraction for him. Coupling with a
demon was forbidden, anathema, the depth of depravity; the very idea made her nauseous. Adria would
sooner have coupled with her prize stallion.
"What are you thinking, you monster?" she asked him lightly. "What schemes are running through that
ancient head of yours?"
He steepled his hands in front of his chin. "That this is one who bids fair to follow in the footsteps of her
so-talented mother," he replied, just as lightly. But the look he sent her was one of warning. "Elibet was
a formidable warrior and magician, and she had her supporters, in her day."
Adria felt a cold finger of fear touch her. So Ware knew whom Xylina's mother was! Well, perhaps she
should have expected that. He had served her predecessor, and the Queen before her as well. But was he
warning her obliquely that Xylina might well challenge Adria's right to rule, as Elibet had been about to
do? His advice, when he tendered it, had always been good in the past.
If so, she should take heed of the warning, and do something to eliminate the girl before she got a good
idea of her own power, and where it could lead her.
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One of the arena-attendants intercepted Xylina as she headed blindly for the street. "My lady-" he said
urgently. "You must take this-" He thrust a small leather bag at her, one that jingled dully.
"This" proved to be a small bag of mixed coins, mostly copper, but more money than Xylina had
possessed for some time. But where had it come from? She hesitated to take it, looking at him with some
confusion. What would it mean if she accepted it? Could she get into some kind of trouble?
Once again, she longed with a feeling indistinguishable from pain for Marcus. Marcus would have
known what to do. He would have been able to advise her.
A deep, musical voice behind her gave her the answer she needed. "Those are gifts from the watchers,"
the unknown man said, with careful neutrality. "This is a kind of reward for a good and entertaining
match. Your supporters and admirers tossed coins out along with the flowers. Most of them are probably
real; it would be in very poor taste to throw conjured coin. I'm sure there are a few bits of conjured metal
in there, thrown by those who lost money in betting against you, but they will have no city stamp upon
them; they will simply be blank disks."
Xylina started, and turned to see who had spoken.
It was the slave she had fought, the one called Faro, who was now her property. In her shock, she had
forgotten that by defeating him and making him surrender to her, she had claimed him for her own. As,
it appeared, she could claim these coins.
"Ah-thank you," she said, taking them from the arena attendant, who scuttled off, relieved. She looked
back at Faro, wondering who had tossed this money-and if they could afford such gifts.
He seemed to read her mind. "Those who showered coins upon you were those who had bet for you to
win," he said, with no expression whatsoever. "Considering the odds, they profited well on your
performance."
She had heard some of the banter before the fight. Considering the odds, her benefactors could well have
afforded a small fortune!
She looked up and down the stone corridor, but the attendant slave had taken himself out of sight, and
there seemed to be no one else here at the moment. She looked back at Faro, who stood behind her as
impassively as any statue.
Obscurely, she wanted to apologize; she wanted to explain that she hadn't intended to win, that all she
had wanted was to make him angry enough to kill her quickly. But something had happened out there in
the arena; suddenly, some deeper instinct had taken over and made her fight to live instead. Before she
quite knew what had happened, she had won.
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