[Short Story] The Throne of Ash

 The obsidian hall swallowed the sound of their boots. Four of them walked the black mirror floor, and the fifth—the Hero, blade drawn, jaw set—led them past the pillars carved with screaming faces. Torches burned green along the walls, and the air tasted of copper and old smoke.

The Demon King sat on a throne of fused bone, one cheek propped on his fist, watching them come with the patience of something that had watched a thousand such processions. His horns swept back in twin crescents, black as the floor. His eyes were embers.

The Hero raised his sword. "In the name of the Goddess, I—"

"Let me save you the speech." The Demon King's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder. He did not rise. "You've come to kill me. You've brought your priestess, your elf, your knight, your mage. And you believe that because you are the Hero, this will end differently than it always does."

The Saintess stepped forward, her staff glowing white. "The light will burn you from this world, fiend."

The Demon King smiled, and it was the first honest thing in the hall. "Light." He finally stood, and the throne groaned. He was enormous—twice the Hero's height, a mountain of black muscle and scarred hide, and the women's eyes all went to the same place, the heavy length that hung between his thighs, thick as a forearm even at rest. "I have eaten light for breakfast for a thousand years."

He moved faster than a creature his size should be able to move.

The Elf loosed an arrow. It struck his chest and snapped like a twig. The Mage's fireball bloomed against his palm and died in his grip. The Knight's greatsword met his open hand, and he caught the blade, and he squeezed, and the steel crumpled like paper in his fist.

The Hero lunged. The Demon King took the sword in his side without flinching, wrapped a hand around the Hero's throat, and lifted him off the ground.

"See?" the Demon King said, holding him there, feet kicking. "That's the whole story. You bring your courage, your righteous fury, your beautiful women. And I take everything."

He turned to the Saintess. She was already backing away, staff raised, lips moving in a prayer that shook the air with white light. The Demon King walked through it like walking through morning mist.

"You prayed to your Goddess," he said, reaching her. "She didn't answer."

His hand closed over the front of her white and gold robes. The fabric tore from collar to hem with a sound like a scream, and she stood naked before him, pale and trembling, her small breasts heaving, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs damp with fear-sweat. The Hero watched from his grip, choking, unable to look away.

"No," the Saintess whispered.

"Yes," the Demon King said, and he bent her over the arm of his throne.

The Hero's sword clattered to the floor. The Demon King had dropped him, and he lay gasping at the base of the dais, and he watched.

The Demon King's cock came out of the heavy sheath between his legs, and it was a thing of nightmare—thick as a man's wrist, dark, veined, already slick with its own need. He dragged the head up the Saintess's spine, over the pale curve of her ass, and she sobbed into the stone armrest.

"Please," she begged. "Please, I'll do anything."

"You'll do anything anyway." He notched the head at her entrance. She was tight, dry, and she screamed as he pushed in, a single brutal inch at a time, stretching her open around him. "But you'll do it because you want it, by the time I'm done."

The Hero tried to rise. His legs wouldn't hold him.

The Demon King fucked her slow, deep, grinding, and the Saintess's screams turned to something else, something broken and wet, as her body betrayed her. Her hips began to move against him. Her fingers clawed the stone. When he pulled out and flipped her over and drove back in, her eyes were glassy, her mouth open, and her hands found his chest, his hips, pulling him deeper.

"That's it," the Demon King murmured. "That's my good little saint. You were never meant for that Goddess. You were meant for this."

He came inside her with a groan that shook the pillars, and she arched and came with him, her whole body convulsing, and when he pulled out she slid off the throne and knelt in the pool of her own wetness, head bowed, breathing in ragged sobs.

He turned to the Elf.

She had her bow drawn, arrow nocked, and her hands were shaking. "Stay back," she said, and her voice cracked.

The Demon King took the bow from her like taking a toy from a child. He snapped it over his knee. Then he caught her by the waist and lifted her, and she wrapped her long legs around him on pure instinct, and he laughed.

"See how your body knows," he said. "It knows what it's for."

He carried her to the throne and seated her on his lap, her back to his chest, and his cock slid up between her thighs from behind. She cried out as the head pressed against her, and he pushed, and she was wet already, her elven body betraying her faster than the saint's had. He sank into her to the hilt and she gasped, hands gripping his thighs, and he fucked her in that position, his huge hands on her narrow hips, her pointed ears twitching as she moaned.

