You fight, and win!

You strike at the vines, retreating a step away from the hasterum. The weakness you had felt before has returned with a vengeance among the cloud of scent filling the room. You feel weak and aroused, the holy sword heavy in your arms and your veins afire with desire to be touched, stroked, used. But no! You cannot fail again. You will not! You beat back the vines, blade flashing in silver arcs through the darkness of the room.

“Just give in,” the striga coos, her voice like velvet. “I can smell your arousal. You want to. You cannot fight it. Why resist peace?”

The striga’s words echo through your mind, and with them, a realization. She has already revealed their weakness. You swipe your blade, severing those vines nearest, then suddenly whirl about and leap for the striga. The wooden woman did not expect this. Her glowing red eyes flash as she tries to jump away. Steel strikes wood and the striga screams, holding an arm that ends suddenly at the elbow. You land, and fall to your knees, weakness and scent bearing you down. You glance back, but the vines have stopped, drooping slowly. You turn back to the striga.

Corrupted sap oozes red like blood from the wound as the demoness retreats to the doorframe, holding the literal stump of one arm against her bountiful chest.

“Accursed bitch!” the green woman gasps.

You rise from your lunge, but wearily. Though the vines no longer reach for you, the musk of the black lotus crowds your thoughts. You feel weak, your legs shaking, but you cannot show it. You raise the sword with both hands, the edge erect and aiming for her.

“Well,” you say with conviction you do not possess. “Come on then, demon. I will send you back to the pit which spawned you.”

The striga hesitates. You cannot read the glowing red of her eyes. You pray to the goddess she does not call your bluff.