Chains

"This is ridiculous," the old king frowns. He moves his arms to indicate the obvious predicament he has gotten himself into. The chains clink and the manacles about his wrists clank.
Myrah giggles and places her hand over her mouth.
The king looks a little insulted, but he can't help with a half-grin of his own. "You find this funny?"
She keeps her fingers pressed to her lips, closes her eyes and nods. The giggle is almost hidden.
"I'd find that a bit disturbing if I wasn't so glad to see you. Get me out of these things, will you please?"
"Of course, Master," she teases as she approaches the wall to which the old man is chained.
"I'm only letting you get away with calling me that because... well..."
"Because you need me." Myrah titters as she searches the wall. The king makes no reply, of which Myrah is actually thankful. Of course, since it is the truth, nothing more needs to be said. But also, the light tone of their conversation helps Myrah keep herself together, too. Because the other truth is how much it upsets her to see her king—the human to whom she had been bonded—held captive like this by the very people he had come to for aid.
"Um..." The king moves his arms again. His arms branch over his head like two fleshy trunks of a tree. The chains rattle overhead through a series of iron loops across the ceiling and over to the opposing wall. "Can't you just release these shackles? There's nothing on this wall but me."
"I'm sensing a trap." She continues to press against the wall that the king rests his back against. "Besides, I'm too short to reach your manacles. I'd have to get something to boost me up there."
"You mean...climb?" The raise in the king's voice makes it sound like a question.
Myrah smirks. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Tell me, how well can you feel your arms right now, your highness?"
After a pause, the king sobers. "Not much."
"I'll have better luck at the opposite wall," she speaks gently. She uses a soothing tone to keep the situation from getting more tense than it already is. They both need clear heads for this. "Just trust me. I know what I'm doing."
The king exhales. "Of course you do..."
Myrah thinks. It's odd that trap was the first thing to enter her mind when she materialized in the dungeon. She wonders if that was just a result of the teleportation spell that brought her here.
"Don't worry. We'll get you out of here," she says.
"How did you find me?"
Myrah smiles. She's glad that here expression can't be seen in the darkness. "The queen sent me."
"Oh?"
Myrah smiles again at the successful side-step of the question. "It surprised her, and she wasn't happy about you going off for help like that without her counsel. But she does still care about you. She and the wizard sent me using a teleportation spell."
A growl rumbles out of the king. "You mean 'the lich sent you.'"
Myrah sighs. "He was the wizard at that point. And if it weren't for them, you'd be stuck here."
There is a snort and then silence.
Myrah takes a step back. "No hidden traps," she reports. She puts her hands on her hips. Her gaze follows the chains from the manacles up into the darkness. At that point, her keen eyes follow the tinkling of chains along the ceiling to the opposite wall where a cluster of chains emerge from the darkness again to reveal a barely perceptible cluster of tangled iron. She frowns. "I need light."
She fumbles in her pouch a bit to withdraws a transparent quartz crystal. She taps it three times and whispers its activation. A small light appears in the center, fragile like a winter's star. But it grows in brightness and confidence until the dark dungeon room illuminates by the crystal's blue-white brilliance.
"Well, now I know where that smell is coming from." The king nods at the remains in a far corner.
Myrah ignores him and studies the chains leading from the king's shackles. She frowns again. "This is what I was afraid of."
"You found the trap?"
She shakes her head and grabs one of the chains on the far wall that connects the king's right hand. "Maybe its more of a puzzle." She pulls the chain and his right hand raises a few inches.
"Oof.... Don't make this the rack now."
Ignoring him, she pulls the chain in the other direction. His right hand drops while his left hand raises. "I was afraid of that. It loops through. It looks like you'll get your wish after all. The only way to get you out is by releasing the manacles."
"That's what I said."
Myrah folds her arms and stares right back at him.
"What?"
"Somehow, you're going to have to give me a boost. There's no other way to get up there and pick those locks."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
She continues to stare at him with crossed arms until the realization comes to him, which makes him look down.
