Topher staggered back a step; sputtered. "Stop the True Demon Lord? How the fuck am I supposed to do that?!"

Quint closed his eyes again; Topher was alarmed to see that the other man had paled noticeably. "You are the only one who has any chance. The rest of us failed to even intuit his existence for the majority of this conflict; you struck the first and only blow against him, staking your life on the one tenuous link to him in the singular window of opportunity before he could prevent its discovery. In whom else could we put our faith?"

"In anyone!" Topher howled. "Kholoth already knows more than either of us do! Rudo was the one who captured Vius in the first place!" He scowled, turning away and crossing his arms in exasperation. "I'm not the guy with the plan here, Quint. I'm just some doofus who's been too stupid to die so far."

"You defeated the Demon Queen," the Archmage countered wearily, "and, by proxy, the Demon King. I don't really see how the fact that you accomplished it via unorthodox means is relevant."

"I didn't defeat anything," Topher shot back. "I survived..." He paused, blinked, and ran a hand over his face. "Of course. You and all the other Archmages were out of the fight. None of you saw what happened, so you all just assumed I beat her up with my Otherworlder awesomeness."

"Did you not?" The older man cocked his head again, blinking in confusion. "Perhaps you had better 'run it back' for me, as my grandfather used to say."

Topher sighed and filled Quint in on the specific details of his battle; when he was finished, the Archmage's expression had paled even further, to the point that his complexion was entirely light gray. "You are saying," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, "that we stand on the precipice of oblivion, and our only defense is a bluff."

Topher nodded grimly. "Yeah. That about sums it up."

Quint finished the last of his chocolate milk, barely seeming to taste it, then stared into space for nearly a minute. Finally, he closed his eyes; heaved in a deep breath. But, to Topher's surprise, when he opened them again, they were aflame, with light blue shimmers seeming to dance within the depths of his gaze. "So be it. If this is the card we have to play, let us play it." Color began to return to his cheeks; as Topher watched, vitality seemed to fill up within the old mage, and a rakish grin emerged from the thicket of his beard. "Damned if I'm giving up before the last hand is dealt."

"Hey, that's the spirit." Topher patted the other mage on the shoulder again, then sat back down on the chair where he'd been before; he stretched, then stared glumly at his feet. "Well, since my love life seems to have burst into flames two days in, I guess I have a lot of time free. Tell me what you want me to do."

"I suppose that is as good a place to start as any." The Archmage sat up, creaking, and cracked his knuckles. "The first step is to fix your relationship problems, because a depressed and sexually frustrated Topher Bailey of Earth is markedly less useful to me than a Topher Bailey of Earth defending his tusked green bride-to-be." Topher scowled and gave him the finger, but he merely waggled his eyebrows and continued. "After that, you and Rudo can work together to assemble the pieces of what Vius and the Demon rulers know of the True Demon Lord. By that time, Kelfir should have returned from consulting with the elven scholars; if we work quickly, we can reconvene as soon as Archmage Siukh recovers."

"Right." Topher sighed, heaving himself up out of his chair again. "Skipping the bit where the second part sounds both impossible and better-suited for someone else who actually knows anything about intelligence or spycraft, exactly how are we going to do the first thing? I don't exactly get the impression I'd be welcome with Zanasha or Hana right now."

Quint cocked his head. "If you did something which surprised and upset her, how would you want her to react?"

"Come to me and talk... ah, fuck." Topher rubbed his bald head. "I'm being a big baby about this, aren't I?"

Quint nodded and smirked. "A faster turnaround than most. Let us skip to the exciting bit." Wobbling slightly, he levered himself up and held out an arm; Topher reluctantly supported the Archmage over his shoulder as he gestured, bringing forth cerulean light that swirled around them both. He felt a twisting lurch, then they were gone.

----------------------------------------

In an instant, Topher found himself in a bedroom elsewhere in the castle.

Hana was preparing tea at a small side table, while Zanasha lay sprawled across a large four-poster bed; the room appeared to be some manner of guest quarters, judging from the decor. Almost the instant they arrived, Zanasha sprang up, drawing both her swords; Hana half-turned, her mouth open in surprise, then scowled as she saw Topher and the Archmage. "Bailey-sama," she said with palpable restraint, "the situation is delicate. Perhaps a cooling-off period..."

"Hana-chan," Zanasha said very quietly, "please do not interfere." She faced Topher with calm, battle-ready prowess; he found himself in awe, once again, of her strength and beauty, as his hurt and confusion at her actions was almost completely drowned out by his respect and affection for her.

Almost.

Reluctantly, Topher stepped forward; he raised his hands defensively, which was a little tricky since Quint was still draped over one of his shoulders. "Hey. Uh, I don't know what I did wrong, but..." He trailed off as he saw the complex welter of emotions cascade through her eyes again, and paused, thinking hard. I'm missing something. Something obvious. Tightening his will and focus, he dredged his mind for any clue that would explain her behavior. For a long handful of seconds, he scourged his memory, trying to find anything in the history of their association and what all he knew about her, but to his frustration he came up empty yet again.

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"I need a clue," he said to her apologetically. "I missed something. I love you, but I don't understand, and I don't want to mess this up. Can you help me out?"

