Succubus Summoning 209

Phil's heart continued to thud loudly in his chest. He had a horrible feeling they expected him to fight something and he felt woefully unprepared. Wargsnouts students were strictly forbidden from engaging in magical duels until their fifth year.

A heavy black portcullis slammed down behind him and Phil jumped. Well that was that. Definitely no running away now.

Nÿte emerged on the other side of the arena. She was not alone. Walking next to her was a daemon that was half human and half spider. A naked, pale-skinned female torso rose up out of a black bulbous abdomen. She walked on eight spindly legs.

Phil recognised her.

Fuck L'mactia.

* * * *

This was so gay, Jack Stone thought.

He looked around and saw he was surrounded by lush, verdant jungle. Vast trees rose up into the sky. Long creepers dangled from their branches. Exotic blooms exploded all around him in a profusion of riotous colours.

Some would have been awed by the spectacle. Not Stone. He hated the outdoors. It was wet, smelly and icky.

No, he'd rather he was back in his room playing Xbox and sharing a fat roach with his righteous buddy, the Pholi Xonz.

He wished Joey and Herbie hadn't been so quick to agree with Darvill. He hadn't wanted to go through the portal—busting into hell, fuck that crazy shit—but once the others had said yes he didn't want to be the odd one out.

Where were they anyway? Where was this?

Stone had expected the Circle of Lust to be like the set of an expensive porno—big beds, soft divans, perfumed cushions, gauzy silk curtains blowing in a sultry breeze. He hadn't expected to end up in some fucking reeking jungle. Maybe all this plant growth was a representation of fecundity or some other shit like that.

Stone didn't like it.

Something must have gone wrong. Maybe Darvill had screwed up. They must have gotten separated after passing through the door in Rowling's room.

"Where now, buddy?" he asked his righteous buddy, the Pholi Xonz.

The hairy slothxren pointed in the direction of a narrow trail winding through the massive trees.

Stone sighed. He hoped the others hadn't been ported too far away. He hated walking. As he walked down the overgrown trail he decided the smell of the jungle wasn't as horrible as he first thought. There was an earthy, musky taint to the air that made his balls itch pleasantly.

* * * *

L'mactia was the arachne that had attacked Phil in the showers at Wargsnouts. She recognised him and also looked surprised to see him there.

Nÿte had her on a leash. It was attached to a black collar L'mactia wore around her pale neck. The collar was the only thing she wore—the rest of her upper body was totally naked. Her skin was unnaturally pale and possessed a bluish tinge that marked her out as a creature more at home in the dark cracks between realities. As with the other succubi, her upper half was as generously proportioned as a typical glamour model—slim at the waist, voluptuous at the chest. She had the high cheekbones and sensual lips of a gothic beauty. Three pairs of red orbs adorned her forehead and temples. They could have been mistaken for body jewellery, but Phil knew they were additional eyes.

What was she doing here?

Surely they didn't expect him to fight her. Arachnes weren't an approved summon until at least the fifth year. Later even than succubi.

Nÿte addressed the audience like a circus ringmaster announcing the next act.

"This is the lowly daemon that ambushed Master from the darkness and nearly took his life and soul. We bring her here and present her to him, to deal with as he deems fit."

Phil didn't think it was going to work out that way. More likely they'd just given the daemon a second opportunity to finish the job.

Nÿte unhooked the leash and whispered something in the arachne's ear. Then she opened her great black wings and flew up to the top row of seating to join Verdé and the others.

That left Phil alone in the ring . . . with L'mactia.

"You're still alive," L'mactia said. Her blood-red lips curled up in a smile.

Phil watched the spider daemon warily. He tried to remember what he knew about them. They hadn't been covered in his usual studies, but he remembered seeing them in one of the bestiaries of lust daemons he'd flicked through with Jake.

"What kind of pervert would summon one of them for sex?" Jake had joked as they'd looked at the pictures. It wasn't the most helpful of memories.

"I thought I'd left you dead for sure," L'mactia said.

Even though she'd been captured and brought here against her will, she still regarded Phil with amusement, as if he was nothing more than an entertaining little diversion.

She shrugged. "I did warn her that such things were not precise, that it would be better to let me suck and suck until nothing was left of you but a pretty little shell, but she was most insistent on the matter. I did not think much of her, in truth. She was not as skilled as she believed herself to be."

