“How did you do that?” Liska coughs. “Do what?” “That was a Driada tree. They hardly even obey me, and I created them.” There are red marks on his face and neck from the blunt nails of utopiec, his shirt torn nearly in half and hanging in tatters around his pale, well-muscled chest. It takes all of Liska’s willpower not to stare. “I just asked it politely,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt. “She asked it politely.” The demon makes a sound that is half laugh, half wheeze. “I resent you, you absolute madwoman.”