The bond between a daemon and a human is very close. Intimate. Many who summon such spirits seldom use them as anything more than servants and slaves, for by the Spirit Code, any daemon bonded to its master must do as the master commands so long as their master does not come to harm through the daemon's action or inaction. And Myrah was a special kind of daemon—a daemon succubus—a misnomer since it is impossible for a daemon, such as a succubus, to be fused with a daemon.
Despite the misnomer, the so-called daemon succubi are low-level, but highly charismatic, companions and confidants. Such highly attractive beings, eager to do the bidding of their masters, are imbued with a kind of protection to dissuade conjurers from indulging in any kind of carnal exploitation. Thus, when the will of any human being becomes violent or lustful, the daemon succubus would enter into a quasi-corporeal state. In other words, Myrah could not be touched beyond simple pleasantries. Anything, be it hand, sword, or lips, would pass through her as if she were motes in the morning light.
Myrah knows this, not simply because she knows the Spirit Code, but because it was already been proven one drunken night at the Outpost, much to the shame of the Man Who Once Wasn't King.
"Just close your eyes and think of something else," she says. She gives him a kind of reassuring smile.
The king shakes his hanging head. "That won't help. It might even make it more difficult. You'll have to perch on my bent leg and grab me while I feel you close. This will never work."
"Pretend I'm the queen."
The king looks up with a glare.
Myrah's gentle smile falters. She avoids eye contact. She feels it's her turn. After a moment, a light of hope returns to her face. "Think of your daughter."
The king's glare is replaced by an expression of confusion. And then a realization comes across his face. "Of course! Myrah, you're a genius."
The king holds one leg rigid and then bends his other up so that his foot plants firmly against the wall. He grits his teeth and holds his arms as rigid as he can for Myrah's purchase. Instead of closing his eyes, he stares at her with fierce concentration. "Do it."
Myrah springs forward, climbing up to the king's leg, then his shoulder. She withdraws a couple of lock-picking tools from the same pouch on her belt as she had done with the lighting crystals. In a moment, the manacle slip open, and the king's arm flies free.
Unfortunately, this causes Myrah to also fall from the shoulder that she had chosen to perch upon. Instinctually, she thrusts her arms out to catch herself, wrapping her arms, legs, and torso around the king's neck and body. It seems to be enough to break the king's concentration, and Myrah finds herself slipping into quasi-corporeality. She begins to fall once more.
But then, her motion ceases once again. Myrah realizes she has closed her eyes in anticipation of the impact on the uneven stone floor. When she opens them them again, she finds herself surprised to see the king holding her.
"Hey," he smiles gently. "You don't think I'm going to let you get hurt after you just rescued me, do you?"
Myrah can't help but let out a laugh. She sees now that with the tension of the chain relieved, the king had been afforded the motion necessary of his other, using them to catch the daemon at the last moment. He carefully sets her down to stand on her own two feet.
Once Myrah feels stable, she sees the king's own strength fail him as he crumples to the floor. He lets out a moan.
"Oh! My king, where do you hurt?" She kneels down beside the old man. She reaches a hand out to steady him.
He moans again. "All over. Getting strung up like that..." He exhales and then winces. "...makes me just want to lie here on the floor for a little while."
She puts his head in her lap and strokes his hair. "As soon as we get out of here, we'll get you a healer."
"Just a hot bath, a good meal, and a warm bed is all I desire." He grunts again, but otherwise remains still.
Myrah continues to stroke his hair until she realizes she isn't stroking anything anymore. The king's head now starts to slip away, and she is barely able to set it on the floor without too much impact. She stands and takes a step back, placing her hand to her mouth agape.
The king groans again. "I tried." He sounds miserable and tired. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't mean to think of you lustfully. You are my friend, and my love for you is borne of care and companionship, not desire. I hope you believe me despite the fact that—"
"Sire. Please. It is not your fault." She pauses to lick her lips. Her breath quickens at the foolish pounding inside her chest. "It wasn't you that caused my flesh to turn to mist."
The king manages to look up at her.
"It was me."