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Give her a foe who came lunging at her with a sword, not one who pranced about chanting sing-song words and tossing bat dung.
    The witch arrived, ushered in by one of the ogre guards who couldn’t quit ogling her. Iolanthe had responded to the summons with such alacrity that Kitiara suspected the witch had been ensconced in a nearby chamber. From the glance she and Ariakas exchanged, Kitiara guessed the woman had been invited to eavesdrop on the conversation.
    Iolanthe was what Kitiara would have expected in one of Ariakas’s lovers. She was human, young (late twenties, perhaps), and Kitiara supposed men might consider her beautiful, if you happened to like a nubile, sensuous, voluptuous sort of beauty.
    There had been a time when Ariakas had liked Kitiara’s lean and muscular sort of beauty, but that time was long gone. Kit was quite content to let it remain in the past. She’d slept with Ariakas for one reason and that was to gain an advantage over the hundreds of other aspiring and ambitious commanders clamoring for Ariakas’s favor.
    Kit greeted Iolanthe with a cool nod and a quirk of her lips, which let the witch understand immediately that Kit knew why and how Iolanthe came to be here.
    Iolanthe returned the woman’s crooked smile with a charming smile of her own. Iolanthe had heard a great deal about Kitiara uth Matar from Ariakas and the witch had been intensely curious to meet her. Iolanthe was not jealous of Kitiara. Jealousy of an individual means that one suffers from feelings of inferiority and inadequacy, and Iolanthe was supremely confident of her powers—both physical and magical. She did not see the need to be jealous of anyone.
    Kitiara did have one thing Iolanthe wanted. Kit was a Dragon Highlord. She commanded men and dragons; she had wealth and status. She was an equal in the eyes of Ariakas, while Iolanthe was only his witch and his mistress—one in a long line of mistresses. The ogres standing guard outside treated Kitiara with marked respect. They leered at Iolanthe.
    The witch wanted what Kitiara had—power—and she meant to get it, though Iolanthe had not yet decided how. She was from Khur, a land of fierce nomadic warriors who fought blood feuds dating back centuries. Iolanthe might make a friend of Kitiara. She might become her most deadly foe. Much depended on Kitiara.
    “Explain your idea to the Blue Lady,” said Ariakas, as Iolanthe entered.
    Iolanthe made a graceful bow of acquiescence. Her eyes were violet, and she lined them with black kohl to enhance their unusual color. Those eyes met Kitiara’s, their gaze one of cool appraisal.
    Kitiara had little use for most men she met and no use at all for women, who, in her mind, tended to be soft creatures given to babies and hysterics. Kit could see why Ariakas had brought this woman to his bed. Iolanthe was one of the most striking, exotic females Kitiara had ever seen.
    “You are of Solamnic descent, I believe, Kitiara—” Iolanthe began.
    “I am properly addressed as Highlord,” Kitiara stated.
    Iolanthe’s black lashes flickered. “I beg your pardon, Highlord. Forgive me.”
    Kitiara gave an abrupt nod. “Proceed. My time is short.”
    Iolanthe cast a covert glance at Ariakas. As she expected, he was enjoying this. He generally found it expedient to keep his subordinates at each other’s throats, encouraging the survival of the fittest. Iolanthe had the idea that perhaps she could use them both, play one off the other in her own rise to power. A dangerous game, but Iolanthe was born with the blood of warrior-kings in her veins, and she had not come to Neraka merely to feel Ariakas’s calloused hands groping her.
    “Your father was a knight,” Iolanthe added, refraining from adding that Kitiara’s father had been a disgraced knight, “and therefore you are familiar with the politics of the Solamnic knighthood—”
    “I know that I get a blinding headache whenever politics are discussed,” said Kitiara