The death mage reeled backwards, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, her chant cutting off mid-word. She gawped at him over her hands. “You punched me!”

Some men Riordan knew had archaic rules about never hitting women. Riordan thought those rules underestimated and undermined the power and potential of women. If a person came at him as a combatant, no matter the gender, he’d treat them as a real threat and respond accordingly. That didn’t mean punching every woman he met either, since that wasn’t the right response in most cases, but it sure felt damn good to hit this woman after all she had done and was continuing to do.

“Why did you do this?” Riordan growled at her. His fur stood up, his spirit armor responding as if it was part of his body because in truth, it was. It was just a different part of his soul and he let that aggression forward as he continued to press his advantage with another jab.

She blocked the attack clumsily, her magical robe absorbing the majority of the strike, clearly some sort of protective spell. The sound of splashing and sucking muck filled the air as she stepped back and Riordan followed, moving into a sequence of fast, close range blows from fists, knees, and elbows. She couldn’t shake him off or counterattack and he couldn’t land a serious hit past her stupid shield. He needed to boost his power more, but had no idea how to do that without letting it switch back into a casting battle, where she had the upper hand.

His foot caught on one of the submerged ropes, not quite tripping him. Riordan lost his momentum, twisting to keep his balance. The death mage pulled further away from him, arms up in a sloppy guard and her breath coming in harsh pants. Her attempt at mysterious and beautiful was utterly foiled by now, her face flushed in splotchy red and her hair wild and disheveled.

“Monster,” she spat at him, “You’re just like the rest! Always resorting to brute strength and violence when a woman won’t submit to you!”

“Since when does almost murdering me and then trying to attack me with death magic equal ‘not submitting to me’? I had no idea you existed, bitch, not until you and your goons attacked me!”

“Oh, and you’re going to just walk away now? You don’t want revenge for having a woman one-up you?” She was furious and fuming at him, practically spitting her words out.

On some level, Riordan knew there was no point in arguing with insanity, but he hoped he could goad her into a mistake, whether in combat or information. “You’re a murdering death mage! Given the corruption is already making you escalate, no, I wouldn’t walk away even if I could. Unless you plan to stop harming anyone and give up using magic?”

Oh, she didn’t like that. She shrieked at him like some banshee, her eyes flashing black. “You’re just jealous because I have more power than you! You wish you could be like me. Your pathetic male ego can’t handle me having power over you!”

Riordan snorted at how off base her arguments were. He’d certainly met men like that, unable to handle any sign of intelligence or skill or dominance from a woman without needing to lash out, but she was making a false equivalence. She clearly was passionate about this and either she’d always been blind to how to apply feminist ideals fairly or her ideals had been twisted by her descent into madness. Given he was pretty sure she had decided to murder domestic abusers and then started a cult based around a goddess, he was pretty sure it was both.

“You have enough ego for a whole circus,” Riordan shot back. Her hands were dropping slowly and he began building an image and intention in his mind. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to get enough damage past her robe, not with undirected brute strength in a place chock full of death energy. What he wanted was to either trap her or track her.

She blinked and some of the wildness and darkness retreated from her eyes. Straightening, she watched him with a curious expression, as if she was seeing him for the first time. “What is your name?” she asked abruptly.

Surely she didn’t think he’d answer that. Riordan looked at her like she was an idiot, trying not to lose the image of a tracking spell that he could slip inside her soul. Death mages could touch on some spiritual aspects due to the overlap, but the direct manipulation of the spirit didn’t come naturally to them. Unless she was a more adaptable mage than he expected, she wouldn’t be able to remove a spell hidden there.

“I am Phenalope,” she offered, her tone almost conversational. Her body language had relaxed, though Riordan knew she was still shielded. Good. Perhaps he’d be able to slip the spell past her robe. More than that, he was surprised she gave him a name, even if it sounded fake as hell.

He told her as much. “That can’t be your legal name.”

“No, but it is my true name,” she shrugged. Then Phenalope took a step forward, casually as if going for a stroll and not stepping closer to a man who had been trying to punch the shit out of her. She definitely had guts, which Riordan could respect while wishing she had been more of a coward.