As she rolled her tongue around suck Phil felt a traitorous throb of interest in his crotch. L'mactia sensed it too. Her full lips came together in a seductive pout.

"I think you want me to take another suck," she teased.

She tensed as if about to pounce and Phil instinctively jumped backwards, almost losing his balance in the process.

L'mactia laughed. "So skittish. I know your cock wants it. It wants to be buried in my softest, wettest silk while my abdomen sucks and sucks and sucks."

Her bloated black abdomen pulsed obscenely. Sticky white liquid dripped from the tip and puddled on the floor.

Phil's traitorous penis bulged out in an erection. It remembered and wanted more. Phil tried to push the distraction out of his mind.

L'mactia sensed the conflict and laughed.

"Mmm, let me prepare some really soft silk for you. She sucked on a finger while her abdomen throbbed with lewd intent.

Phil threw a fireball at her.

L'mactia formed a circular shield of energy and swatted the fireball away.

"Feisty." She smiled.

Phil just about had time to summon an anti-daemon shield before L'mactia was on him. Or rather, all over him. Or at least would have been if it hadn't been for his shield. She wrapped her long black legs around it and reared up over him. He felt the pressure of her body around his protective sphere transmuted to an invisible force pressing down on his skull.

"I don't know what they thought they were achieving by bringing me here," L'mactia said. "You're barely a novice. This shield is about as useful as a soap bubble."

She placed a hand flat against Phil's protective sphere.

"Dakshel exnida tanja vaarsta Magique."

Phil's shield dissipated as L'mactia dismissed it. At the same time the tip of her bulbous abdomen flicked forwards and sprayed a thin stream of fine silk. Her webbing found the gap in Phil's robes and adhered to his crotch and inner thighs.

He really needed to steal a pair of underpants.

L'mactia flexed her abdomen back and Phil was yanked off his feet. She dragged him beneath her body. He looked up between the half-moon globes of her pendulous breasts and saw her smile triumphantly.

"There will be no revenge for you today," she said.

Her abdomen quivered obscenely before spitting out a thick glob of webbing that glued Phil to the floor.

"Or maybe that was never the intention," L'mactia said. "Maybe you enjoyed the taste of my silky pleasures so much you wanted more."

She reached back and rubbed her slowly throbbing abdomen.

"Very well, I'll give you some of my special silk."

Phil heard a lewd sound like thick cream bubbling out of a nozzle. He felt a warm substance envelop his erection. He felt his penis jerk as the spider daemon bobbed her abdomen up and down. She manipulated Phil's cock with threads of silk like a master puppeteer, causing a surge of blood and pleasure to rush to his crotch. He tried to think of a way to escape this predicament, but L'mactia's expert tugs kept breaking his concentration until his breath became ragged and exited his mouth in low pants.

"This time there are no special clauses," L'mactia. "No interruptions to disturb our pleasure."

Her abdomen dropped lower. Two chitinous plates at the front of her body—where her human half met her arachnid half, and where the vagina would be on a normal woman—slid open and her labia, puffy and swollen, emerged. The strong musk of her arousal flowed out and covered Phil's face like a smothering pillow.

"My kind's reputation for cruelty is undeserved," L'mactia said. "Your end will be a sweet one. I'll bury your face in my luscious pussy while I drain you."

The wet silk entwined around Phil's cock changed, became a tube of pulsing dark energy. It stroked up and down his erection, gently coaxing his own energy out. Phil shivered as unearthly pleasures pulled at him. All the tension had fled his body. He felt like he was floating on a bubble.

Overhead he watched Verdé fly through a sky the colour of aroused flesh. Her wings flapped, carrying her away from the arena. Phil didn't blame her. He hadn't put up much of a fight.

L'mactia bent her legs and lowered her body down on him. Her labia, puffed up like soft cushions, quivered in excitement. Her abdomen expanded as she inhaled his energy. L'mactia gave a low sigh of pleasure . . .

. . . which was cut off with a harsh exhalation of surprise. She staggered. The connection between them was broken. Freed of the soporific weight bearing down on his mind, the cogs and gears of Phil's brain clicked into life.

"Immolatum nida Flambastinaai!"

A nimbus of fire surrounded him and ignited the webbing in an explosion that knocked L'mactia aside. The restraining silk burnt away and, free now, Phil rolled away. As he stood up he realised he was still on fire, although he felt no heat or any kind of burning sensation.

