Anathema, panting and with his sword drawn, stood in the thick forest. He threw his gaze around frantically. He"d lost his opponent, but he knew she was somewhere near him. She had to be. Anger rose up within him.
“Malla!” he roared. The trees shook, casting a flurry of leaves around the clearing. A quiet rustle alerted his attention and he spun around, sword poised and his stance defensive. From a dense area of trees stepped a tiny girl, surely no more than six years old. She had gentle locks of auburn hair and wide innocent eyes, as well as a malicious grin.
Anathema pointed the sword at her, his eyes narrowed. Why had Malla chosen to take this form? It would be easy to crush her. Easy and delightful. But he was not fooled. She must have chosen the form of a little girl to lull him int
