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Part X
…In a Hard Place.
Zaraeth smiled, stroking the face in her grasp like a lovers. It was a beautiful face, the demoness admitted to herself, made exquisite by the agony etched across its chalk white skin and twitching in the blood red lips. Add to that the exotic allure of the two curling ram's horns nestled amidst the curling red-fire hair, and the tingling in her own hairless loins meant Zaraeth could easily understand Sadiste's interest in this particular priestess. The inhabitants of the Underworld lived for one thing – the fulfilment of desire. The threat of punishment by one more powerful than themselves, such as Vulgus, could organize them towards a common goal, but at their core the creatures of evil were motivated by the need to satisfy their own passions.
And those passions were as fiery as the cavernous realm they ruled. Looking at the helpless woman lying in agony before her Zaraeth's mind swam with thoughts of making that lovely face twist in anguish, watching that red mouth stretch wide as screams of horror ripped from the exquisite chest whose succulent roundness lay grotesquely pillowed around the edges of the pitiless stone slabs. The curly haired devils thighs twitched as she imagined feeling that incredible body grinding against her own as the two of them engaged in wild sexual adventures as they were both whipped bloody by Vulgus' minions for the Demon Lords amusement. Their screams of pain and ecstasy would mingle like the blood flowing down over their skin as they mashed their feminine clefts together like wild beasts locking horns in battle, and sexed with a primal, animal lust few mortals ever experienced. All in the space of a few heartbeats Zaraeth saw in her minds eye the glorious carnal perversions she and this half-satyr demigoddess could wallow in through the millennia.
But even that almost irresistible fantasy paled before the craving to have Sadiste as her piteously mewling slave while Zaraeth subjected her crimson rival to agonies and humiliations that would destroy the sanity of any creature born of Earth. To make the strutting red harlot beg to peel the skin off her own impudently firm tits with a red hot blade and then pour salt acid over the flayed mounds, the blue she demon would even give up the opportunity to share intimate torment with a woman like the beautiful Chevaan pinioned in front of her.
Satyra stirred and pulled her head around to stare at the lovely yet evil face of the indigo demoness. ‘How?' she said again in a voice thick with suffering.
Zaraeth shook herself free of her black dreams. ‘A spell,' she replied simply. ‘We will lay a trap for Sadiste. When it is sprung, it will allow you to gain a brief but decisive advantage. You will escape, and she will be disgraced in the eyes of our master.' Zaraeth smiled, tilting one horn towards the ceiling. ‘Her punishment will be…memorable.'
Satyra looked at the creature squatting before her, smiling despite the agony the fellow woman in front of her was experiencing. A shudder, stifled by the massive crushing pressure of the rock above, ran through her. ‘No magic,' she bit out.
‘True,' Zaraeth agreed, ‘your talent for utilizing the gift of magic from your Goddess is useless away from the mortal world. Fortunately there are…alternatives.'
Satyra's eyes narrowed even more. She focussed past the feeling that her ribs were about to implode into her heart. ‘What…do you mean?'
‘Other sources of magic, my dear, more suitable for your surroundings.'
Satyra shook her head. ‘Dark magic. No.'
‘There is no other way. It's this, or suffer tortures that will destroy your soul, until you are hers.' Zaraeth stood and placed her hands on her hips. ‘And don't think that six trials rule will save you. If it takes ten thousand years of agony to make you submit, Sadiste will find a loophole to keep you here that long.'
The Chevaan shuddered. She knew in this at least the demoness spoke truly, but still she struggled for an alternative. ‘You could…cast…spell.'
Zaraeth frowned. Didn't this little bitch realize what was being offered to her? ‘Sadiste is…' The blue woman paused, making a face. ‘Simply put, she's too powerful,' Zaraeth said, her face looking like she's just swallowed bile. ‘My magic alone will never act quickly enough; she'd perceive the spell and act to counter it. And she knows my glamours well. Only together can we hope to succeed.'
Satyra groaned. Her pelvic bone was almost mended again, and she could feel the pressure building in her abdomen. She tired not visualize what her lower body looked like at that moment. ‘What do…I do?' she whispered at last.
Finally, thought Zaraeth. ‘We will cast in tandem. The true spell will be yours – mine will link with it and blank Sadiste to the effects, until it is too late.'
‘What spell,' Satyra gasped.
Zaraeth smiled. Then she told her.
Despite her torment, Satyra actually looked shocked. ‘What,' was all she could cough out?
‘It will work,' Zaraeth reassured her, ‘and it is the only way past her guard.' She bent over, placing her hands either side of the Chevaan's head, her blue breasts hanging down before Satyra's pain racked face. There was wicked amusement in her voice as she stared into the wide, tear-filled green eyes. ‘Don't tell me you've never cast such a spell before.'
