She said, “Or, if you like the size of your new tongue, and still refuse me entrance, then I will send you to the underworld, where they fry old men like you over huge, smoking fires. Demons are fond of human tongue, I’ve heard.”
The old man cursed and choked on that big tongue of his, but the old gate swung open. She smiled at him and splayed her fingers in front of him. His tongue fit once again in his mouth.
“That was well done,” the prince said in her ear. “A creative use of a body part.” She felt his mouth suddenly touch her earlobe, lick, then bite gently. She squeaked.
“What is wrong, witch?”
She shook her head at old Debbin, who was pressing his palm over his mouth, and walked through the open gate. She stopped cold, heard the prince draw in his breath beside her, and heard the old man cursing under his breath. He was probably wishing her in the depths of Mawdoor’s dungeons, but he was afraid to curse more loudly, and of course Brecia knew it.
She cleared her throat and gave him a little wave.
The prince said in her ear, “If you are through performing your little tricks, we must get inside.”
She snorted.
“Or are you trying to impress me so that I will judge you to be worthy as my mate?”
“I wonder how you would look howling around a fat tongue, prince.”
“Don’t even think of trying that on me, Brecia. However, it was well done of you.”
They walked into a vast courtyard. There were no horses, no animals, no children, just old men and old women, shuffling with shoulders bowed, eyes to the ground, saying nothing at all.
“This is all very strange,” the prince said, and she heard the rustling of his clothes. “There is no magic in any of these people. There is only despair.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t feel anything coming from them. They are quite mortal. But they are all old. Why?”
He said nothing. She felt his hand under her elbow, leading her toward the immense black tower door.
“They cannot die because their misery keeps them alive. I remember my father telling me that he should have killed Mawdoor’s mother before she mated with a demon and birthed a black stain on all wizards. I wish that he had managed to rid the world of her, but he didn’t.” She could practically hear him frowning.
Brecia said, “Why not?”
“I believe Mawdoor’s mother talked him out of it, swore to him that her son would be pure of mind and heart.”
“And your father believed her.”
He nodded.
He realized that Brecia had stopped and was staring upward. She said, “I had believed my own tower to be the state of a witch’s art. But this?”
He laughed. “I can feel that he has spent many, many years constructing this fortress. It is designed to terrify both mortals and other wizards. He doesn’t feel your presence yet, Brecia, nor can he know I’m here with you.”
“How can you feel that, prince? How can you know what he knows? Mawdoor might be staring down on us right this minute, rubbing his hands together, deciding how to kill both of us.”
The prince said, “Brecia, if Mawdoor knew you were here, he would have this tower studded with gems to dazzle your witch’s eyes. He would fill this dank, barren courtyard with budding fruit trees and lovely blossoms to inflame your simple witch’s heart. He wants you, doesn’t he?”
She didn’t say anything, just kept walking toward the huge black door at the bottom of the tower.
The prince said, “If he guessed I was with you, he would have that door open onto a viper pit.”
“But you know such things fade quickly.”
“Aye, in the normal course of things, but with Mawdoor? I don’t know. There are tales, of course, about black deeds and blacker sacrifices.”
The huge black door flew inward before Brecia could open it.
Mawdoor stood there, staring down at her. He was tall, too tall for a man or a wizard, but that simple spell would fade as well. She craned her neck and said, “Hello, my lord.”