The mace whipped through the air.

Twain darted back, narrowly dodging it. A spike gouged a rent in his shirt, low and close to his waist.

Saemel used the weight of the mace to turn himself, spun with the momentum, and struck again. Sand flew up, rushing into Twain’s face. He slapped the sand down and charged in. His sword plunged at Saemel’s neck.

Steel glanced off Saemel’s bulging veins. The demon chuckled. “Pitiful drow. You couldn’t injure me in a thousand years.”

“We’ll see about that,” Twain growled.

Anger welled up in him. His vision reddened. The crowd faded into shadow. Only Saemel remained, a blood-red blot. Strength surged in his limbs.

Saemel pulled at the mace. Using its weight to ground him, he jumped and threw himself at Twain, feet first.

Twain braced himself. His legs tensed, muscles suddenly pressing against his trousers. He ducked the blow and jabbed his sword up at Saemel’s back.

The sword dug into flesh and jolted, catching the flesh. It jerked into his shoulder. Twain gritted his teeth and held it tighter, forcing it away from his body.

Saemel screeched. He landed in a cloud of sand and whirled on Twain. “You!”

“Afraid to get hurt?” Twain taunted. He backed away, putting distance between them. The line between his shoulder and chest hurt where his own sword had dug into his body.

“A warrior is never afraid,” Saemel growled.

“Never afraid. Never afraid, because you only fight people weaker than you?”

“That’s right. You’re weaker than me. You’re all weaker!”

Twain chuckled darkly. “Is that why you beat Mare? Because you’re too afraid to take on anyone bigger than you, so you have to take it out on someone weaker?”

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Saemel bared his teeth and whirled the mace over his head. It thrummed, blurring into one mass of dark iron. “I’ll show you who’s weaker.”

“Will you? I hurt you, and you haven’t hurt me yet. Right now, aren’t you the weaker one?”

An angry scream on his lips, Saemel loosed the mace. It hurtled at Twain. Ready, Twain retreated, sliding out of the path of the spiked weapon. A wave of sand crashed into the sky, looming over Twain. He stared up, silver eyes wide. Oh, shit!

Sand slammed over him and washed him off his feet. He tumbled and came up, right into a brawny embrace.

“Who’s weak now?” Saemel growled. He squeezed.

Twain’s bones popped and cracked, threatening to break. He struggled against the hold, but even his newfound blighted strength failed to overpower Saemel’s. His face reddened. He struggled to breathe.

“Twain!” Fell shouted.

Twain sucked in a deep breath, then let it all out and went limp. He slid through Saemel’s grasp and landed in a pile on the floor. Saemel changed his grasp to a double-handed blow and smashed down at Twain. He rolled out of the way of the blow and back to his feet, slicing Saemel’s wrists as he stood.

Drops of red slid down Saemel’s wrists. He glanced at the wound and laughed. “Weakling. You can’t hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Twain smirked.

Saemel jolted. He staggered and put a hand to his stomach. The hand came back tainted with dark blood laced through with purple. Inflamed flesh surrounded the thin cut on his stomach, edges swollen and fat. He looked at his hand, then narrowed his eyes at Twain. “Poison.”

“We drow are a poisonous race,” Twain chuckled. He backed away slowly, hoping his shirt hid the wound on his chest. Similarly inflamed, the cut dribbled with dark, purple-tinged blood.

“Trickery from a weakling,” Saemel growled.

“Trickery from someone who’s beating you. If you’re being beat by a weakling, what does that make you?”

Saemel held out his hand. The mace rushed back into his grasp with a thump. “Someone who’s going to kill you.”

“Oh, ready to pick on someone your own size, for once?” Twain sprinted away from Saemel, across the Arena.

Growling, Saemel threw the mace again. This time, Twain was ready. Before it landed, he sprinted away from it, toward Saemel.

Saemel held out his hand, summoning the mace back. It rushed at Twain from behind, spikes glistening in the Arena’s lights.

“Twain, watch out!” Fell shouted.

Twain dropped to the ground and kicked up with all his might, catching the mace on the handle. It spun, end over end, and hurtled toward Saemel, suddenly out of control.

Saemel dropped his hand and sidestepped the mace as it rushed by, spikes scraping fresh cuts in his skin. He scowled at Twain. “More trickery!”

“Trickery? Or is a sore loser complaining because he can’t keep up?” Twain taunted.

“Watch your tongue, or else.” Saemel held his hand out behind him, summoning the mace once again.

“Or else what? I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not afraid of you.”

Saemel roared. Black aura burst out from his body, and his muscles swelled further. His eyes rolled back in his head.