Riordan’s instincts screamed for him to back away, but he gritted his teeth, staying where he was at in a defensive stance. If he was going to get a spell past her shield, it was going to have to be at close range.

“Names have power,” Riordan replied, trying to keep up the conversation to hide his intentions. He had no problem with her assuming he was going to attack physically, both because it would have been weird for him to stop and because he totally was going to, but he hoped she didn’t have a counter for his magic. It wasn’t like Riordan had done much magical dueling that didn’t involve partially shifting and ripping someone to shreds while they tried to do the same right back.

She nodded. “You understand.”

And then she was on him, flowing into his personal space, her movements unimpeded by the swamp of power sucking at his legs. Riordan’s right hand shot forward, slipping under her hood to grip her face. “Mark and cling. Flare and guide,” he cast in Yiddish.

He felt his magic flow down the point of contact, soul to soul. There was resistance, but Riordan threw the weight of his spirit against it, bolstered by the safeguard spell, and his spell slipped through. Relief at having accomplished that swept through him. That spell should light up her spirit for anyone with enough spirit magic to go looking.

Unfortunately, as he touched her, she touched him, her hand clamping down on his left arm. Specifically, Phenalope touched the rope binding Riordan. It had stayed quiescent, even in the ritual space, suppressed by the effects of his spirit armor manifesting. As soon as she made contact with the rope, that passive suppression shattered. The binding ropes of the killing tree ritual sprang to life, lashing out from his arm to wrap around one of the tree branches and pulling taut. The motion yanked Riordan sideways, dragging him through the muck but not letting him fall as his shoulder suddenly took his whole weight for a brief sharp second.

Riordan snarled in pain, forcing his feet back under him and spinning to face the death mage. As bad as it was to be bound, he didn’t dare take his eyes off of her. Phenalope had one hand pressed to her cheek where he’d just touched her, a range of emotions flashing across her face in rapid succession. Anger, madness, shock, awe. Greed. She dropped her hand finally, apparently satisfied that he hadn’t managed to do anything to her, unable to see the spell nestling quietly into her. It wasn’t an attack really and didn’t seem to be triggering any automatic defenses.

“You’re a mage,” she breathed, her voice thick with excitement. “No wonder you have caused me such trouble. What I have earned via rite and sacrifice, the Goddess gifted to you directly.”

Riordan bared sharp teeth at her, his black eyes flashing behind his mask. The rope held his left arm at an awkward angle, any spare slack tightening with every second. “Bet that burns you. Your Goddess favored a man over you.”

Anger flared in her eyes again, but the hunger for power consumed all else. She looked at him and saw possibilities. Riordan preferred when she looked ready to claw his face off with her bare hands.

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, thinking out loud, “Hence, you are not gifted, but are the gift. A gift to me to teach and serve me. Yes, I like that.”

Riordan, on the other hand, liked nothing about that conclusion at all. No way in hell was he some sort of gift-wrapped magic-user to teach mad Phenalope all the joys of being a real mage. He wrapped his left hand around the rope binding him, getting a good grip, and used that for leverage to kick out. He caught Phenalope by surprise, his boot landing right in the middle of her chest and sending her sprawling into the swamp muck with a slurping splash.

She rose back up again, dripping and shrieking in rage again. He prepared to attack if she approached again, but Phenalope took a deep breath, clearly wrestling those wild emotions back down. Then she burst out laughing, the noise harsh and dampened by the fog yet it sent shivers down Riordan’s spine.

“You are a wild creature. No wonder you appear as such an animal. Strong, violent, crude, and so full of potent life,” she cooed, staying well out of Riordan’s reach. All she needed to do was come closer and he’d show her violence. If she stayed away, well, it was well past damned time for Riordan to try and get out of here.

“You have some sick kinks,” Riordan growled, tugging on the rope restraining him and trying to figure out how to rework the gateway spell to be one-handed. He might have to use a less efficient spell made of intention, but he’d have to be careful to make sure she didn’t follow him. “Come closer and I’ll show you wild, damn it!”

“Such fire,” Phenalope grinned at him. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”

Then she began to chant.