This is the third chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The second chapter, What Came Before, can be found here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-ii-what-came-before
The first chapter, Awakening, can be found here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-i-awakening
Image credits (in order of appearance): Petr Joura
“You can either come to Azaba’ar with us peacefully,” said Baal-Kephor, pointing his caliver at Zeraga, “or we can bring you back in chains.”
Baal-Kephor was a nine-foot-tall devil who rippled with muscle. His head was reptilian and covered in black scales, and his snout was flat and almost boar-like. Above his snout were beady red eyes, twisted ears, and straight horns that jutted up diagonally from his forehead. His arms and torso were man-like, covered in skin that had been tanned from millennia under the Addaduran sun. Upon Baal-Kephor’s left shoulder was mounted a great iron pauldron bearing the sculpted head of a dragon surrounded by spikes, and bat-like wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. A belt of skulls wrapped around his waist; from it flowed an onyx half tabard upon which was a bone white fang. Black scales armored bestial legs that ended in savage talons.
The devil’s caliver, held in his left hand, was a stout weapon wrought from iron, and its barrel was shaped like a hexagonal prism. Each side was engraved with a line of geometric Nyrrakhân runes that glowed with a hue somewhere between orange and red. In his other hand, Baal-Kephor gripped a thick war-blade of black adamantine that had two pairs of barbed hooks midway up the blade. Upon the lower half of the blade was a wide blood channel that ended just above a double guard that was set with rubies. Strips of crimson scales were wrapped around the hilt of the mighty sword.
Accompanying Baal-Kephor were nine other Fangs of Azazel; the ten devils surrounded Zeraga and Zamyyr, and they were mounted upon black, skeletal horses with eyes, manes, hooves, and tails of seething hellfire. Each of the nine other Fangs, like their leader, was a winged hybrid of human and beast larger and stronger than any mortal. The devils were armed and armored with panoplies of spiked, sharpened steel, and upon an iron pole held by one of the Fangs was mounted the banner of their warband: a crossed fang and sword, both dripping blood, on a field of burnt sienna.
Only a few moments prior, Zeraga and Zamyyr had been flying through the skies of Addaduros, ever vigilant for the sight of the River Styx that wended through the blasted landscape like a great serpent. A hellfire portal had then burst open behind the travelers, and the Fangs of Azazel had emerged, their kuurzanaals galloping across the open air as though it were solid ground.
Zeraga fixed his gaze upon Baal-Kephor, recognizing the devil but not remembering from where. With the recognition came a feeling of anger, too. Had Baal-Kephor been responsible for one of his deaths?
“Why should I come with you?” the Doomfire asked, his gaze drifting appraisingly about the Fangs of Azazel. Already, he could feel the first tendrils of the crimson pall coiling within his mind, brought on by the hunger radiating from Hellscythe.
Baal-Kephor grinned sardonically. “I would like to remind you of the simple fact that ten is greater than two. Besides, Lord Azazel is not unmerciful; he only wishes to speak with you, but he insists that his command be obeyed.”
You aren’t seriously considering going with them, right? Zamyyr asked telepathically, speaking only to Zeraga. The Crimson Dragon had already assumed a fighting stance. If we go to Azaba’ar, we’ll likely never leave.
And think about all of the delectable essence inside of them, just waiting to be reaped… Hellscythe added tantalizingly.
“I have only been so lenient with you because you are the Doomfire,” Baal-Kephor said, “However, that lenience will soon come to an end.”
It was Zeraga’s turn to grin sardonically. “Is this how the greatest of Lord Asmodeus’s champions is treated when he is a guest in a Hell that is not his own?”
Baal-Kephor’s only response came in how he flexed his grip on his sword. The other Fangs of Azazel and their kuurzanaals stirred impatiently.
I hunger… Hellscythe growled.
I know. Zeraga replied. Let us slaughter them. Let us slaughter them all.
The crimson pall fully engulfed the Doomfire’s mind as Hellscythe pumped rage and vigor into its wielder; fulminations followed as scintillating strands of hellfire formed a sword and shield in the devil’s grasp; his expression slid into a mask of unfettered hatred.
Baal-Kephor fired his caliver. All of the runes upon it flared up as a superheated ray screamed forth, hotter and brighter than hellfire, distorting the surrounding air in heat wash. Zeraga stopped flapping his wings, dropping a few feet and causing the ray to pass harmlessly overhead; he then snapped his wings forcefully and began to hover again.
