The first chapter in a story exploring exactly how Daemon acquired the nickname "The Sadist." We are, of course, assuming it is more than a bad pun on his last name (believe me, I know all about those).

Thanks to Min Daae for betaing this first chapter.

Note: this is just the beginning - it is leading into much more sadistic events...

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Daemon curved his lips in a mirthless grin as he spun with the dance on the polished marble floor of Dorothea's palace. The Rose-jeweled witch in his arms purred with delight, captivated by his musky scent and muscular body. It wasn't her, of course, that made him smile – in fact, none of the warlords or witches at this court could hold his attention for long. An Eyrian warlord prince, on the other hand…

Daemon hadn't seen Lucivar for more than fifty years but his brother hadn't changed. He watched as the Eyrian glided along the dance floor with his wings half-extended to create a small space around him and his partner. Daemon spared her a glance – a small witch bearing an Opal jewel, with dark hair and delicate features on a face that was turning heads in a room crowded with beautiful women. Lucky Lucivar. It was always the ugly, weak ones who enjoyed his pain the most, who used the whip and the ring and the safframate until he couldn't stand any longer, until he couldn't even crawl to their feet to beg for mercy. Maybe they were compensating for something.

Then again, no-one could find any complaint with Dorothea's appearance, and she…she was the worst of them all. He could see her now, sitting on the high wooden chair at the front of the hall, smiling in pleasure as she patted the head of one of her 'toys.' That could have been him – in fact, that had been him, only a few hundred years back.

Daemon growled deep in his throat and looked aside to see the whirling pattern of the dance change to a slow, steady beat. He stood straight and rocked the witch in his arms, pressing her head into his shoulder as her body curved into his. He smiled. He was going to enjoy teaching this one exactly why having him was a punishment, not a reward. The closer they get, the harder they fall – and Daemon was an expert at making the fall as hard as possible.

"Bastard."

The voice came from behind him. Daemon didn't turn as he answered, "Prick."

"Nice bit of meat you've got there."

"Not half as good as yours."

The witch half-heartedly pulled away from him, blinking confusedly. "Dae-" He pressed a finger to her lips, sensing Lucivar strolling towards his back.

"Mine?" Lucivar enquired. "Mine isn't pretty enough to be a common whore, let alone a warlord's…friend."

"Your opinion seems to differ from everyone else in the room, Prick. Can't you see the heads turning? And yet none are looking my way. It saddens me to say it, but it seems to me that my companion here has the face of a horse."

"On the contrary, Bastard, the lovely lady in your arms is easily the prettiest in the room."

Daemon sighed theatrically. "It seems, Prick, that you're not going to back down from your stubborn stance. Why don't we ask an unbiased observer?" He swiveled to face Lucivar for the first time, but addressed his words to the woman standing next to his brother. "Would you agree, darling, that you are exceptionally beautiful, and that my companion is uglier than a horse's arse?"

Daemon wasn't sure whether the witch was too dumb to sense the hidden undercurrents of their conversation or was smart enough to see the battle lines and pick the winning side. It didn't really matter, though. Either way, she was still too stupid to recognise the little game he and Lucivar were playing, and the simple fact that it was, for them, a game. "I couldn't agree more," the Opal witch said, smiling at Daemon. He returned the smile. "There, Prick. See?"

Lucivar looked faintly amused. "Bastard, this slut on my arm is merely jealous. If you want a truly unbiased observer…" He raised his voice to project over the music. "Dorothea!"

Activity on the dance floor stopped abruptly. Suddenly, they were the focus of all attention.

Dorothea looked up languidly. "You forget your place…slave."

Lucivar smiled. "I merely wished for you to judge these two…talented…witches. Which, do you think, is the most beautiful?"

Dorothea looked at him with narrowed eyes. Daemon could almost see her casting her mind back, recalling the last time he and Lucivar had been brought to the same court, and what had happened then. It had taken months for the rubble to be cleared, and decades to reform the valuable alliances shattered by the deaths of influential warlords. What short memories these Blood had.

Dorothea had obviously decided that he and Lucivar wouldn't dare cause any trouble. The pain she had given them last time wouldn't – couldn't – be easily forgotten. "I simply cannot decide," she said. "Does it really matter?"

"Of course," Daemon said sweetly. "Here, Prick. We'll settle this the old-fashioned way." He thrust his Rose-bearing witch towards Lucivar at the same time his brother shoved the Opal witch towards him. "Last one standing wins." Daemon smiled at Dorothea, and the blast of pain that came through the Ring of Obedience was just a moment too late to stop him unleashing a burst from his Red jewel, not at Dorothea – the Ring made sure he couldn't harm her – but at the ceiling above her, at the same time as Lucivar collapsed the floor underneath her chair. That should distract her long enough for the brothers to cause real damage to her fragile court – never mind the consequences.

Because what Dorothea had forgotten, what all her court had forgotten, was that when they were together, Daemon and Lucivar were not just fighting to inflict pain on those who had tormented them for so long. They were not just fighting for the sake of fighting, or to keep hold of the futile hope that they might, someday, break free.

They were playing a game. And neither of them intended to lose.

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