There must be a mistake, thought Ezabell Winters. Why would Aziria do this? Ezabell fought to keep from falling into despair. She was accused of witchcraft. Knowing the punishment, the realization that she would be burned at the stake overtook her and her despair turned to fury.

With only a trickle of moonlight as her guide, Ezabell hesitated, holding her breath. Her legs gave way and she stumbled. She picked herself up and started out again, as the terrifying sounds of hungry hounds not far behind pierced her ears. She cringed. Ezabell had travelled this path a hundred times, but at night, the hollow of the woods was a dark and sinister place. She turned, looking over her shoulder. The cold night air stung her lungs with each breath.

The seething chants of the mob echoed behind her as well, causing Ezabell to shudder. She rolled the silken fabric of her petticoat between her fingers, the same fingers that used to entwine within her lover’s thick, black locks.

Ezabell could see the blaze of torches approaching. Her nostrils flared from the smell of burning ash. She watched as the swirling, fiery flecks flickered in the wind. The seared fragrance reminded her of what awaited her and she gasped, not sure which way to run.

“Aziria Savage, you will surely pay,” she groaned, kneading her petticoat again in her hands, and then set out once more.

Her chest rose within her tight corset as she negotiated the dark path as fast as her feet could endure. The night bestowed just enough waning moonlight to guide her; however, recent storms had blown debris across the wooded path, making each step to the sorcerer’s lair perilous. The mob’s ever-louder chanting heightened Ezabell’s fears; panic overtook her, and she became disoriented.

Not paying attention to her footing, Ezabell stumbled on a dip in the ground, and fell into a clump of damp and thorny branches, tearing her bodice’s lacy material and revealing her plump young breasts. With no strength left, she crawled on her hands and knees. Dirt and blood covered her feet as she tried to stand. She hesitated, holding her hands to her ears, trying to stifle the mad chants of the mob. She managed to find her footing and ran toward the clearing, as the chanting of the townspeople grew louder. Out of the mist, the stone castle took shape.

Breathless, Ezabell staggered and threw herself against the door. As if it were expecting her, the door swung open to reveal the dimly lit entrance hall.

“Aziria! Come out, you…you coward!” Ezabell trembled as her feet crossed the threshold, and her gaze immediately turned to the top of the stairs. There stood a dark figure in black breeches and an open white shirt, revealing a smooth-skinned, muscular chest, unlike those of the other men in the Colonies who were fat and fleshy. It was the sorcerer himself, the roguish Aziria Savage.

“Really, Bell, what’s all the fuss about at this hour?” Leaning over the banister, Aziria grinned. His eyes lingered on her exposed breast. “Mmmm, are you in need of my services, my love? You couldn’t wait; you started without me?”

Ezabell’s hand went to her breast, covering her nipple.

“No, don’t…the sight of that ripe, juicy breast is enough to make a young lad come in his breeches. I was just imagining how I would like to bite down on it ever so gently, but as memory serves me, you prefer a bit more force.”

Ezabell gazed as if spellbound by his bewitching visage. Pulling her eyes away momentarily, she remembered why she was there. “Stop…you had no right! How could you betray me like this?”

“Betray you? My dear, all I did was teach you the fine art of witchcraft. What you did with that power is not my doing.” Aziria gave Ezabell a crooked smile.

“Aziria…I did nothing; you were the one who used magic to silence the governor, not I.”

Aziria lifted a muscular leg over the banister and jumped onto the stairs below. “Now why would I do such a thing?”

“Aziria—they’re going to burn me at the stake for something you did.”

He made his way down the curved stairway and perched himself in front of Ezabell. “My dear, what have they done to you?” He removed the hand covering her breast. He lifted the torn bodice, brushing her ripe flesh, taunting her.

Aziria lightly touched her soiled cheek with the back of his hand. “What a shame, to waste such beauty.”

She pulled away from his touch. Ezabell closed her eyes for a moment then stepped forward until she was only inches from his face. “Why? Why have you done this?” Her voice cracked.

“Revenge my dear; an eye for an eye, like the Good Book says. Your father owed me a life and yours only seemed fair.”

“They think I’m a witch…”

“Are you not?”

“An apprentice—your student—yes, but…”

“Your father owed me.”

“My father owed you nothing. Why do you insist he had your beloved killed?” A single tear made its way down Ezabell’s cheek. “He did no such thing.”

Aziria took Ezabell’s chin in his hand and gently brought his lips to hers, letting his tongue find hers in a brief, but fervent kiss. Ezabell pulled away.

“Aziria…Did I mean nothing to you?” She remembered how he held her in his arms, the way he pleased her for hours before satisfying his own needs.

He nodded with an evil smile; she felt his wickedness. Was she wrong about him? Was he as evil as the Puritans and her father suspected? She couldn’t believe it was all for revenge. “No—I don’t believe you!” she cried.

Aziria’s smile turned colder still. “Your father killed my wife, whom I adored, and my unborn child, my heir, whom I will never hold; a child who will not carry on my legacy. They will be avenged, my dear, though I will miss the taste of your lips—like sweet nectar, so delicate—and, of course, that beautiful cunt of yours.”

The townspeople were pounding at the door, but Aziria did nothing except watch Ezabell’s shattered look. The door broke open, filling the threshold with a crowd of rowdy men and women; some carrying torches, others sticks. The leader was a minister, Ezabell’s own father, holding a Bible tight in his grip.

“W-would you be so kind as to release this witch, Mr. Savage?” His words were slurred with fear.

“Father…no, I beg you.” Ezabell began to tremble.

“Yes, release the witch!” the crowd roared. Their fury was almost as evil as their idea of what Aziria was.

“Please father—I did nothing,” she said, her eyes pleading with him, but the minister refused to meet her gaze. In that moment Ezabell knew that her father, though he feared Aziria’s powerful magic, would not hesitate to make an example of her—his own daughter—for following the desires of her flesh.

“Release the witch.”

“By all means…take her,” Aziria said, turning his back to the crowd.

Ezabell called out one last time, “Aziria, what kind of monster are you?”

Aziria turned around and said in a low whisper, “The worst kind…righteous and not pure of heart by any means.”