Adammair Walker

Adam regarded the bit of dried skin, still folded in the bit of silken bandage where Alraune had laid it.

His back still stung where she had cut him, her hand steady but her disapproval plain.

It had been a wild hope, that he might trade mere gold for protection, or even trade some service that did not involve an open-ended contract with a wicked master. All the man had asked for was a bit of his hair, and Alraune’s, but even a fool would know that such a price meant servitude, so refusal had been easy.

How foolish did the man think him?

Alraune said it best – “Why trade one master for another?”

At least Adam knew the demon, and some of its gifts were far from unpleasant. Bondage to the craftsman who had offered to make him a talisman against possession might involve any number of unknown perils and indignities for both Adam and Alraune.

So Adam had gathered the ingredients for nothing, suffered the knife to no purpose.

He regarded the skin, dried and curling, the white line of runic scar more distinct now in the black, dried crust of blood, almost radiant, and then he tossed it into the fireplace.

His back twinged and he wondered if, somewhere in Darkness, the demon felt the flames as well.

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