The little witch-doctor fell to the floor, his body already stiff and cold, his eyes the color of sour milk. Very distant and faint, he screamed as his soul slid down to a fate worse than death, to a place colder than Hell.

Lilith sneered. The fool thought she was just some demon to cast out with feeble ritual, and he discovered what all who had trifled with her realized: Lilith was much more than she seemed.

The woman who kissed her writhed in agony, her mortal form being ripped apart by the power she had stolen. It was a cunning trick, to be sure, but doomed to fail. Lilith was the original Scarlet Woman; all others were just inferior copies cast from her mold. She took back what was hers with another kiss.

Her grandeur restored, Lilith made her presence felt, and everyone in the room buckled from nausea. She shouted over the sound of retching. “Cease your pointless combat,” she said, taking up a discarded firearm and placing the barrel to her head, “Or this body won’t be fit for anyone to reside in.”