The struggle between man and demon was, in a word, eternal. From the very moment man had drawn his first breath, the intrinsic virtue within his breast found its distaff rival in the caricatured form of the demons set to prey upon him.
Naturally, this meant that the two didn't often get along.
It wasn't that they didn't try, mind you. Humans and demons had been the subject of some truly staggering epics, romantic, comedic, tragic, you name it. But their antipodal natures meant that the tragedies outweighed the comedies -- certainly the romances.
That's why you had groups like the Holy Church of the Indefatigable Spirit of Man and All His Creations. Virtue personified, the "priests" of the church were blessed, regardless of the myriad coats that they took on during their pilgrimages. Whether they skulked in the verdant underbrush of the forest, tromped about in the rust-red desert steppes, or tended to yet unexorcised dens of inequity that blighted the landscape, the warriors of the Holy Church of the Indefatigable Spirit of Man and All His Creations was dedicated to one thing and one thing only:
Fucking demons into submission.
Now, this probably seems, in a word, anathema to the preconceived notions that come part and parcel to how a holy warrior deals with demons. Honestly, most people probably think so at first, too. But there's a very good reason why the best way to do battle with a demon is to plunge a rock-hard prick into its (her?) dripping cunt.
The warriors of the Holy Church et cetera were, as previously mentioned, blessed. This meant that their fluids were quite literally anathema to the unholy and otherwise not very nice. Their blood sent vampires gagging. Their sweat may have felt gross to another human, but to a demon? It was honestly just revolting.
And their seed? It was one of the only ways to permanently pacify a demon. But not just at a touch! No, one couldn't simply blow their load on a pair of fat, eldritch tits and call it a day! To render such a change permanent, to indelibly render a demon safe, docile, and harmless, a warrior had to bottom out in their cunt, really hilt himself in her...and pump his consecrated load right into her womb. Only by flooding her sex with his seed could the taint of her demonic heritage be purged from its source, rendering her naught more than an exotic, sexually-insatiable "human."
The horns didn't really ever go away, but the wings and tail did. That's not really what most of the priests were concerned with in their prospective brides, but when you ran an organization that hinged on men literally fucking women submissive, you tended to take what you could get. If that meant you had a mouth-breathing lout gawking at a succubus' tits before they had a sex-duel to decide the fate of a village, so be it.
Speaking of which, that's exactly the type of priest that headed the group upon which this story finds its focus. Battleaxe hefted over his shoulder, rendered terrifyingly dull by his hard-won experience in battle, Ustrik trudged through the murk and muck of the Swamp of Ill Omens.
"Look alive. No time to stand around, boys," he rumbled, eyes narrowed at the crumbling tower of onyx before them. His bare chest crossed with scars, Ustrik exemplified the seldom-seen school of barbarism that the Holy Church called upon in times of need. Clad in little more than a hastily skinned bear pelt over his loins, Ustrik seemed incongruously comfortable in the misery of the swamp. He cast a glance over his shoulder to the trio behind him and cocked his head towards their destination. "Almost there. Ready?"
"I should hope so," panted Forto. Unused to prolonged physical exertion, his training as a cleric in the city hadn't really prepared him for the trek across the swamp. Once-white robes were stained indelibly grey by its residue, and, to be frank, Forto was sick of it. "I'm ready to be out of this miserable sludge, at least. I'd bed a thousand succubi before I crossed it again.
"Don't be so sure of that." Mikhail was, of course, quick to dispel notions of comfort at the end of the tunnel. His life as a ranger on the outskirts of civilization were, in this case, a double-edged sword. To him, it was a boon. His utilitarian armor, leather and oil-soaked cloth over it, was perfect for the slog to the Tower of Trials, but to the others? His grim outlook was seldom more than a reminder of the futilities of life. "Way I see it, we've got three steps back before we're in the city again. Into the tower, into bed, and back through the whole sordid mess."
Ritten, friend only to the shadows, was silent. He hadn't stolen a thing in, what, weeks? Days? Hours? Wasn't good. Wasn't how a thief operated. Not at all.
But their desires, their squabbling, their private doubts. Such pettiness had to be dispelled as they passed under its obsidian arches. For this was the final proving ground, the application of the theories they'd learned during their time as hermits. For though they saw themselves as their respective classes -- Ustrik, a barbarian, Forto, a cleric, Mikhail, a ranger, and Ritten, a thief -- it was not until they faced their mirror-rival in combat that they would be accepted into the priesthood of the Holy Church.