Zamyyr had already thrown himself at one of the Fangs of Azazel, the runes on his monolithic, bladed weapons of bone and metal blazing bright as they became ensorcelled in crimson lightning and lurid orange hellfire. Both the Fang and his mount fell in a gory cacophony of ruination.
Another Fang charged down at Zeraga. The Doomfire whirled out of the way before swinging Hellscythe. Slaughter! the weapon screamed as it tore through the chest of the kuurzanaal that had come too close too quickly, too eager to lay low the one who had denied the will of Azazel. A miasma of crimson mist poured from the Fang’s wound and flowed into Hellscythe.
Above, Zamyyr’s arms rose and fell in a jaunty rhythm as he dueled two Fangs and their mounts at once, his Axxcrudyr seething as they spat torrents of hellfire and lightning. As the Fangs raised their weapons to strike again, Zamyyr darted up and lashed out at their exposed torsos. A sickly tearing sound came as the Crimson Dragon’s wrathful blades struck home, disemboweling his foes. Their exposed organs burst in red showers as they were ravaged by the sorcery of Zamyyr’s weapons.
Baal-Kephor fired his caliver again, drowning out the din of battle with its lungless howl. The superheated ray perforated Zeraga’s left pauldron and burrowed entirely through the flesh of his shoulder before punching through the other side of the pauldron. Zeraga cried out in agony as evaporated gore wafted from the wounds. The Fang of Azazel whose mount he had slain a moment earlier lunged to exploit the opportunity, sweeping his axe at Zeraga. The Doomfire jolted his arm up just in time to block with his hellfire shield, sparks bursting from it as it absorbed the axe’s impact.
From Zeraga’s left came another Fang; the forehooves of the devil’s mount slammed into the Doomfire’s side and sent him hurtling downward. A third shot from Baal-Kephor’s caliver followed, narrowly missing Zeraga. A desperate pound of his wings allowed him to recover as the vigor of his blood-rage began to close his wounds.
Zamyyr continued to fight, but the web of metal, lightning, and hellfire that he wove was barely enough to hold back the unrelenting onslaught of the Fangs of Azazel and their skeletal mounts of shadow and flame. We need to retreat, master.
The notion filled Zeraga with rage. The Doomfire did not retreat. “Slaughter!” He charged at Baal-Kephor, Hellscythe raised high.
Slaughter! the demoniac weapon screamed, intensifying Zeraga’s blood-rage. The wound that had been inflicted by Baal-Kephor’s caliver was now scarred over.
One of the Fangs of Azazel, a howling she-devil, broke off from attacking Zamyyr to bar Zeraga’s way. Ropes of gore and gobbets of flesh flew through the air as the Doomfire mangled the she-devil and her mount with wrathful strokes of Hellscythe, all the while blocking any attempts at retaliation with his hellfire weapons. Hellscythe guzzled the crimson mist that flowed from the ruined corpses as a drunkard did ale, and Zeraga continued his charge.
Baal-Kephor fired his caliver three times in rapid succession. Zeraga soared above the rays and outstretched two of his hands; a wave of hellfire exploded forth and fell upon his foe. The leader of the Fangs of Azazel cried out as the flames ravaged him, his skin sloughing off as it was melted from his flesh, and his next shot flew wide as he failed to aim it. Zeraga descended upon Baal-Kephor like a meteor, screaming “Slaughter!” as he closed the distance and hacked at his foe with Hellscythe. Baal-Kephor parried with his adamantine war-blade, and his kuurzanaal breathed hellfire upon Zeraga.
The Doomfire blocked the kuurzanaal’s barrage with his hellfire shield and then powered the eldritch weapon forward, crumpling the skull of the skeletal horse, its blood, bone, and brains sizzling from the intense heat and leaving a charnel stench in the air. Baal-Kephor released his dead mount and shunted back, firing his caliver as he did so. Zeraga raised his hellfire shield, and the ray from the caliver punched through it, grazing his armor before soaring into the open space beyond.
Behind you, master! Zamyyr called.
Zeraga whirled around just in time; two Fangs of Azazel, still mounted, were charging him. The next moments passed in a flurry of hacks, slashes, thrusts, and flames as the Doomfire butchered his foes, and still more carnage bloomed from Zamyyr’s carving blades. As the shattered corpses fell away, Zeraga, drunk on blood and rage and thirsting for more, turned once more upon Baal-Kephor.
