Sputtering torches broke through the dark in places, adding their smoky stink to the gloom of the dungeon. Somewhere water dripped, making the air damp and providing a toehold for mold and mildew to grow. All the torch light did was put the shadows into dark relief – it didn't illuminate the cells one iota. But Valen, possessing demonic blood, didn't need light to see in dim conditions. His night vision allowed him to see quite normally in this badly lit environment.

In the cell next to him lay Anara. She lay on her side, her hip forming a jagged mountainous outline with her shoulders. Several times a minute the v between her hip and shoulder would rise imperceptibly: proof that she breathed. His keen eyes watched her, waiting for any sign of consciousness. The explanation, when it came, would be difficult for him.

Clanging came from the left, and an imp carrying food of some kind entered the dungeon. It dropped one tray in front of Valen's cell, and the other in front of Anara's. Apparently they were the only guests down here. It left without saying a word or offering a look. Still Anara slept, the slow rise of her arm nestled on her waist the only sign of life.

Hours dragged by – days could have passed. It was difficult to say. Valen ate when he had to: hunger tearing at his stomach and threatening to overwhelm him. Mostly he sat, staring at the slow rise and fall of the arm in the next cell. Once, overcome with grief and despair he rattled the bars and screamed for long minutes, until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse.

At some point, Anara's breathing began to speed up. Her arm moved in a different way: upward to rest a hand on her hip. A leg twitched and she rolled over onto her back. One cough; two; and she sat up, looking around.

Her eyes were open but she couldn't see anything. So she shut them again, to close off the horror of where she was. Some sort of self defense mechanism kicked in, and she grabbed her knees with her hands, trying to make herself as small as possible. A voice came from the left, a voice she thought she knew. But this voice cracked and faded, as if its owner had spent too much time screaming.

"Anara," Valen whispered, his raw throat stinging at the effort. He cleared his throat and spoke again, a little louder this time. "Are you all right?"

"Where are we?" she asked, strangling a sob that threatened to break over her. "What was that thing?"

"We're in a dungeon. And the demon that brought us here was Grimash't – my old master. I'm afraid he's brought us to his fortress in the Abyss. I'm so sorry I got you involved in all of this…"

Silence greeted him. He could see her rocking slowly back and forth, her head buried in her hands and her hair completely covering her face. Rage bubbled up within him, and he wanted to tear the bars apart and howl at the injustice of it all. This was his penance to serve – she shouldn't be made to pay for his crimes. What Grimash't had in mind for her he did not know. But it wouldn't be good, and it would likely break his heart.

The reality of it all was overwhelming. And because it was overwhelming, Anara refused to believe it. The dark; the charnel stink; they were figments of her imagination. She pressed her eyelids tighter together and buried her head as far as she could into the cavity formed by her legs and arms, until all she could smell was herself. She closed her ears, so she could no longer hear the dripping of water beating a staccato somewhere to the right. She could no longer hear the ragged breathing of the man sitting in the cell next to her, or the occasional squeak of the rats that ran amongst the bones that littered the floor.

She'd had too much to drink – that was it. The whole thing, from waking that morning and finding the tiefling in the woods to this: it was a fevered break from reality brought on by too much whiskey. Soon Dayfid would show up, throw some cold water on her face and sober her up. In her state she would rage at him for refusing to let her be, but secretly she would be glad to see him: glad that he cared enough to come.

But the voice next to her was still trying to talk to her; still insisting that she acknowledge him. The staccato of the water grew louder, finding a counterpoint with her heart beat. Panic welled up, washing over her in waves with each swell of blood through her veins. That vital muscle in her chest beat faster as adrenaline crashed through her system. Breathing came quick and shallow: she had to get out of here.

In one clumsy movement she lunged up and towards the front of the cage, grabbing the bars with both hands. With every ounce of strength she had she shook the bars, screaming at the top of her lungs. The faint sputtering of the torches increased her panic, and a secondary surge of adrenaline coursed through her. She beat her hands against the bars in a futile attempt to break through, the timber of her voice moving up to a screech. As suddenly as it came on, the adrenaline drained out, leaving her limp. Body and floor met as she fell down, sobbing.

