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Within the Demon's Clutches
The princess fought the gust of wind but fell into the waves.
The demon thrashed and leered at her, his pupils black as caves.
He wrapped his slender fingers round her chest to steal her breath,
His talons clenched and pierced her skin—a searing grip of death.
He cackled like a drunken king and flashed his grimy teeth.
She knew she’d soon be eaten, swallowed into traps beneath.
But then she heard it; horseshoes pounding through the ashen soil,
A man appeared; he clutched a sword that made the ghoul recoil.
His mighty chin emerged below a smile white as froth,
His irises of amethyst reflected faith and troth.
His golden curls caressed his cheeks, then down his back cascaded.
The sides of muscles plump with youth, in light, were gently shaded.
The monster, trembling slightly, vowed he wouldn’t shun his goal,
But even then she felt her savior’s wrath would take its toll.
His features seemed so noble, so she knew he’d not recede,
Before he’d brought her safely home and kissed her in the mead.
But then he snickered, dropped the sword, and cried, “You shall not live!
You’ve disturbed this humble beast, and this he shan’t forgive!”
With that the demon brought her near, then grabbed her by the hair,
She tried to thrash but only swayed and dangled in the air.
The soldier would not save her, let alone become her lover,
For as she learned, one cannot judge a novel by its cover.