“The spell is ripe,” the shackled woman whispered.
Alisan and Armant regarded her with bright, vicious eyes, as the fetish stood up.
“Madam. What is your desire?”
It was Alisan who spoke. “We want Mother’s head.”
The creature disappeared with a bang and a whiff of decay. Moments later it returned, dragging something by a rope of pale hair. Alisan slit the old witch’s throat with his saw-edged knife as his brother snatched at the hair.
Horsehair. Attached loosely to the head of a hungry demon. It gnawed their living bones.
The spirit of the witch they tortured laughed.