Willful eyes lay to rest on grim stone and rock; his knees are knocking and her lips slither back over a cage of yellowed teeth. Her head tilts inconsiderately; glistening slime globules on her whiskers. Is he afraid? He should be, he should be on the floor, groveling, begging, for her mercy, for her love, for her attention. It is improper for them to do anything but- she will not tolerate insubordination.

But the Stone Face is just a boy, and Lady Death is just a commoner.

The kaleidoscope of rainbow colors shift over them, fire red and ocean blue, starlight navy and copper gold. It glistens on her filthy coat, tattered obsidian; the colors smile, dull crimson and bruised violet, perched on her second spine. Twin soldiers on her cranium tilt and turn towards the colt. They are ominous ears. They are the scales in the underground, waiting, patient, to determine whether the heart or the feather is lighter. They are waiting for an answer, so verdict their compatriot can make. But his answer is not verbal; her eyes pin him, amber and white enfolding him, as he twists that head back and forth. Does he declare himself craven then? A bastard boy with nothing to his name but filthy honesty and idiot naivety?

No. He is watching her; eying her scars and her bruised bones, her ragged ears and wicked face. Nares quiver scornfully, and to match his former step back, she advances, indiscrete rot, the creeping of death. Is he a f r a i d of a wolf? A sheep then, a little lamb to devour. The ignoble queen pauses, lungs rattling inside her chest, neck drawing up tall and proud. Doesn't he see how much bigger she is than him? Doesn't he realize that her jaws are moments away from snapping down on his crest and caressing the curve of his poll? His own skin will melt, blind himself as it trickles into slate eyes. Gruesome grin curls at her lips; and then she hesitates again, because he makes a statement she rather likes the sound of. I just do what I like. Would he dip his head to her, if she demanded it? Would his fear override his pride? She didn't know- she wouldn't mind knowing. The hellion watches him shrug his shoulders, twitch off her gaze, and she gives a skeptical snort.

"Little lord," she rasps, scornful leer widening. "There is always someone bigger than you out there." Someone like her. Someone like Tyradon. Someone like the Demon King. "A horse stronger than you, faster than you, cleverer than you... if you let them, they'll destroy you. So you kill them first." Eyelids drift and scud across yellow and white suns; her breathing quiets, her gaze slip away from him, towards the grove surrounding them, verdant green. "Tell me this: If a wolf attacks a bear cub, who is braver? The victim, or the killer, who deals with the rage of the dead one's family?" Her lips curl, disdain and contempt, and she does not wait for his answer. "Neither. Only cowards make brave horses, and wolves and bears are not equines."

He turns his back on her.
That's a mistake. Only fools and charlatans ignore lords and ladies- of course, he does not know what she is, what she will be.
Breath snags in her teeth; muscles coil and curl. The heat of her amber gaze is withering.

The wolf's cranium shifts as she traces his path, his oblivion or choice ignorance of her. Hooves clink on stone. This place does not particularly interest her- but clearly it does to him, and she decides she will stake it as hers, if only to see his reaction. His, his, his. What a demanding child; would he be so quick to claim if there was blood on his hide? If there were hoof-marks beaten on his skin? Acid, sputtering and fizzling, down shoulder and flank and hip? She wonders where his daddy is, his sweet old mamma, wonders who they are. Do they know his astounding greed?

But she is greedy too, how can she blame the stone boy for that? A ripple of amusement sufficiently dampens her roused annoyance.

"It looks like the little lamb is a little wolf," she laughs. It does not echo, but it dies a slow death; it is cruel and wicked and whispers insidiously. "But you are you and now is now. A cub cannot defeat a herd of deer by himself." The succubus' cranium shifts again; eyes sharpen, yellow knives and golden swords. Of her name, he demands- she will not give to a tyrant in the making not yet, not now. Her released ghost of breath is unusually soft coming from such a vile character. "Nobody wants a little house in the prairies. If you want to be known, by everyone, you will need a crown and throne and scepter... as I am fighting for. I am a daughter of demons, boy. I can share my name, but only after you give yours."