Seven

                                    

                                          
It's getting harder and harder to sneak up here. Arthos and Boras think I am shirking my royal duties, think I'm succumbing to madness.
                          
I'm sure they would break down this door if they thought I wouldn't execute them for it.
                          
Funny how they were so accepting of my father's secrets yet mine make them quake in their boots.
                          
He wasn't even the one who unlocked the sorceress, I was. Magic, I learned, must be freely given. It cannot be stolen. 
                          
And what she gave once, she will give again, even if it takes a little persuasion.
                          
I can be very persuasive.
                          
Case in point: the little psychic. All I had to do was suggest a lifetime of servitude for her and her kin and - wham! - terror.
                          
I could practically smell her fear wafting through the phone.
                          
A delicious aroma that spices the blood as surely as cumin or curry powder would flavour a fine cut of meat.
                          
Though even given over to the throes of terror, she'd never be a fine delicacy like the sorceress.
                          
Sorcerer's blood is the nectar of the gods. One drop and you're hooked. One drop and you'll spend your entire life yearning for nothing else.
                          
I should know. I want it even now. 
                          
I may loathe her, but it matters little. I still want to consume her. Fangs to flesh. Blood to lips. Until there's nothing left to take.