Why, then, did they each hesitate before the gate? Was it the inky void that extended past its creaking doors? Was it the unfamiliar chill that poured from its depths, like ice in the midsummer's heat?
Or was it merely the fear that they would fail? That they wouldn't be able to meet their demonic "better" half in combat, that they'd fall to the depths of depravity?
Ustrik shook his head with a growl. His singular focus was, in this case, a blessing, for such qualms took little more than a grunt to push to the side. "See you on the other side, boys!" He bellowed, lifting his axe from his shoulder and charging into the gate. If the unknown was to be feared, then Ustrik would make it known...!
And as the world shifted around him, turning from tepid swampland to the foot-tamped clay of an arena, Ustrik couldn't help but smile. The roar of an invisible crowd rang in his ears, and he was at home. A barbarian, as he'd learned, was no more comfortable than on the field of battle, and if that was to be his proving ground, he had already won.
Blood pumping, eyes tinted sanguine red as his frenzy settled over his mind like a familiar shawl draped over frigid shoulders, Ustrik prepared to face his opponent.
He didn't have to wait long.
She stepped out to the crowd's vehement disgust, though why she was met with such disapproval confounded Ustrik. Buxom, wide-hipped, the pinnacle of the Amazon ideal, she drew his eyes like a magnet. Everything about her stoked his lusts hotter and hotter.
She was just barely shorter than him, and given that Ustrik towered over nearly all he met, man or woman, this was no mean feat. What's more, her figure blended both feminine curves and raw, brute strength. Though her abs tensed as she adopted her stance, looking hard enough to rival stone, if not steel, her breasts wobbled with the same motion. Her thighs were thick enough -- and well-muscled enough -- to crack skulls between them if she chose, leading to hips that could only be described by Ustrik's lust-addled hindbrain as "child-bearing."
Everything about her promised passion. Mad, furious passion, rutting, fucking, graceless, sweaty, animal. He was a man, she was a woman.
Well, a minotaur.
But they would be joined in carnal matrimony, and he would find his place in the priesthood because of it. All he'd have to do is knock the gladius from her hand, strip her down from that scandalous attempt at an outfit -- little more than two brass cups covering her nipples and a loincloth similarly obscuring her loins -- and she would be as good as his! Like hell was he going to relieve the ache between his legs anywhere but between hers!
"Been a while since I had a proper man to test my mettle against," she sneered, the two of them beginning to circle each other. In a fight such as this, "sizing up your opponent" took on a very different meaning. "Most of the deacons now are too weak to carry a proper weapon. But that strength will be your undoing, brute." She smiled, cold, cruel, thrusting out her chest for his greedy eyes. "I know your type."
"You're a beast. An animal. The second your cock's s- Gah!!"
He didn't have time for monologues, especially not from fuck-meat like her. She was made to be bred, and he was going to breed her. Shield raised in a pathetic attempt to ward off his thunderous blows, the minotaur staggered at each mighty slash of his axe. Metal against metal, threatening to deafen the unseen spectators, and soon, soon...!
Soon her shield fell away, the minotaur stunned by the sudden, brutal assault. She shrank back, wide-eyed and shocked, and it was in those decisive moments that she suffered her only wound: a rough fall back onto her cushiony rear.
Ustrik smirked down at her, victorious. The crowd fell silent for a moment.
Only to erupt into applause when he thrust his fists into the air! He had done it! He'd bested her, as a priest bested his demon-bride, and passed his trial! The trivially cowed minotaur rose on shaky legs, cheeks hot with shame, eyes cast downward.
"Well done, my lord," she mumbled, made somehow modest -- despite her immodest attire. She tried to cover her body, failing just as miserably as she'd failed in battle moments ago. Not even two hands could cover the bottomless valley of her cleavage, especially when she panicked and dipped one between her thighs to try and hide her now-dripping sex. She squeaked when her armor vanished into sparkles, the trial itself having recognized her defeat. Licentious brass replaced by an intricate gold collar around her neck, complete with a humiliating bell that rested on her prodigious bosom, the minotaur was his.
All his.
Ustrik licked his lips and strode forth, his armor similarly vanishing in the wake of his victory. He was Adonis -- No! -- He was the Ares to her Aphrodite. The Heracles to her Hippolyta. And there was but one step before she was his to own forevermore.
The arena faded into the ether, replaced by what, he knew not. It was different for everyone, wasn't it? He'd heard of a paladin claiming his bride between the four posts of a princess' bed, but a barbarian...