Wow, this was so cool, he thought, looking at the flames flickering over his arms like busy snakes. This was magic. This was what he'd wanted ever since Recruiting Officer Garner had given him that demonstration behind the McRestaurant.

No time to bask in the elation. He still had the spider daemon to worry about. He'd caught her in the explosion. Patches of pale skin on her right side were blackened and singed. It was little more than a scratch for her. The burnt patches of skin were already healing and fading away.

"Gladucx nidafacii Flambastinaai."

He focused on the flames flickering over his arms and willed them to form a sword.

Super cool. Unfortunately, L'mactia had backed off to the rear of the arena and was preparing magic of her own. She recited words Phil tried to pluck from the air, but these were too alien, too quixotic. They slithered through the grasping fingers of his mind and were gone. What they left behind was far more frightful.

"You could have had such a pleasant end," she said.

A ball of dark energy formed in her palm and swelled up. It hit football size and grew further still. Green light, the colour of pus from a septic wound, flickered within the roiling ball of shadow. A horrible, overwhelming sense of determination emanated from the ball. Phil got the impression it was sentient. And hate-filled, so malevolently hate-filled. The ball wanted to smash him from existence and Phil sensed that even if he was able to get out of its way the ball would simply change course and continue to follow him. It would chase and follow him and not stop until it had utterly obliterated him.

What now?

It didn't matter. On the verge of completing the spell, L'mactia staggered as if hurt and cried out in pain and frustration. Her loss of concentration had disrupted the summoning and the ball of blistering dark energy evaporated before it could fully manifest in this plane.

Phil didn't know what had caused her lapse, but he knew he had to take advantage. He charged . . .

. . . and was nearly decapitated by one of her lashing legs.

Stupid. Reckless.

He had to limbo beneath the scything limb, but in the process lost balance and tumbled on his ass. Fuck, now he was totally open.

L'mactia didn't take advantage, instead retreating along the curve of the arena wall. Phil got back to his feet and was surprised to find himself in the role of aggressor. He advanced and L'mactia backed away. Could it be fear of the flames? Rosa said they were vulnerable to fire.

Another clumsy swing—sword-fighting was much harder than how it looked in the swashbuckling films—gave L'mactia opportunity to put more distance between them. She twisted her abdomen and squirted a thick strand of gooey silk at him.

Phil moved his hand in a circular motion. "Shelduk nidafacii Flambastinaai." The living flame swirled and formed a shield in front of him. The strands of silk hit the flickering flames and burnt away in harmless sprays of ash.

He threw fireballs at L'mactia with no success. She moved in a skittering stop-start manner that made it difficult to track her movements or predict where she'd be at any one moment. At best his fire kept her on the defensive, but for how long.

He was conscious his internal temperature was rising as he allowed more living flames through the portal he'd opened in his soul.

Burn her! the flames cried as they flowed out of his core and raced through his veins.

Set her on fire! Set everything on fire! Phil remembered Rosa's words. Summon too much flame and the warlock would be consumed by it—roasted and blackened like a chunk of charcoal. He sensed that moment was approaching. The flames wailed their frustration as Phil slowed their flow to a trickle. The fire raging all over his body died right down. No more fireballs for him. He'd have to finish this with sword and shield.

L'mactia continued to keep her distance. Why wasn't she attacking? Or using magic?

Phil was happy to get a break from her attacking. It was stalemate though. She was too fast and agile for him to get close to and she seemed reluctant to push the fight to him. Unfortunately, he suspected the stalemate would last only until he was forced to put out the flame completely. He needed to do something before then.

If only he could get her to stay still.

Then he remembered Verdé's parting advice.

He went for another attack, but this one was a feint. While L'mactia dodged backwards he took the opportunity to crouch down and lay a hand flat on the sandy floor. Yes, he could hear it, feel it moving beneath him in the ground.

"Ĝiškimiti za bursaĝ ul Urpâdu ni Guberim li Išduum Qištu," he called out to it.

L'mactia cried out in shock and surprise as green tendrils erupted from the sand beneath her and tangled around her legs and abdomen. She was yanked to the floor and bound by tangling roots. She bucked and swayed as she tried to pull her body free. Now there was fear in her eyes as she saw Phil approach.

"Sheldak nida Magique."

An anti-magic shield surrounded her. Phil placed a hand on it . . .

