Again Tavor tested the shackles that bound him, easing the bone he'd managed to grab with his toe into the lock. For the first time since he'd been thrown into the dungeon, he was actually glad that they'd taken his leather boots and socks. Less delighted that they'd taken the rest of his Ranger gear, leaving him in nothing but his pants. But that the demons had merely stripped him was something of a relief. There were many tales of the devils, and none of them good.
A yawn had him freeze, look furtively through the curling metal that served as the bars of his cell. Just beyond, slumped in a wooden chair, the guard Zaara mumbled to herself, shifting. Curling ram horns poked free of loose white hair, as thick and downy as wool. More of it poofed around her neck like a collar, necessitating her guard jacket to hang open. This had the side effect of not so subtly showing off the plump orbs of her breasts, which threatened to pop out of her tight uniform with every breath.
He'd been lucky to have been assigned a sloth demon as his guard. Tavor held his breath, watching as the somnolent demon shifted, nuzzling her neck wool as it cushioned her against the back of her chair. The demoness was the only soft thing in the prison. The walls were of black steel furling with effigies of flames. Torches of black and red hissed in their brackets, sending shadows fluttering about the many sharp edges that framed doors and jutted from bands around pillars and the walls.
For this was Irongaol, jail of the demon hordes who had invaded his world. For a time he'd thought the place mere rumours, but that had been put to rest after the ambush, when he and his fellow hunters had been taken in the snow-swept woods, seized by claws and borne away through the screaming winds and to the black tower rising out of the frozen landscape, the interior ever hot despite the biting northern cold.
He didn't know if his fellow Rangers had survived. He doubted it. The screams and moans that rang through the prison every day did not speak encouragingly of their safety. But Tavor knew more, as a hunter. That their fates were probably far worse than mere death. Demons found the souls of mortals the most intoxicating of meals. In fact, after they'd supped on mortal essence was the best time to try and slay the creatures with blessed steel. So the true purpose of the prison was not merely to jail their victims, but to give the demons a place where they could comfortably feast, sucking men and women dry until they were naught but mortal husks, enthralled by their devilish queens and lost forever.
A fate he would, inevitably, share.
Unless he got free.
Once he was sure Zaara hadn't awoken, he got back to work. He would not fall to thralldom here. Better a clean death than an eternity waiting on some demonic trollop as a lovesick slave.
He heard a click and for a moment dared not believe, but when the shackle opened and his hand slid free, he knew hope for the first time. Without delay he got to work on the sister lock, and blessed gods, it gave as well.
Tavor straightened, wringing his wrists of the pain of his bindings. He looked furtively at the sleeping succubus, but she did not stir, merely smiling dumbly at some pleasant dream, giggling so her breasts bounced in her tight top.
With care Tavor approached the bars of his cell and fit the bone into the lock. He tested it carefully, and then, with a click, it gave way. His heart leaped as he eased the door open with nary a creak. He stepped over the divider, creeping towards the jail door.
"Hmm? Whassat?"
Tavor froze, looking back as Zaara sat up, sleepily rubbing her glowing eyes and blinking at him. He tensed to attack, but knew it was futile. Without blessed steel, he could not slay the creature before him. And soft though she seemed, she hid power that could easily overwhelm him.
And then, suddenly, he had an idea.
Zaara blinked, her eyes clearing as she beheld him. She frowned, pouting like a child. "Heeeey," she said, standing. "What are you doing there?"
"Uh, escaping?" Tavor hazarded.
For a moment she just stared at him. Then she giggled, which again made her chest wobble enticingly. "Aw. That's so silly! No mortal has ever escaped Irongaol. It's suuuuper secure."
"Yes, I know," Tavor said. "But I have to try."
"Naaaah. You can just wait your turn for a pretty demon girl to have you," Zaara said, grabbing her guard stave from where it leaned against the wall, the collar that tipped it clacking like a claw.
"Like you?"
Zaara rolled her eyes. "Geeze!" she said. "You must think I'm just... like... suuuper dumb. Guards aren't allowed to eat their prisoner's essence."
"But I'm escaping."
"So?"
"So I'm not your prisoner if I'm escaping."
Zaara opened her mouth, then slowly closed it. She pursed her plump, kissable lips, tilting her head as if to knock out an idea.
"Mmm... What do you mean?"
"Like you said," Tavor said. "No mortal has ever escaped Irongaol. So, if you let me go, what are the odds I'll succeed? I'm sure to be caught eventually. Why not let me try?"
"Um..." Zaara said.
"And if you do," Tavor said, reaching down and rubbing his bulge, "I'd be very... grateful..."
Zaara's eyes widened a little, showing she was quick on some things. And though it went against every lesson he'd been taught as a Ranger to offer even a drop of his soul, he knew it was the one card he could play. Besides, no succubus could drink an entire soul in a single go. Even a taste made them drunk and dazed, meaning it was his best, and only, chance.
"Mmmm. I dunno," Zaara said, but he could see her practically drooling over his bulge. "I could get in biiiiiig trouble..."
