Do you know what it is to be summoned?
It's a soft, slow, gentle pull that begins almost imperceptibly and then increases, and increases, and increases, until you feel as if you're being sucked through a straw by a giant. There are ways to resist, and ways to evade, and ways to delay, but I had no interest in such trickery this time.
This time I was being called upon to do what I would revel in doing anyway.
This time I was being called upon to hunt, and that I was being called upon as mice call upon a cat only made the summons more entertaining, and the result more delicious to contemplate.
The weak may seek to control the strong, but when they do they play with fire.
The strong are the fire, and they fear no control.
I returned to my quarters and prepared myself in advance. I oiled my crimson skin until it gleamed, looking as smooth and supple as it was, nearly demanding touch. My hair I wore short, a tradition from the times when I was human, and roamed the deserts as a warrior. Long hair could serve then as a handicap, a sign of overconfidence, an easy target for an enemy's grasping hands. I'd permitted it to grow after becoming a succubus, thinking it added to my allure, and perhaps it did but it was a manifestation of my overconfidence, overconfidence that had twice led to my downfall.
Now I wore it short, and when my master had seen it thus he had nodded, in approval or acknowledgement or something else, I cannot say.
I dressed in a soft, short dress, black fabric of a kind so thin and fine that it felt like wearing water and flowed over my body like a second skin, clinging everywhere I wanted it to cling and showing off everything I wanted to show off. Some succubi prefer to be naked at all times, and there are times for that, but my power was like a blade stored in a sheath. Drawing it forth was a demonstration and a declaration, and of a type that frightened the weak and enticed the strong.
The weak do not concern me, but the strong are worth considering.
I was prepared.
I was ready.
And I felt the summoning's tug.
I took a moment then, a moment to appreciate what was about to begin. There's a feeling before battle, a feeling of coiled tension waiting to be unleashed, a moment warriors know as well as they know themselves, and that moment should be savored, if only briefly. I closed my eyes, let myself indulge in the anticipation, and then...
...then I opened my eyes and smiled.
And I let the summoning take me.
There is much to be learned from how you are summoned, and where. Some skilled magicians can summon you directly into chains, or other encumbrances. Others summon you into pits or traps, designed to leave you helpless. Still others summon you in ways that tell you what sort of entrance they wish you to make, into a pool of water to emerge dripping and eager, or into a cave to emerge blinking into the light.
Not these, though, these magicians clearly wanted me seen from the moment of my summoning. I wasn't here to make an entrance on my own behalf, but to demonstrate their power, and that which was intended as a show of strength for their master was a show of weakness to me.
A summoning takes no great strength, but ensuring that your summon stays within a protective circle does, and these magi were wanting in that regard.
Not that I could simply stride out, but they had limited their circle to preventing me from leaving. They had done nothing to prevent me from reaching out with my words and with my mind, and this was stupidity made manifest.
The circle was wide across, thirty paces or so, and was inscribed into one end of a temple to some god or other. The space was sunk into the bare rock of the place, and surrounded by seating for the faithful, or for those who wished to observe the ceremonies, and the seating was well-packed today for succubi always tend to draw crowds.
I arrived standing, a choice of my own. Arrive kneeling and you send one message, arrive sprawling and you send another, but I wished to show strength, and confidence, and power.
There was a ripple of surprise as I arrived, and interest, and the crowd murmured to itself, and I observed them casually, taking care not to show too great an interest. There were a wide variety of creatures there, demon and human and more, but the only ones on whom my gaze lingered were the demon-prince and his consort.
He was tall and muscular, grey of skin and green of eye, and he looked at me with interest he tried to hide behind a mask of detachment.
He was a poor actor, but it didn't matter. Succubi can sense desire, and his flared to life the moment he saw me. I could feel his lust, felt my own in turn, wanting to savor his life, wanting to swallow his soul, both because my master had commanded it and because I had been so long without feeding.
He, though, was not the interesting one.
His consort was.
She was slender, and short, and human, with golden skin much-kissed by the sun, and she should have been frightened to be surrounded by demons, but she was not.
She was angry, and her anger was masked far better than his lust, and pulsed far more intensely.
Anger in the weak is no concern of the strong, but something in her told me that this one was no weakling, and if she was not yet in a position to have her way she had no intention of remaining subjugated forever.
She wore a white gown, modestly cut but tightly stitched, so that a demure garment became a sensual study. There was a tiara on her head, to mark her as powerful, but a collar on her throat, to mark her as property. Her eyes were blue, and flashed with the emotions her face masked so admirably.
My prospective victim was chained to the altar behind me, but I paid him no mind, not yet. He was incidental to my goals, though my ravenous hunger whispered in the darker recesses of my mind.
Instead I reached out with my mind and whispered to her.