"You were the one who shot me first," he said against her ear. "I'll remember that."

He came inside her and she shuddered and went limp against him, and he set her down beside the kneeling Saintess. The two women looked at each other, and the Saintess reached out, and the Elf took her hand.

The Knight was next. She had not run. She stood with her broken sword held in both hands, and her face was a mask of fury, and tears cut tracks down her cheeks.

"Fight me properly," she said. "Like a warrior."

The Demon King laughed, a low rumble. "I will honor your courage." He reached down and tore her armor away piece by piece, breastplate, greaves, the padded tunic beneath, until she stood in nothing but her smallclothes, and he ripped those away too. She was muscled, scarred, beautiful, her thighs strong, her breasts heavy and dark-nippled.

"On your knees," he said. "Show me what a knight's mouth is for."

She spat at him.

He caught the spit on his chest and smiled. Then he took her by the hair and forced her down, and his cock, still slick from the Elf, slid along her lips, and she bit him, and he laughed and pressed harder until her jaw gave and she had to take him. He fucked her mouth with long, slow thrusts, his hand in her hair, and she gagged and choked and hated him, and her hands came up to grip his thighs, and her hatred curdled into something else, something she couldn't name, and she began to take him willingly, her tongue working the underside of his shaft.

"That's my knight," he said, and he came down her throat and she swallowed it all, and when he pulled out she stayed on her knees, gasping, looking up at him with ruined eyes.

The Mage had been watching. She had not run either. She stood with her staff lowered, and there was something in her face that was not fear.

The Demon King turned to her. "And what of you, little mage? Will you burn me?"

The Mage looked at her three companions, kneeling, broken, wet. She looked at the Hero, crumpled at the base of the dais, weeping. She looked at the Demon King's enormous cock, still hard, still glistening.

"No," she said softly. "I don't think I will."

He took her gently, almost tenderly, which was somehow worse. He laid her back on the cold stone and spread her thighs and kissed her, and she kissed him back, and when he entered her she wrapped her legs around his waist and held him, and she came with a cry that was almost a relief.

Afterward, the four women knelt in a row before the throne. The Demon King stood before them, and he looked down at the Hero, who had crawled to his knees, who was staring at the women he had sworn to protect.

"You see?" the Demon King said. "They were never yours. They were always going to end up here, on their knees, wet and grateful." He gestured. "Look at them. Look at how they look at me now."

The Hero looked. The Saintess's eyes were soft, dazed, full of a shameful longing. The Elf's were bright with unshed tears and something hungrier. The Knight's were defiant, and yet her thighs were slick, her body still trembling. The Mage's were simply calm, accepting.

The Demon King walked to the Hero and stood over him. "You brought them to me. You should thank me for showing them what they truly are."

The Hero opened his mouth to speak, to curse, to beg.

The Demon King's hand closed around his throat, and he squeezed, and the Hero's eyes bulged, and his legs kicked, and then he went still, and the Demon King dropped him, and his body lay crumpled on the black mirror floor.

The Demon King turned to his four women. "Clean him up," he said. "Then come to my chambers. I'm not finished with you."

He walked away, and behind him, the women rose, and the Saintess looked down at the dead Hero, and she felt nothing at all.

---

His chambers were vast, hung with tapestries of conquest, lit by braziers that gave off heat like a living thing. A bed of black silk dominated the center of the room, big enough for ten.

The four women came in together, naked, still marked with his seed. They knelt at the foot of the bed.

"Good," he said. "You learn fast."

He lay back on the bed, propped on the pillows, his cock half-hard between his thighs. He gestured to the Saintess and the Elf. "You two. Entertain each other. I want to watch."

The two women looked at each other. The Elf's ears flushed. The Saintess's breath quickened. And then the Elf leaned in and kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, and the Saintess moaned into her mouth, and their hands found each other, and they sank down onto the silk together.

The Demon King watched, stroking himself, as the Elf's fingers found the Saintess's cunt, still loose and slick from him, and the Saintess gasped and spread her thighs, and the Elf lowered her head between them and lapped at her, and the Saintess cried out and fisted the silk, and the Elf's tongue worked her clit until she came with a shuddering cry.