"Dakshel exnida tanja vaarsta Magique."

. . . and the shield dissipated into shards of light.

The flame sword in his hand was burning down and losing intensity. It would still be enough. L'mactia frantically muttered words of magic. They backfired. She yelped in pain as sparks burnt livid welts in her pale neck. Phil raised his sword . . .

He noticed the black collar around her neck. Electric blue sparks crackled around it.

Hey, wasn't that . . . Oh.

It all made sense now.

He lowered his burning sword. "This was never a fair fight," he called up to the succubi in the stands.

He recognised the collar as the one Brennan had made, supposedly to keep daemons under control, although it had failed to protect Brennan from Nÿte. It was much more effective on L'mactia. Her face contorted in agony as the collar crackled and scorched her. Segmented legs twitched spasmodically as magical sparks fizzed through her.

"It could never be a fair fight," Nÿte said. "L'mactia has killed many experienced warlocks. You're just a novice. Without the collar you'd already be dead."

Phil knew that. He realised now why L'mactia had focused on defence. The collar had prevented her from mounting any attacks. It had never been a fight. The succubi had set it up to look like one, but in reality it had more in common with the slaughter of a muzzled and hobbled beast.

"What now?" Phil asked.

"That's up to you," Nÿte said. "Her life is in your hands. You can slay her in revenge. Or spare her and let her go. What do your teachings tell you?"

Phil remembered The Scrote's lessons. A warlock should always be ruthless, he'd said. Kill a defeated foe rather than giving them a chance to come back stronger.

The theory was easier than the reality.

L'mactia was sprawled before him. Her head was bowed. "I won't beg," she said.

He couldn't do this. In the heat of battle, to defend himself, yes. But not this. Not the cold-blooded execution of a defeated and helpless opponent.

"Where's your anger?" Nÿte said. "She tried to give you a slow and lingering death and nearly killed you. Don't you want revenge?"

Phil looked at the defeated spider daemon. One quick blow to the neck. It would be fast.

What revenge was this anyway? The person who'd wanted him dead was Emma Brennan and he couldn't kill her because someone else had already killed her. L'mactia was a tool. Raging at her was as pointless as raging at a gun.

He thought it but recognised it for the feeble dissembling it was. He couldn't do this. Not in cold blood.

His flaming sword flickered out of existence. The flames surrounding him died away.

"Nope. Can't do it. Not murdering a helpless individual."

He walked away. What a shit-poor excuse of a warlock he was.

L'mactia looked up in surprise when the killing blow failed to arrive. She struggled free of the tangling vines, but rather than charge Phil she ran away and skittered up one of the arena walls. It was Nÿte she ran to. And not to attack. She prostrated herself before the succubus in black. Then she got up and they shared a passionate kiss. Afterwards she sat next to Nÿte and rested her head in the succubus's lap. To Phil it looked like she was trying very hard not to cry.

Nÿte ran her hand through the spider daemon's black hair. She took the collar off and placed it around her own pale neck. She smiled down at Phil and gave him a little nod.

This left Phil thoroughly confused. Had he been supposed to kill L'mactia? Or not?

The portcullis rose behind him and he hurried out of the arena before the succubi decided to give him an even worse daemon to fight. He went back to the changing room even though he had nothing to change or change back into. His robe had burnt away when he'd set himself and L'mactia's web on fire.

He sat on one of the stone benches with his head between his knees. He had to get away from here. And Wargsnouts. He wasn't a warlock and would never be one.

Rosa walked in with Carny. "Not one of yours then," she said to Carny. "Are you disappointed?"

"He never was," Carny replied. "You wouldn't have set such a hard challenge if you'd thought otherwise."

He walked over to Phil and offered a good-natured fist bump.

"Fine showing there, dude," he said as Phil tapped his knuckles.

"It was all fake," Phil replied morosely. "She couldn't fight back."

"Well, yeah," Carny said with a laugh. "Human versus daemon normally only ever has one outcome. That's why you guys summon us to fight for you."

Phil felt soft and weak. He couldn't even kill the spider daemon that had tried to kill him.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked.

The rage daemon shrugged. "Hard to say with these things. The consequences of mercy are difficult to predict. Today's beaten foe might become tomorrow's ally. Or the indignity of the defeat might linger and fester away until they become an implacable nemesis that cares only for revenge. There are no right choices. Either outcome is possible. Only time will tell."