With a growing horror, Valen watched Anara's breakdown from the next cell. Almost of their own accord his arms reached through the bars, but the distance between them was too great: he could only graze the bars of her cell with the tips of his fingers. His strength was greater than hers, but he knew he could not bend the steel holding him prisoner.

Minutes ticked by, counted by the slow drip of the water and the beating of his heart. Still she sobbed at the front of the cell, crying until she was heaving and hiccupping. Valen tried to talk to her, but it was liking speaking to a ghost. Eventually the crying smoothed out and she slept. He collapsed against the back wall, guilt consuming him for having brought her here.

After a while, he fell asleep. When he woke up, Anara was gone.

XXX

Back and forth, back and forth, his tail swishing in annoyance and rage, he paced his cage. The imp would return soon to feed him, and he meant to get answers from it if it killed him. The ice blue of his eyes had smoldered to red, and with the change his demonic senses came to the fore. The subtle smell of smoky brimstone and blood increased, and he knew that he would soon have some answers, if not all of them.

Keys jangled in the lock on the main entrance to the dungeon. The door opened and a torch flared to life, illuminating the dingy interior and throwing everything into stark relief. Arms crossed in front of him, Valen stopped pacing and waited for the visitor to reach him. Time stretched and for an instant all that existed was his rage. Then he snapped back and looked up at Grimash't.

"Where is she?" Valen demanded, his voice a low growl.

"My, my, I've really struck a nerve, haven't I?" The demon tapped a cheek with one taloned hand, a malicious smile on his face. "What's it worth to you? What would happen if I tore her limb from limb in front of you?" He stared intently at Valen, watching for his response.

A brief look of shock flitted across his face before he got himself under control. So this was the plan. Grimash't intended to hold her hostage for Valen's good behavior. Her captivity would insure that he would do what he was told, or she'd be killed. Murderous intent crept into his face and he wanted to howl at his own impotence.

The balor chuckled, then laughed: a full, deep throated thing that shook the bars and rattled the bones scattered about. He stopped abruptly, taking a step closer to Valen. "You'll fight for me, tiefling, and you'll fight well. Or the human gets it." One long finger made a slicing motion at his neck, indicating what would be Anara's fate if Valen refused.

Valen's shoulders sagged in defeat. He was stuck, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He never should have tried to escape. All he'd done was to bring some innocent woman into more danger than she could possibly conceive of, just so he could pretend for a few weeks that he might actually have a choice. There were no choices in the Abyss: everyone was in thrall to someone else, and you'd better dance to their tune or there would be consequences. That you were just as likely to be promoted as killed made doing anything here risky, but every living thing scrambled about in a chaotic dance trying to appease the berk above them. They all lived and killed and died, pirouetting around to please the master of the realm. Even Grimash't was caught in the deadly ballet. He probably had as much choice in the matter as Valen.

"What do you want me to do?" Valen asked, understanding now how it was going to be. He would go off and fight. Every fight would bring him that much closer to being back in Grimash't's good graces. But it would never earn him his freedom, or Anara's. The best he would be able to hope for would be a room of his own. What would happen to his friend he didn't know.

"You will go to the barracks, with the first rank fighters. You will fight for me. For every battle you win, you get a boon. Do well, and you will earn your way back into my favor. Lose, and you get to watch girlie die. Then you die. Slowly and painfully. No one escapes from me, no one! You will come to wish you had never left, Shadowbreath." The demon lifted a hand and the door to Valen's cage unlocked. He turned, walking out of the dungeon. A few minutes later, Valen followed. The march to the barracks was a shuffling mockery of the first time he'd come here. Then he'd been full of defiance. He had believed he could escape. Now he knew the truth. He would spend the rest of his days fighting in the blood wars for Grimash't.