Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

Sargatanas' feasting hall was aglow in the copper light of a dozen tall four-legged braziers that were placed evenly around the central table. A running mural framed the wide room, depicting continuous scenes of ancient hunts with Sargatanas himself wielding famous weapons and joined by equally famous demons. Normally Lilith's gaze would travel upward to that mural, but this evening she focused on her plate, only glancing up to look at someone when she was addressed.

Seated across from her and Sargatanas and next to Andromalius were Put Satanachia and his Prime Minister, Pruslas. The Demon Major was, in this time of unrest, a welcome guest and easily the most powerful of her lord's allies. Satanachia was, she thought, extraordinarily refined, robed in layers of thin, nacreous flesh and delicate spines, his moving features fine and ascetic, reflecting what Sargatanas had once described as the "nobility of the Highest Order of Seraphim." The timing of his arrival could not have been better; not surprisingly, Lilith had learned that Sargatanas, Satanachia, and Valefar had known one another in the Above and had been regarded as inseparable. Satanachia was an engaging demon, exuberant in his storytelling, effortlessly pouring forth tales of his many hunting expeditions into the Wastes. Lilith had met him in Dis about as frequently as she had Sargatanas, and her impression of him was not dissimilar from that of her lord's with one exception: where Sargatanas was appealingly earnest, even serious, Satanachia's nature bordered on self-absorption. But because he was a true friend of her lord's she recognized Satanachia's importance to him and had, so far, been especially attentive. However, as her sadness deepened she listened only halfheartedly.

"... and once we got past the volcanoes that border the western edge of my realm," Satanachia continued, his voice mellow, "we were suddenly confronted by the Salamandrines who had been gathering in great numbers in hopes of streaming down toward my outlying cities. We slaughtered them all easily enough and then skinned their scrawny bodies for the hides. One of my tribunes knew enough of their tongue and was inventive enough to suggest that we leave them on the flesh-fields splayed out to spell a warning in the creatures' own language. They have not troubled us since." He paused for a moment, then added wryly, "Apparently they can read!"

A murmur of approval ran up and down the table and Lilith smiled perfunctorily. At her side, Sargatanas grinned without looking up while slicing his silvery meat with his clawed fingers.

"Satanachia, you must have spoken with Eligor by now," he said, indicating his Captain. "He is the scholar among us and is actually quite well versed in the Waste primitives. He finds them ..."

"Fascinating, actually," Eligor said with genuine enthusiasm, remembering Faraii's many stories. "They were here for eons before us, surviving in the harshest environments, almost, it would seem, preferring them to the more moderate ones. They believe ... or so I have been told ... that this toughens them and that if they can make do with Hell's worst then the other areas become effortless. It seems to work ... they are very nearly as tough as the Abyssals they live among."

"Not so tough as to dull a skinning blade," Pruslas remarked archly.

Eligor persisted. "True, I suppose. But I have been considering the idea of capturing a few of them alive and bringing them back here to study. They are much brighter than we give them credit for. We all might learn something from them."

"Just how primitive they are is my guess," added Satanachia.

An enormous bowl of blackened, chopped finger-fan was placed before Lilith, and she looked at it dubiously. She squeezed Sargatanas' arm and then rose from the table. For a moment all eyes were upon her; she supposed that they thought she was preparing to make some kind of speech, but instead she turned and headed for the balcony just off the feasting hall.

As she approached the leaded doors she could hear the sound of innumerable tiny taps upon their thick, obsidian panes; frequent gusts laden with hot cinders almost made her regret her decision to come outside. Stepping out onto the balcony, she drew her whipping robes about her. Brushing away the coating of cinders, she put her elbows upon the balustrade and squinted out into the smoky-brown night of Hell. As cinder-storms went, this was a mild one, but even so, she frequently had to close her eyes.

This place is all that I will ever know. It's Lucifer all over again. Sargatanas will go on and I will be left here. How can I have found him only to lose him after so short a time? How can I love him so much and yet not wish him to attain what he wants?