Page 48 of Bargain with the Demon King
The lead mare—if gender applies to demon horses—stands taller than any horse should, coat shifting between black and purple and nothing as she moves. Her mane flows without wind, each strand moving independently like underwater plants. When she lowers her head to drink, the soul-lights scatter, then return, drawn to her darkness.
"I've never ridden a horse." The admission escapes without permission. "Chad said I'd be terrible at it. Too nervous. Too much weight for a normal mount anyway."
Azzaron goes absolutely still. That particular stillness that means violence later for someone who isn't me. Then he stands, extends his hand. Not demanding. Offering.
"Would you like to?"
"That's a terrible idea. I'll fall. Probably die. Definitely embarrass myself."
"When has that stopped you?"
"Fair point." I take his hand because the alternative is admitting I'm afraid of something besides feeling. His skin burns against mine—not metaphorically. Actually burns. Demon body temperature runs higher. "How does one approach a demon horse without becoming demon horse food?"
"Confidently." He leads me toward the herd, my hand still caught in his. "They respect authority, not fear."
"I have neither of those things."
"You have me."
The words land heavier than intended. We both hear it. Neither acknowledges it. He releases my hand to whistle—low, complex, nothing human throats could produce. The lead mare's head snaps up, those red eyes finding us.
She approaches with that horrifying grace—joints that don't bend right, muscles that flow instead of bunch. Up close, she's magnificent and wrong. Her breath doesn't fog. Her ribs don't expand. She exists in defiance of biology.
"She's beautiful." My hand rises without permission, stops inches from her neck. "And terrifying."
"The best things are both." His hand covers mine, guides it to the mare's neck. Her coat feels wrong—too smooth, too warm, like living shadow. "She won't hurt you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I asked her not to." He guides my hand to her mane. "Grip here. Not too tight—she needs to feel you trust her."
"I don't trust anyone."
"Trust that I won't let you fall. Just that. Nothing more."
He helps me mount—his hands spanning my waist completely, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My thighs clamp automatically, hands scrambling for the mane that moves independently under my fingers.
"I'm going to die."
"No." He stands beside the mare, one hand on her neck, the other on my knee. "She'll walk first. I'll stay right here."
The mare moves without signal, that flowing gait that shouldn't exist. I tense, certain death approaches, but Azzaron walks beside us, his hand steady on my leg.
"Breathe." His voice carries that particular calm that makes my spine straighten. "Feel the rhythm. Stop thinking."
"Thinking is all I have left."
"Then you have too much."
We circle the lake's edge slowly, Azzaron matching the mare's pace perfectly. His hand never leaves my knee, anchoring me to something solid while the world flows beneath me.
"Better?"
"Different. Not falling. That's something."
"Ready to try alone?"
"Absolutely not."