The devil had already conjured a hellfire portal. “You’ve won this time, Doomfire. But make no mistake, this is not the end.”
“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he charged Baal-Kephor, conjuring and hurling a hellfire spear as he did so.
Baal-Kephor shot the hellfire spear out of the sky as he slipped through the portal. It slammed shut behind him, leaving Zeraga roaring in frustration.
If you’re looking for another soul to claim, Hellscythe said, why not Zamyyr? His will do nicely, I think…
No. Zeraga growled back. Even with his mind clouded by the crimson mists of his blood-rage, the notion of turning on his companion was anathema. We must hunt Baal-Kephor.
I think not. Hellscythe forced its will upon Zeraga, filling him with more rage. I desire another soul, and it will be Zamyyr’s. After all, if he had fought harder, Baal-Kephor would be dead right now, and is it not right that he pays for his failure?
Zeraga fought against Hellscythe’s assault, driving back the crimson pall that the demoniac weapon intensified. The next moments dragged on as the two clashed in telepathic combat until, at last, Zeraga was victorious. The blood-rage ended, and the devil enjoyed a few slivers of lucidity before his mind slipped into the depths of a memory.
* * *
The scream of Baal-Kephor’s caliver sent shudders through the air as it spat a ray of superheated death at Zeraga. A snap of the devil’s wings hurled him into the air and over the ray; he was charging down upon his foe a moment later.
“Slaughter!” the Doomfire screamed as his feet hit the ground; a swing of Hellscythe followed.
Slaughter! the demoniac weapon screamed back.
Baal-Kephor parried with his war-blade as he swung his caliver at Zeraga. The Doomfire blocked with his hellfire shield and swung with his hellfire sword. It was only them, the three hundred and thirty-third incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal and the Fang of Azazel, locked in combat on the Addaduran wastes, surrounded by the fleshly landscape of blood and death formed from the corpses of the devil legions they had once commanded.
“I have to give you some credit,” Baal-Kephor said, “You are the worthiest opponent I’ve had in more than ten thousand years.”
Zeraga barely registered the words; the crimson pall of his blood-rage roiled thickly within his mind. Opening one of his left hands, the Doomfire drew upon power from the Eternal Darkness of Ur-Dûr-Valatî; his whole arm turned cold as a sword of blackest unlight manifested in his grasp. Zeraga simultaneously swung Hellscythe, his black blade, and his hellfire sword at Baal-Kephor. The Fang of Azazel parried Hellscythe and sidestepped the hellfire sword only for the black blade to slice into his side. He screamed in agony as a glowing black wound opened upon his flesh, a chasm of pure void, and colorlessness afflicted the surrounding skin, spreading across the devil like a creeping pestilence.
Baal-Kephor flew up and away from Zeraga, firing his caliver as he did so. The superheated ray struck Zeraga’s shoulder, punching through armor and flesh alike and leaving red steam wafting from the wound. Howling in pain and rage, Zeraga took flight and hurled his black blade at Baal-Kephor. The Fang of Azazel whirled out of the way, narrowly avoiding the devouring unlight, at which point he conjured a hellfire portal and flew through. The portal exploded shut behind him.
Seething, Zeraga turned his gaze upon Azaba’ar, the island in the sky that lorded over the whole of Addaduros. Had the Doomfire still had even a dozen of his soldiers, he would have gladly flown toward the island to visit vengeance upon Baal-Kephor. As it was, he had no choice but to return to Golgotha in failure, and so he threw up his head and screamed in rage.
* * *
“Are you in control of yourself, master?” Zamyyr asked. The Crimson Dragon was hovering next to Zeraga, and he had watched for the past minutes as the other devil’s face had writhed in agony before finally falling into that glazed over state he had when recalling events from his past lives.
Zeraga blinked away the last vestiges of the memory, making sure that his surroundings were indeed from the present time. “Yes, I think so…” His voice trailed off airily, pensively.
“What was the memory about?”
“I fought Baal-Kephor… during my three hundred and thirty-third incarnation…” Zeraga shuddered as he spoke the words; the memory had been another testament to how much he didn’t, and perhaps would never, know about himself. “And there was something else, too… Have you heard of the Eternal Darkness of Ur-Dûr-Valatî?”
