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criminal of some sort. How odd, since he was supposed to be a bastion of reason, a wise leader who liked to solve conflicts and discover solutions to complex puzzles.
    Rumor in the Lore held that a lie had never left Rydstrom’s tongue. Which must be a lie in itself.
    “Are you going to try to seduce him first or just spring the trap?”
    “Seduce him first. He might go demonic over his capture.” She smoothed her hands down her pale blue dress
    “You look good,” Lanthe said. “Sweet. Nothing says ‘do me!’ like pastel.”
    “That’s just unnecessary, Lanthe.” Since Sabine hadn’t wanted him to know she was a sorceress, she’d worn an elegant but conservatively boring gown. She’d thought it wouldn’t hurt to appear virtuous, which she assumed a good demon king would prefer.
    He had better like her shuddersome new look. Except for her ring, not a single ounce of gold adorned her body. No makeup, either. She’d left her hair unplaited, curling almost to her waist—without a headdress. And it felt wrong .
    “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Lanthe asked. “No second thoughts about taking one on the chin for Team Evil?”
    Eyes locked on her prey, Sabine murmured, “Not in the least.”
    A goal, a plot, a possibility…all lay before her.
    Once he staggered back to survey the damage to his car, crunching over glass and debris, the demon whistled in a breath at the sight, but his attention quickly turned away from the wreck.
    “Is someone here?” he called. With each second that he shook off the accident, his shoulders went farther back, his chin lifting, his demeanor unmistakably kingly . “Are you hurt?”
    Sabine didn’t answer, instead letting his voice roll over her. It was pleasingly deep-toned, with the British-tinged accent common to noble rage demons.
    When he loped in her direction, he snagged a cell phone from his pocket and peered at the screen. She heard him mutter, “Bugger me.” No reception out here.
    He wore a dark jacket over a thin black sweater that molded over his broad chest. His clothes were simple in cut but expensive-looking. Tailored, of course. No off-the-rack garments would fit his towering build and wide shoulders.
    The battle scar on his face carved across his forehead, then jagged down his cheek. He had to have received that injury before the age when he’d been “frozen” in his immortal body—she guessed when he was thirty-four or thirty-five years old—or else it would have healed seamlessly.
    The scar gave him a dangerous air that clashed with his royal bearing and rich-looking clothing, as did his horns, his fangs, his black claws…
    “I’d do him,” Lanthe said.
    “Since you’d do anyone, your comment is meaningless in the definitive sense.”
    “You’re just jealous.”
    Yes, yes she was.
    When he glanced back up, he met eyes with Sabine. His were the most startling green she’d ever seen.
    “Go now,” s he told Lanthe. “ Be ready to shut the portal directly behind us. Once I capture him, report my success to Omort. Loudly. In front of all the fools at court.”
    “Will do. Go get ’em, tigress. Rar!”
    With Lanthe gone, Sabine devoted her full concentration to him. His gaze narrowed as she made the night appear dreamlike. The stars shone brighter for him, the moon seeming heavier in the sky. Brows drawn in confusion, he started toward her.
    She could see him assessing her, his gaze flickering over her long hair, and over the modest gown that fortunately had grown damp in the humid night and clung to her breasts. When he peered hard at the outline of her jutting nipples, he ran a hand over his mouth.
    Time to get him through the portal. When she began sauntering along the road away from him, he said, “No, wait! Are you all right?”
    She turned to him but continued to step backward toward the trap.
    “I won’t hurt you.” The demon hastened after her. “Do you have a car out here?”
    “I need your help,” she told