Satyra shifted her eyes towards the floor, and Zaraeth smiled like a hunting cat. ‘So, not so pious after all.' She played with one of Satyra's horns. ‘And with a face and body like yours – why Satyra, that's positively…' Zaraeth leaned closer, savouring the word ‘, sinful.'
Satyra tried to breathe deeply, but just ended up moaning again. She ground her shoulder blades bloody lifting her head to meet Zaraeth's gaze. ‘What do I do?'
Zaraeth straightened. ‘You must clear your mind of your priestly teachings,' the demoness answered. As she spoke her fingers traced patterns in the air before her. ‘Here you must channel a different kind of power.' The patterns began to glow with little trails of blue and gold light in the air. ‘In the Underworld, your desires define you, your cravings. And vengeance is a powerful desire. Vengeance and anger. You must use them now. You must abandon compassion and understanding and focus on a new idea.'
Satyra breathed quicker, feeling the power of Zaraeth's casting tingling along her skin. ‘What…idea?'
Suddenly the rock next to Satyra's head on the slab below shifted. The solid granite flowed like thick grey mud and a needle of rock, two inches wide and sharp as a dagger, rose up and pressed against her shoulder. Satyra looked at it with horror, but no particular surprise.
‘Pain,' Zaraeth smiled, then flicked her hand upwards. Instantly the needle shot up another few inches, driving through the Chevaan's white flesh.
Satyra coughed out a scream as the needle pierce her shoulder, driving through up to the slab above. She shuddered and the motion brought fresh suffering to her body being crushed upon the stone.
Zaraeth looked down at the priestess struggling with this fresh pain. She smiled, feeling a tingle in her breasts, in her loins. ‘Concentrate,' she whispered, and gestured with her fingers. ‘Accept the pain, and think of Sadiste,'
On the stone, Satyra felt nubbins of sharp rock moving, and her heart went cold.
Without preamble a shaft of needle sharp rock stabbed up through the red-haired victim's belly.
The shock was so great that for a moment Satyra could not even scream. Then she lifted her head and shrieked just as her mouth filled with hot blood.
The dagger in her abdomen pulled out, melting back into the rock below. Blood from the now open wound gushed like a red flood out under her, hot and set as it found flowed between her and the torture slab. Satyra screamed again and gurgled in pain. ‘Goddess,' she whispered her voice full of pain. ‘Goddess.'
‘No!' Zaraeth spat, grabbing one of Satrya's horns and dragging her head up to face her. The demoness beautiful blue face was radiant with passion. Her breasts heaved and surged. ‘Your Goddess cannot help you now, pretty Chevaan. Only your rage can free you. Only your pain!'
As Zaraeth spoke another stone skewer punched through Satyra beneath her sternum. A second ripped up under her collar bone. A third tore through her pelvis, grinding against the already broken bone.
Satyra's mind was exploding with pain. The stone barbs ripped through her savagely, tearing through flesh and muscle and organs, slicing open blood vessels, shredding her body. Without the magic of the flaming pool when would have been dead in minutes, but she lived on. Trapped beneath the massive crushing stones her magnificent womanly body jerked and twisted in ways that dislocated joints and cracked her already battered ribcage, but she lived on. In mindless agony she ground her white womanly skin raw against its stone prison and even made worse the terrible piercing thrusts of the stone needles through her as she heaved and shrieked and wept.
But she didn't die. She lived. And because she lived, she suffered.
Standing over the tortured Amazon Zaraeth felt the power of her own spell rippling forth, mingling with the forces building within the pain-racked body of the captive. There was not a wisp of a breeze in the cavern, but the demoness' curling raven hair began to move as if a wind were starting to build to match the anger rising in the copper-haired girl. Zaraeth's own breath quickened as she felt the energy rising in Satyra, needing only a final nudge to bring it to glorious actualization.
Fortunately the demoness knew just the thing needed.
Without warning, Satyra felt the awful pressure of the stone above her easing, her body lifting slightly as the mighty slap rose back up. She felt her breasts and belly clear the stone, the horrible compression of her abdomen and her genitalia fading. She glanced down and saw the rock she had been crushed against covered in her sticky red blood. She looked up…
Her universe became dark.
Standing before her, using her magic to work the chains, her red skin shining in the ruddy light, was not Zaraeth, but Sadiste.
Satyra stared up in horror, her mind numb. Sadist threw back her head and laughed, her full tits quivering with mirth.
‘You stupid girl,' mocked the red devil-woman. ‘You really thought you had a chance to escape. Little idiot, this is hell! There is no escape – you are mine for all eternity.' Her eyes glowed like hot coals, utterly malevolent. Her full-lipped smile was pure evil. ‘Now scream. Bitch,' Sadiste snarled, ‘scream for me while I tear your whore's body apart.'
