The Demon Soul by Richard A. Knaak

Zin-Azshari. With those last doubts erased, Malfurion realized there was one other person with whom he needed to speak before that happened. He could not leave Suramar without seeing her.
    “I must go,” he informed them. “There—there is something I need to do.”
    His cheeks must have flushed, for Krasus kindly nodded, adding, “Please give her my greetings, will you?”
    “I—of course.”
    But as he started past the elder mage, Krasus took hold of his forearm. “Do not steel yourself against your emotions too much, young one. They are a part of your calling, your destiny. You will need them greatly in the days ahead, especially as he is no doubt here now.”
    “Here?” Rhonin’s brow furrowed. “Who? What else haven’t you told us?”
    “I am only using logic, Rhonin. You saw the beast Mannoroth guiding the Legion when it first swept out from the city. You know that, despite him, we were able to not only cut off the portal, but also inflict serious damage to the demon army.”
    “We beat Mannoroth. I know. We did it in the—back home, too.”
    Krasus’s eyes had a veiled look to them that stirred Malfurion’s anxiety anew. “Then you should also recall what happened after his defeat.”
    The night elf saw Rhonin blanch. Brox, too, seemed disturbed, but his reaction was more like Malfurion’s. The orc understood that something dire was about to be revealed, but did not know just what.
    “Archimonde.” The human whispered the name so quietly that he almost appeared worried that its bearer might hear it even in Ravencrest’s sanctum.
    “Archimonde,” repeated Brox, now understanding. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and his eyes darted back and forth.
    “Who—who is this Archimonde?” asked Malfurion. Even saying the name brought a distaste to his mouth.
    It was Rhonin who answered him, Rhonin with his eyes unblinking and his mouth set in utter hatred. “He who sits at the right hand of the lord of the Burning Legion…”
     
    Captain Varo’then brought the news to his queen as he always did. With Lord Xavius dead, he had become her favored…in more ways than one. His new uniform—a resplendent, glittering emerald green with golden sunbursts across the chest—was the latest gift bestowed upon him by Azshara. His title remained that of captain, but in truth, he commanded more than some generals, especially as even demons followed his orders.
    Varo’then swept aside his glittering golden cape as he entered the queen’s sanctum. Her attendants immediately curtsied, then stepped away.
    Azshara herself lay draped across a silver couch, her head resting perfectly on a small cushion. Her hair, more silver than the couch, cascaded gracefully down her back and shoulders. The queen had long, almond-shaped eyes of pure gold and features of perfection. The gown she wore—a wondrous, translucent blue and green—displayed her curved form magnificently.
    In her hand, Azshara held a view globe, a magical art-piece that displayed for its user a thousand different exotic images of night elven creation. The image that faded away as the soldier knelt appeared to be that of Azshara herself, but Varo’then could not be certain.
    “Yes, my dear captain?”
    Varo’then forced his cheeks not to flush from desire. “Radiance of the Moon, Flower of Life, I bring important tidings. The Great One, Sargeras—”
    She immediately sat up. Eyes wide, full lips parted, the queen asked, “He is here?”
    A pang of jealousy struck the officer. “Nay, Light of Lights, it is not yet possible for the portal to hold the magnificence of the Great One…but he has sent his most trusted to finally make the way ready.”
    “Then I must greet him!” Azshara declared, rising. Attendants immediately darted out of hiding to take her train. The long, silken gown trailed for some distance. The skirt was cut so that the queen’s long, smooth legs briefly revealed themselves as she walked. Everything about Azshara spoke of