A Sword from Red Ice: (Sword of Shadows, Book 3) by J. V. Jones

By J. V. Jones

The lengthy evening has started. The Endlords and their darkish military of Unmade organize to unharness untold destruction upon the area. each Sull warrior needs to breakthrough and struggle, or threat the North falling into everlasting darkness. Key to mankind's survival is the sacred warrior Ash March. yet for Ash to grasp her precise capability as a succeed in, and turn into the Sull's maximum weapon, she needs to maintain herself secure because the perils that encompass her multiply. Raif Sevrance has an both perilous job. The exile needs to commute to the barren wastes of the pink Glaciers and get well the mythical sword named Loss. For Sull legend decrees that he who wields the Sword from crimson Ice will deliver terror to their enemies. yet fulfilment of those targets could but come too past due. within the distant reaches of the sour Hills, the Endlords' minions have made a cataclysmic discovery: a crack within the Blindwall, an historic and unguarded passage major without delay into the nation-states of fellows.

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The male body was of little aesthetic interest to him, and the female was so mutable, so much a function of its own motion, or that of light across it, that all static representation seemed to him doomed from the outset. But he wanted to represent a protean form now, however impossible; wanted to find a way to fix what he’d seen at the door of his hotel room, when Pie’oh’pah’s many faces had been shuffled in front of him like cards in an illusionist’s deck. If he could fix that sight, or even begin to do so, he might yet find a way of controlling the thing that had come to haunt him.

Martin-in-the-Fields, he found himself offering up a little prayer, its sentiments not so very different from those of the carols this congregation would presently be singing. He prayed that hope was somewhere out there in the city tonight, and that it might come into his heart and scour him of his doubts and confusions, a light that would not only burn in him but would spread throughout the Dominions and illuminate the Imajica from one end to the other. But if such a divinity was near, he prayed that the songs had it wrong, because sweet as tales of Nativity were, time was short, and if hope was only a babe tonight then by the time it had reached redeeming age the worlds it had come to save would be dead.

That hallucinatory chaos had been distressing, but the solid thing it had concealed appalled him more. Whatever sexual imaginings he’d shaped in the darkness-Judith’s face, Judith’s breasts, belly, sex-all of them had been an illusion. The creature he’d coupled with, almost shot his load into, didn’t even share her sex. He was neither a hypocrite nor a puritan. He loved sex too much to condemn any expression of lust, and though he’d discouraged the homosexual courtships he’d attracted, it was out of indifference, not revulsion.

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