The stone began to drop again, and Satyra did scream, in rage, in denial, in horror. She struggled uselessly and looked down as she descended once more onto the rock of pain.
Only this time it was not just a flat slab. Now needles of stone were rising from the granite, twisting like screws as demon magic gave them hideous life. Satyra's helpless flesh dropped toward them. She fought harder, twisting this was and that. The muscles in her arms and legs rippled as her boobs bounced wildly, falling towards the razor sharp points. ‘No,' she screamed, tears in her glowing green eyes. ‘NO!!!'
‘Yes!' hissed Sadiste, wild triumph in her eyes. ‘Scream, pretty slut. Scream for me now.'
The first points made contact with Satyra's belly, starting to gouge the skin. Their points pierced the outermost smoothness, spilling blood, then bit deeper. ‘You BITCH!' Satyra shrieked, pain beginning to flood over her. ‘I'll kill you, you dirty demon piece of shit!'
Sadiste laughed louder. The twisting points punched though the skin of Satyra's abdomen and began shredding through the firm muscle beneath.
‘AaarrrrggghhhhHHHHH,' Satyra cried out, slamming her head back against the stone, fighting heroically to say clear of the wicked points. It was hopeless. The pressure between her legs mounted anew as the stone swung down, crushing her loser body, even as the needles skewered her through the belly. She felt one point tearing its way into her navel and howled in agony. Inside her abdominal cavity a half dozen turning screws of rock burrowed through the organs of a woman who could not die, only scream and scream.
The stone dropped lower. Blood gushed from the priestess mouth as her stomach was torn to pieces inside of her. Her head lashed from side to side in a frenzy of mindless horror. Another few inches, and her sternum began to crack as weight built on it, then her lower ribs. Her heavy breasts sank down, and were met by more of the rotating stone points, hungry to drill into her. The first of them kissed the peak of her fem-crests, just neat the nipples. Blood began to spill out as they broke the white skin, digging into the soft meat.
‘Ah…ahhh, no, NO…fuck…aaaaahhhhhhh!' The satyr-woman's screams became wilder, hysterical. She felt the needles pierce her breasts, the heavy peaks, the gentle upper slopes, the sensitive plunging lower curves, tearing away her control along with her flesh. ‘You evil bitch…I'll kill you, you fucking cunt …arrr…AAAARRRRRRRHHHHH!!!!!'
With a final laugh, Sadiste lowered Satyra all the way.
The weight above smashed the Amazon down under tons of rock. Her arms and legs spasmed as the stone daggers ripped into her body. Blood flowed in rivers down the sides of the stone as they shredded through her belly, her diaphragm, her tits. The mounds of her chest were shredded to bloody ruin, healed almost instantly, and shredded again. Her breasts were crushed to jelly and ground into pulp, her nipples chewed up into formless lumps of ultimate pain. Her tits were shredded, mangled, destroyed, while her screams made the walls quiver.
‘Kill you…KILL YOU… YEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! '
‘Now!' Sadiste thundered suddenly, seizing the Chevaan's head, magic pouring from her hands into the howling priestess, seizing the power blazing in the mangled white body, channelling it. Both women were at the centre of a suddenly maelstrom of energy as fire flew out from between the grinding stone blocks. In a flash of lighting Sadiste's form vanished and Zaraeth stood clinging to Satyra's horns as the Chevaan beauty's scream shook the chamber as the demoness struggled with the raw power erupting from the very depths of the woman's agony and rage as she imagined her captor laughing at her gorgeous body being torn apart.
With a final burst of light Zaraeth was flung back across the chamber, slamming into the wall. The wild storm of magic vanished instantly. Satyra's head remained uplifted for a split second, ultimate pain carved into her goddess-like face, then her head dropped forward like a stone.
For a long time, nothing moved.
Finally, Zaraeth rose shakily to her feet. With one hand she brushed her hair from her face as she staggered across to the still-pinioned Chevaan. Her body was still tingling all over as she lifted Satyra's head.
The priestess opened her eyes and stared up blankly, mouth open slackly. With surprising tenderness the blue demoness held her face steady. The Chevaan said nothing, but her eyes relayed her questions.
‘It is done,' Zaraeth said softly. She looked at the blood covering the stones and gestured. The rock of the underworld instantly absorbed the spilled ichor. Between the slabs the needles had retracted, the terrible wounds of their invasion already healing. ‘When Sadiste comes for you next, you will be ready with a spell keyed just to her.'
‘How,' Satyra slurred, blinking in exhaustion. The agony of the tons crushing her body seemed far off. ‘How…cast…it?'
Zaraeth smiled again, eager to show her.
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