Dangerous Magic by Sullivan Clarke Page A

devil's consort, I could just as easily make the claim about you."
    Reverend Fervor's black eyes narrowed in rage. "Hold you tongue, woman, lest I be tempted to cut if from your mouth."
    The words chilled Lark to the bone. The man did not look or sound as if he were making an idle threat.
    He stood then and began pacing back and forth in front of her, as if contemplating what to do. "It is most unusual to have a young woman admit to the crime of witchcraft," he said. "Usually they do so only after some persuasion."
    "If by persuasion, you mean torture, then yes, I suppose they do," said Lark. "But given that it seems your mind was made up before you even took me from the road, it would be folly for me to allow you to brutalize me for hours simply to extract what I can give you without the use of duress."
    She stared at him boldly. From the time she'd laid eyes on the Reverend Maximilian Fervor, she'd known that everything Colin had warned her about was true. He would do horrible things to her until she admitted who she was. She'd be sentenced to death, if she even made it that far. She was not ashamed of who she was or what she believed. Admitting it would buy her more time to figure out a way to escape before ultimate judgment was passed. And if it was, she would go to her fate with dignity. Unlike the villagers, Lark was not afraid of what lay beyond this life. She did not believe in the eternal torment that frightened the faithful into blind compliance. She knew no sooner would her soul leave the body than it would be back as someone - or something - else. Existence, in her belief system, was one endless loop of birth and rebirth, lessons and learning.
    She was studying his face now, and knew by the reverend's disappointed expression that he'd expected a fight. Lark looked down, trying to keep him from seeing the look of triumph in her eyes. But it was too late.
    Reverend Fervor stood and glowered down at her. For a moment he said nothing. And then his soft, deep voice broke the silence. "I'm not entirely convinced you are telling me the truth."
    Lark looked up at him, wondering at this change of tact.
    Fervor began pacing again, thoughtfully tapping the side of his angular face with one finger. "The devil loves nothing more than to corrupt innocent souls, and delights in playing games that lead to the damnation of the righteous. In light of your ready confession, child, it occurs to me that he might be afoot this very game with you. For after all, what could be more pleasing than to see a young woman of faith die with the unpardonable confession of witchcraft on her lips?"
    He walked back over to Lark and cupped her face in his large, cool hands, tipping her chin up so that she was forced to look at him. "If the devil is in you, child, the surest way to drive him away is to beat him out."
    "No..." Lark shook her head as the comprehension of his words sunk in and felt her terror deepen. Her now-obvious fear prompted not mercy in the face of the preacher, but a self-satisfied smirk.
    "No, please..." She hated to beg, but could not bring herself to stop as Fervor began deftly untying the knots that bound her. When the last one was loosed, she attempted to spring from her chair, only to have him grab her about the waist and hold her fast.
    "Surely you don't think such a slip of a thing as yourself can outmatch me?" he said.. When a sob caught in her throat, he reached out and stroked her face, his fingers tracing the path of a newly fallen tear. "Save your tears, child," he quietly into her ear. "You will need them for what is to come."
    His pulled her to the table then and pushed her back on it. Lark struggled as his hand began unlacing her bodice and cried out in frustration when it became apparent that she would not be able to free herself. Closing her eyes, she silently invoked the gods and goddesses of old for protection, and hopefully opened her eyes when Fervor halted in his efforts to remove her clothing. But her