Then they traded, and the Saintess buried her face between the Elf's thighs, and the Elf arched and moaned, her pointed toes curling, and the Demon King watched the two of them tangle together, mouths and fingers and slick thighs, until they both came again, panting, clinging to each other.

"Beautiful," he said. "Knight. Come here."

The Knight rose and walked to the bed, and he turned her around and bent her over his lap, her strong ass in the air. He spread her cheeks with his thumbs, and he looked at the tight rose of her asshole, and he spat on it, and she tensed.

"You've never had anything there," he said. "Have you?"

"No," she whispered.

"Tonight you will." He worked a finger in, slow, patient, and she gasped and gripped the silk. He added a second, scissoring her open, and she moaned, low in her throat, and he felt her body start to yield. When she was loose enough, he notched his cock at her ass and pushed, and she cried out, a raw sound, and he held still, letting her adjust, and then he began to move, slow and deep, and her cries turned to moans, and her hips began to roll against him.

"That's my knight," he said, fucking her ass with long, grinding strokes. "Taking it like a soldier."

He came deep inside her and she shuddered and collapsed onto the bed, and he pulled out and watched his seed leak from her, and he smiled.

The Mage was watching him. He met her eyes.

"Your turn," he said. "Come here."

She crawled up the bed to him, and he guided her to lie between his thighs, and he spread his legs, and he showed her his heavy balls and the base of his cock, still slick.

"Clean me," he said. "With your tongue."

She lowered her head and pressed her mouth to his perineum, and she licked, and she tasted his seed and her companions' juices, and she moaned, and she worked her tongue lower, over his balls, and then lower still, and she pressed her tongue to his asshole, and he groaned, a deep sound, and his hand came to the back of her head.

"That's it," he said. "Deeper."

She rimmed him, her tongue circling the tight ring of muscle, and he groaned and thrust his hips against her face, and she took it, lapping at him, and he came to the edge and held it, and finally he pulled her away.

"Enough." He sat up, and he looked at the four of them, and he stood, and he walked to a basin in the corner, and he filled it with water, and he returned.

He held the basin out to the Saintess. "I need to piss. Hold it for me."

The Saintess took the basin in trembling hands, and she knelt before him, and he stood over her, and his cock angled down, and a stream of hot golden water arced into the basin, splashing, and the Saintess held it steady, and she watched, and her mouth was open, and when he finished she looked up at him with something like devotion.

"Now drink from your hand," he said.

She cupped her palm and dipped it into the basin and brought it to her lips, and she drank, and she did not gag, and the Demon King smiled.

"Good girl."

He turned to the Elf. "Armpit. Show me."

The Elf raised her arm, and he stepped close, and he pressed his face into the hollow of her armpit, and he inhaled, and he groaned. Then he pushed his cock against her, and she understood, and she brought her arm down around his shaft, and she worked him with the smooth skin of her armpit, slick with sweat, and he thrust into the tight grip of it, and she watched his face, and she worked him faster, and he came across her chest and throat, ropes of white seed, and she let it land on her and did not wipe it away.

Last, the Mage.

He lay back on the bed, and he gestured to his feet, and the Mage understood. She took his enormous foot in her hands, and she pressed her lips to the arch, and she kissed it, and she worked her tongue between his toes, and he groaned and flexed them, and she sucked each toe one by one, and she pressed his foot against her bare breasts, and she moaned.

"All four of you," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "On the bed. I want all of you at once."

They came to him, and he took them, one after another, and then two at a time, and they tangled together on the black silk, the Saintess and the Elf kissing, the Knight riding him while the Mage knelt over his face, and he fucked them and ate them and filled them, and they came and came and came, and by the time the braziers burned low, they were his.

They knelt on the bed around him, slick and spent, and he looked at them, and he smiled.

"You were the Hero's," he said. "Now you're mine. And you'll never want to go back."

The Saintess pressed her lips to his knee. The Elf nuzzled his thigh. The Knight bowed her head. The Mage met his eyes.

"Yes," she said. "Master."

And the Demon King lay back on the black silk, surrounded by his women, and he closed his eyes, and he slept, and they watched over him like faithful hounds, and none of them thought of the dead Hero on the cold floor below, and none of them ever would again.