Eric

The Demon King twirled the trident. Suddenly, it didn’t look comical any more. It looked like a heavy metal stick with three horrible spikes on the end.

Astfgl smiled, and looked around. “No,” he said, apparently to himself. “Not here. It is not public enough. Come!”

A hand grasped each of them by the shoulder. They could no more resist it than a couple of nonidentical snowflakes could resist a flamethrower. There was a moment’s disorientation, and Rincewind found himself in the largest room in the universe.

It was the great hall. You could have built moon rockets in it. The kings of Hell might have heard of words like “subtlety” and “discretion”, but they had also heard that if you had it you should flaunt it and reasoned that, if you didn’t have it, you should flaunt it even more, and what they didn’t have was good taste. Astfgl had done what he could but even he had been unable to add much to the basic bad design, the clashing colours, and the terrible wallpaper. He’d put in a few coffee tables and a bullfight poster, but they were more or less lost in the overall chaos, and the new antimacassar on the back of the Throne of Dread only served to highlight some of its more annoying bas-reliefs.

The two humans sprawled on the floor.

“And now—” said Astfgl.

But his voice was lost in a sudden cheering.

He looked up.

Demons of every size and shape filled almost all the hall, piling up the walls and even hanging from the ceiling. A demonic band struck up a choice of chords on a variety of instruments. A banner, slung from one side of the hall to the other, read: Hale To Ther Cheve.

Astfgl’s brows knitted in instant paranoia as Vassenego, trailed by the other lords, bore down on him. The old demon’s face was split in a totally guileless grin, and the King nearly panicked and hit it with the trident before Vassenego reached out and slapped him on the back.

“Well done!” he cried.

“What?”

“Oh, very well done!”

Astfgl looked down at Rincewind.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Well.” He coughed. “It was nothing,” he said, straightening up, “I knew you people weren’t getting anywhere so I just—”

“Not these,” sneered Vassenego. “Such trivial things. No, sire. I was referring to your elevation.”

“Elevation?” said Astfgl.

“Your promotion, sire!”

A great cheer went up from the younger demons, who would cheer anything.

“Promotion? But, but I am the King—” Astfgl protested weakly. He could feel his grasp on events beginning to slip.

“Pfooie!” said Vassenego expansively.

“Pfooie?”

“Indeed, sire. King? King? Sire, I speak for us all when I say that is no title for a demon such as you, sire, a demon whose grasp of organisational matters and priorities, whose insight into the proper functions of our being, whose — if I may say so — sheer intellectual capabilities have taken us to new and greater depths, sire!”

Despite himself, Astfgl preened. “Well, you know—” he began.

“And yet we find, despite your position, that you interest yourself in the tiniest details of our work,” said Vassenego, looking down his nose at Rincewind. “Such dedication! Such devotion!”

Astfgl swelled. “Of course, I’ve always felt—”

Rincewind pulled himself up on his elbows, and thought: look out, behind you …

“And so,” said Vassenego, beaming like a coastful of lighthouses, “the Council met and has decided, and may I add, sire, has decided unanimously, to create an entirely new award in honour of your outstanding achievements!”

“The importance of proper paperwork has — what award?” said Astfgl, the minnows of suspicion suddenly darting across the oceans of self-esteem.

“The position, sire, of Supreme Life President of Hell!”

The band struck up again.

“With your own office — much bigger than the pokey thing you have had to suffer all these years, sire. Or rather, Mr President!”

The band had a go at another chord.

The demons waited.

“Will there be … potted plants?” said Astfgl, slowly.

“Hosts! Plantations! Jungles!”

Astfgl appeared to be lit by a gentle, inner glow.

“And carpets? I mean, wall to wall—?”

“The walls have had to be moved apart especially to accommodate them all, sire. And thick pile, sire? Whole tribes of pygmies are wondering why the light stays on at night, sire!”

The bewildered King allowed himself to have an expansive arm thrown across his shoulder and was gently led, all thoughts of vengeance forgotten, through the cheering crowds.

“I’ve always fancied one of those special things for making coffee,” he murmured, as the last vestiges of self-control were eroded.

“A positive manufactory has been installed, sire! And a speaking tube, sire, for you to communicate your instructions to your underlings. And the very latest in diaries, two aeons to a page, and a thing for—”

“Coloured marker pens. I’ve always held that—”

“Complete rainbows, sire,” Vassenego boomed. “And let us go there without delay, sire, for I suspect that with your normal keen insight you cannot wait to get to grips with the mighty tasks ahead of you, sire.”