The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) by Martin Gibbs

took over, and he wondered how demons could be …at all. And to take over your mind? He shivered, imagining a snake sliding across his brain.
    “No, at least that is what I was taught,” the mage replied. “Demons inhabit the underworld, but are often summoned or consulted by warlocks. Some spells are drawn from demonic power. It is a dangerous game. Too dangerous for many.” He shrugged again. “Maybe that is why many go insane, or don’t bother with demons at all. You have to do so many things at once. Set the wards and set them tight. Then draw the demonic power, use it, then discard the demon, hoping it never left any of its essence inside your mind. Then withdraw the wards in the reverse order. It is quite a lot of work.” He rubbed his head, most likely remembering his University training.
    “My head hurts, too,” Qainur said softly.
    They rode in silence and eventually found an inn as dusk turned to twilight.
     
    * * *
     
    They remained in the common room through supper. No one spoke. They ate their roasted pheasant slowly, taking hesitant sips of mead, and absently tearing pieces of meat off the small bones of the roasted fowl. They chewed the meat out of instinct. Other patrons regarded them with a few odd looks one gets as a stranger in a small town, but shrugged and wrote them off as weary travelers. A wiry man played the sutan, and he played with amazing dexterity and ability—the travelers paid no mind.
    It wasn’t until they retired to their rooms that they felt comfortable discussing the day’s action.
    “I still don’t believe it,” Zhy said to the fire.
    “I don’t want to either,” replied Torplug. “I saw the demon fly past us, then turn. It could have been after us, or after something else. There are many women in these caravans…demons tend to fall for sins of the flesh.”
    Qainur mumbled something. He stared into the fire, hands wrapped around a half-full flagon of mead. It had been half-full for hours.
    Torplug continued. “It came back to me so fast. Light of M’Hzrut . A spell designed to work against demons. The scream you heard was a host body. Whoever it was had been practically dead the second the demon grabbed hold.”
    Qainur looked up and shook his head. “Where do you come up with these names?” he asked. “G’s and R’s and X’s and Z’s, and all that all just jumbled together.” His sudden change of the subject seemed both out of place and comforting at the same time.
    Torplug chuckled, assuming he was referring to the gherwza . “The ancient language of Welcfer is difficult. I even have trouble with it. There are different ways of speaking and writing, my friend. This town, for instance. What kind of a name is Duynton? It sounds like the sound a court jester would make when you jump on his testicles.”
    At that they all shared a laugh, eager to have an image different than of a blue fireball and a demonic bat. Each stared into the fire for some time, and although they had shared a brief moment of relief, the echo of a scream still reverberated in their minds.
     
    * * *
     
    Dawn was just beginning to break when Torplug sat bolt upright in bed. “The Temple of M’Hzrut!” he screamed, wiping sweat from his brow.
    His companions stirred, coming sleepily into consciousness. “What’s wrong?” Zhy asked, yawning hugely.
    “The Temple! The Temple! Of course!” He said the word temple as if were more important than an average village temple.
    “What temple?”
    “Far to the north, farther than Welcfer, near the top of the world is a temple –a small little temple, you have not heard of it? M’Hzrut?”
    Qainur yawned sleepily
    Torplug waited a few seconds, waiting for Zhy and Qainur to come awake. Neither seemed to recognize the name.
    “You have not read of it?” The small-man was still incredulous.
    “N-No, I have not…wait, a little. Temple of what?”
    “M’Hzrut!”
    “Savages! Do ever go to the temple for worship?”
    At this Zhy