Zamyyr gave a slow, reluctant nod. “It is a place almost as terrible as Ag’graaza, utterly inimical to all life. We should avoid it.”
“In the memory, I was able to wield the power of that place.” Zeraga paused. “Did we go there during my last life?”
“I will not lie to you, master; we have been to Ur-Dûr-Valatî. However, I would speak no more of this matter. Even thousands of years later, the thought of returning to that wretched plane fills me with dread.”
“But I must know more.” Zeraga felt as though a new fire had been ignited in his mind. “I saw what that power did to Baal-Kephor, how he fled from me after but one caress from the black blade. Surely you can see how such a power would aid our quest.”
Zamyyr frowned. “I want you to trust me when I say that this is something you want no part of, Lord Zeraga. There is a reason why you refused that power in your past life even though we went to the very place from which it is drawn. It rots the soul.”
“What do you mean, ‘it rots the soul?’”
“It turns those who wield it into raging, lifeless husks, slaves to the Eternal Darkness that exist only to spread the plane’s hatred of all that exists. It is but one step from pure chaos.”
“Do I even have a soul that can be rotted? After all, it was my three hundred and thirty-third incarnation who wielded the black blade, and now I exist ninety-five lives later and not rotted, not accounting for any others among my past incarnations who wielded this power.”
“You ask a question about your nature that I cannot answer, master. Please, I beg of you, let us abandon this notion and continue on toward the River Styx, to Golgotha. Our path is clear.”
“Perhaps your path is clear, Zamyyr, for your path is to follow mine; you have decided as much. However, if we are going to make war against Asmodeus and be victorious, we will need all the power we can get, and could we not also find allies in the planes beyond this one?”
“With all due respect, Lord Zeraga, you are basing your reasoning on one fragmented memory of a fleeting triumph. Can you not see the folly in that?”
Zeraga’s gaze hardened. “What I saw in that memory was potential. Why do you fear that which can help us when I cannot succumb to its ill effects?”
“Because we do not know that for sure, and I have seen firsthand what it does. I fought at your side when we went to Ur-Dûr-Valatî and slew devils who had been tempted by its power and did succumb to it. Would you like me to help you remember those times?”
Zeraga shook his head. “I am not like other devils. We need only look at the wastes below to see proof of that, and you have already admitted that you cannot answer the most relevant question. However, I value your companionship and honesty, and so I ask another question, one that you can answer: if my past incarnation had decided to wield the power of Ur-Dûr-Valatî, do you think that it would have changed his fate? Do you think that Ahriman would be dead, the threat of chaos ended, and I not exist?”
“I am sorry, Lord Zeraga, but I cannot answer that question either. You have seen for yourself how powerful the First Demon is; you know what we endured during our final ordeals in Ag’graaza. What other power in the multiverse can compete against such things?”
I can answer. Hellscythe said.
Zeraga cast a disdainful glare upon the weapon. “I did not ask for your opinion.” Turning his gaze back on Zamyyr, Zeraga gave a cutting smile. “It is not that you cannot answer my question; you just do not want to.”
“You’re right,” Zamyyr replied, “I don’t want to answer. I have already said what I wish to say. But, since you demand it, I will concede that you would have had a greater chance of defeating Ahriman.”
Zeraga gave a hollow laugh. “That is a poor attempt at placation.”
“It is all that I can say, master. You are asking me to contemplate how it would be for nothingness manifested to clash against the First Demon, the first being to exist in the multiverse who came from that same nothingness by ways still unknown in the present time.”
Zeraga’s smile widened. “And now we have our answer. It was from the eternal darkness of nothingness that Ahriman came, and into that same darkness he must return, but it is the Doomfire who dies but descends back into dormancy and therefore does not die.”
“I swore an oath to serve you, Lord Zeraga, and I will honor it to whatever end, though I admit that I do not like where your reasoning has taken you.”
“It is good, then, that I am not asking you to like it. You said that you went to Ur-Dûr-Valatî with my past incarnation. Do you still remember the way there?”
“I speak truthfully when I say that I do not, save that it is close to Ag’graaza and far from here.”
“Very well. Since the River Styx can lead us back to Golgotha, can it also take us out of the Thirteen Hells?”
Zamyyr gave a sigh of resignation. “Yes. We can follow the River Styx to Avernus, the first of the Thirteen Hells, and from there, we can go into the planes beyond.”
“Then that is what we shall do.”
“Might I make one further suggestion, master?”