Slowly and cautiously, she nodded; she shifted her grip slightly, showing him that she still wore the ring he'd placed upon her finger. Then she raised her swords again, taking a battle stance even more unambiguously targeted at him. Every line of her body radiated defense and wariness, completely at odds with what he'd expected, but her eyes remained alight with a vortex of feeling -- he glimpsed joy, determination, fear, anger, sadness...

Where'd you learn to do that?

My mother taught me.

It was not, as you or I would term it, civilized.

"You can't explain, can you?" he wondered out loud, and was rewarded by a curt nod; unexpectedly, he saw a flash of gratitude in her gaze and bulled forward, gaining enthusiasm as he went. "Some sort of ritual?" She nodded again, her gaze now smoldering with intense emotion, and he felt enlightenment break through. "Marriage. Marriage is different for your tribe than dating. I have to..."

He blinked, startled and disbelieving. "I have to defeat you?!"

For a half-instant, he saw and understood it; her proud, fierce joy warring with her love and concern for him, her complicated feelings about her tribe's customs, and the haphazard culture she'd constructed for herself. He saw its seeds in the lessons her parents had taught, warring with her own feelings and instincts as her upbringing and tragic, trauma-filled coming of age all collided in an explosion of intense feeling and personal meaning. And then, the culmination -- his own apotheosis, transforming him from a figure requiring protection to one who could bear any wrath, any weight.

Such as, for example, the weight she'd been carrying.

I am a Fighter. I can fight. Let me fight!

He met her gaze and nodded; she nodded back. The air became thick with incipient violence; everything else seemed to dim in his vision, while she grew brighter, more concrete. Slowly, the fingers of his hands balled into fists.

"I can tell," Quint interjected quietly and calmly into his left ear, "that this is about to get very lively, so I just want to point out that this castle has only recently been reconstructed and that I'd appreciate it if you didn't tear it apart a second time while I flop around legless on the ground." Topher shot him an incredulous glance; he smiled beatifically in reply. "I would, however, be happy to transport you both elsewhere for a bit more, ah, privacy and elbow room."

Without waiting for a reply, the Archmage gestured again; however, instead of the flash of light and disorienting teleport he'd expected, Topher found himself staring at a swirling portal of blue energy through which he could glimpse a sunny meadow. Wasting no time, he hobbled through, letting Quint down to the springy grass as Zanasha deftly stepped through behind him; Hana slid through the portal behind her, bringing up the rear.

"This place is some fifty miles distant from the city," Quint commented, holding out a plaintive hand to Hana; she sighed with a long-suffering expression before pulling him to his feet (well, foot) and looping his arm around her own shoulders. "Which I hope should be enough, but nevertheless do try not to devastate the countryside more than is necessary. I'll leave the portal open; opaque, of course, for your privacy." He winked, then gestured again; there was another glimmer of blue light, and he and Hana both disappeared.

Topher's chest felt so tight that it might burst; he turned, fearing what he'd see, to gaze upon Zanasha. She was still in a battle-ready stance, hands full of swords; they weren't pointed at him, but he could feel their keen threat as intensely as if they were pressed against his throat. "Are you..." he stopped, choking back the foolish words before they could ruin everything. Are you sure about this? Are you going to be okay? What if I hurt you? But he knew he was just scared. She was strong; now he needed to match that strength. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Are you ready?"

She nodded again; one foot slid forward slightly across the dewy grass, the late afternoon sun outlining her in gold. There was a tiny, tiny pause, like the world was holding its breath; then she struck.

In the shock of an instant, she crossed the space between them as though it didn't exist; Nethersbane, glowing magenta, left a trail of light through the air as it cut a path straight for Topher's shoulder in a blink-fast Nether Strike. But Topher had been ready; a Shield of Faith sprang into existence at his whisper, angled to deflect rather than intercept her blow as her other arm came scything into the opening his action created. He couldn't block it, he knew; the Kiku-no-Tsurugi would cut through any shield he conjured like butter. So he didn't even try. Instead, he stepped into the strike; his footwork was clumsy, but it sufficed. His left fist, clenched and reluctant, nevertheless struck true and slammed directly into her fingers where she grasped the hilt of the sword.

Instantly, he knew he'd made a critical mistake. Even putting the full force of his strength into the blow, it was like slamming his hand directly into a steel wall; his knuckles and fingers crunched painfully at the impact, and although he managed not to falter, it barely made any difference. Her battlesense, honed to perfection, had baited him into this play and he'd known it; her left boot rose up in a violent arc, ready to kick him contemptuously away. He was out of position, and not nearly a fighter of her caliber anyway; he could no more avoid the blow than he could fly.

Except that Topher Bailey could fly.

Flexing his will with tremendous concentration, he pulled himself further into her with his Attract Object power; instead of receiving her kick with shattering force in his ribcage, he body-checked her directly against her own angular momentum, sending her flying backwards as his hands grappled for purchase on her body and weapons. In a stand-up fight, he didn't have a prayer; but in a grapple, there was a chance that the vicious, bloody street-fighting that was his only experience with physical combat might take her off-guard enough that he could get in a hit. But he'd forgotten to take her reflexes into account, too.

He barely noticed at first; the stinging, searing pain under his ribcage might have been easily mistaken for anxiety or an indrawn breath. But then pain bloomed like a crimson flower through his abdomen, and he glanced down out of curiosity. Her hand was caught, trapped between them both in an awkward position; she'd clearly been unready for his maneuver.

And Nethersbane, still gripped tightly in her fist, had gone right through his lower left side.