In vain he drew his sword.
The young man, panting with anger and fear, stood before the fire, his burning home, facing that slender shadow that was walking through the smoke. His blade reflected the firelight as though dancing with its own flame.
Unharmed, she walked through the wreckage, and as the smoke thinned, like a veil being drawn away, it showed her face and her terrible, proud grin.
“It’s no use,” she told him, her voice like honey. “You’ve given yourself to me.” And here she held out her dainty, white hand; trembling and shaking, the young man came forward, and turning his sword around, offered up his weapon, kneeling at her feet and presenting the plain pommel to her gentle palm.
“Thank you,” she said, her wicked grin spreading into an evil smile, and with a laugh like a hail of daggers, she lifted his sword and touched his shoulders.
“Rise, my dark knight,” she commanded.
When the young man stood, he seemed to be taller, felt bigger—felt dizzy. He took an unsure step, wavering there on his feet and spreading out his hands for balance—his hands! They weren’t his hands. Black claws stretched out, the talons of some monster, of him. He fell to the ground.
The witch mounted the black beast.
“Come,” she commanded, and with the young man’s sword, struck his flanks. He reared up, howling in something that was almost human but was certainly pain. Fleeing from the fire, from the wreckage of his home, he ran off into the dark.
Tale Told 