"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

something so concrete, so dangerously fascinating. Considering how much he'd had to drink, he was
amazed that the creature was coherent.
Then he realized how much danger he was in. And from somewhere he dredged up a prayer of
protection, that he muttered under his breath as he retrieved his glass and launched it at the demon thing,
as hard as he could. Willing the creature to respond to him, in the way that the faeborn so often
responded to members of his family. Filled with a sudden fury that the thing would pick this moment to
accost him.

The demon didn't move. The glass passed through its flesh and hit the far wall, where it shattered. Sweet
cordial dripped from the wainscoting.

"You didn't create me," the creature informed him, "and you don't have the skill to banish me." Its voice
was like cracked glass, jagged and brittle. "I came to talk to you. Of course, if you feel a need to destroy
more glassware first...." It nodded toward the bar. "I'll wait."

The demon's tone-cultured, sardonic-utterly disarmed him. "What do you want?" he stammered.

"I came to help you. To save you."

"No!" He knew the ways of demonkind enough to grasp that it was looking for an opening, some way to
get to him. Even in his drunken state he knew the danger of that. "Get away from me!"

"You're empty, Andrys Tarrant." The gleaming eyes fixed on him. "So very empty. You try to fill the hole
inside you with alcohol, with drugs, you try to bury it beneath a thousand and one couplings, but it won't
go away, will it?"

"Leave me alone," he whispered hoarsely. "I know what you want. I won't cooperate. I won't-"

"Even though I can heal you?" the demon demanded. "Even though I can fill that emptiness inside you,
and give you life again? Do you really want me to leave?"

He shut his eyes, and his shaking hands curled into fists. Lies. They had to be. Lies and deceptions,
custom-tailored to his needs. He couldn't afford to listen to this creature, or to hope. The cost was too
high. The minute he agreed to let this thing minister to his needs he would find himself sucked dry of
blood or brains or dreams or some other vital substance... because that was how demons worked,
wasn't it? Once you gave them an opening, you were as good as dead.

But what did he have to lose?

From a distance-as if from another man-the words came to his lips. "Go on," he whispered. "Tell me."

"You have an enemy. I'm going to destroy him. For that I need an ally. A human ally. In short, I need
you. And I'm prepared to barter for your service, by giving you a way to earn your peace."

"My family was murdered. You can't change that. Whatever you're offering-"

"How about revenge?"

The words stopped him cold. "He would kill me," he breathed. Aware of a spark of hope that had
suddenly been kindled with that word. Afraid to feed the flame. Unwilling to smother it. "I wouldn't stand