“Certainly.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we landed and continued our journey on foot. That would make it more difficult for us to be found.”
“What reason have we to hide? Have we not already been too strong for our enemies?”
“Do you really think that Azazel, or for that matter, Asmodeus, will relent?”
“Let our foes come.” Zeraga gave a charnel grin. “Hellscythe will gladly drink their souls.”
* * *
The island-fortress of Azaba’ar was a swath of badlands about nine miles in length and width that, by sorcery, had become disincorporated from the rest of Addaduros. A conurbation of adobe structures, home to many thousands of devils and their slaves, spanned the whole of the island save for the intricate labyrinth that circled around the entirety of the city.
At the exact center of Azaba’ar, as prominent as the most opulent jewel upon the crown of an avaricious monarch, was Azazos. It was a monolithic table mesa that overshadowed the rest of the earthen city and was separated from it by the hundred-foot-tall wall around it. From the wall jutted many spikes that bore the sun-scorched corpses of those who had sought to break that separation. Azazos itself had many large, goat-like heads carved upon it, each one the size of one of the other buildings in Azaba’ar. Some of the heads were roaring, others were snarling, and others still were merely glaring; each one had four eyes that were as red as the oppressive crimson sun above.
The largest of Azazos’s inner caverns, as wide as the outer wall of the mesa-palace was tall, was where Azazel, the archdevil of the Fifth Hell, dwelled. Upon the throne room’s walls, bound to them by spikes, chains, and other, more macabre methods, were the corpses of the archdevil’s previous adversaries: angels, beasts, demons, and other devils. A grand likeness of Azazel’s face sprawled across the floor, spanning the whole of the distance between the black, lustrous adamantine portcullis and the great dragon bone throne carved with many screaming skulls and infernal designs. Flanking the throne on either side were two great statues, twenty feet tall at least, that were perfect likenesses of the Lord of the Fifth Hell.
Azazel himself was a ten-foot-tall man with the head and legs of a goat. The hair upon his head, short and coarse, was entirely black, and his four eyes were of a bleak, white shade that made them seem like distant stars in a night sky. The archdevil’s horns were large and imposing, grand, pointed arches that allowed no room for a crown he did not need. Bat-like wings, red limbs connected by ruddy brown membranes, were folded over his shoulders, taking the place of the grandiloquent cloaks worn by so many lesser monarchs on so many mortal worlds. The archdevil’s torso, waist, and arms were more human-like, and patterns of winding red scars ran across his bare flesh. His meaty hands terminated in hard white claws. The hair that covered Azazel’s legs was shaggy and of a burnt sienna shade, but not so thick so as to cover the scars upon his legs. Stirring next to his cloven hooves was a thick tail with the same bare skin and red scars as his midsection. The archdevil wore no clothing and precious little ornamentation: a few golden earrings; a gold chain necklace with a small, pulsing blue crystal; and a trio of bracelets on each arm. He only favored these trinkets because they reminded him of the time before the Fall, when he had been an angel. It wasn’t that he wished to still be an angel, but he believed that something had been lost when Satan and the rest of the fallen angels had rebelled against Xa, the Overdeity of Heaven, despite how necessary the Fall had been.
Azazel took a pensive sip from the silver goblet in his left hand. It was engraved with patterns resembling the red scars upon his body, and it was filled with dark crimson wine, a vintage that had been aged for many millennia and had originally come from Heaven. The taste was hot and bittersweet. Closing his eyes, Azazel took a gulp, nearly draining the goblet and savoring the burning sensation, which bordered on pain, brought on by the wine running down his throat. Yes, something had definitely been lost during the Fall. What made Azazel the most melancholy was that he couldn’t say exactly what it was.
“Is something troubling you, Lord Azazel?” crooned a female voice. The clattering of shifting chains followed.
Azazel opened his eyes and saw that one of his slaves had risen. The archdevil was never alone in his throne room; two lions, each larger and fiercer than their kin found on mortal worlds, lay next to his throne, one on either side, and there were nine she-devil slaves who attended Azazel at all times. They were spread out before the throne, their chains bolted to the floor.
The slave who had risen was named Yaahaxa, and she had originally come from Judecca, the Ninth Hell. Yaahaxa had a full body with luscious curves, voluptuous in every sense of the word, and her skin was pale and immaculate, marble made flesh. She was rotund compared to Azazel’s other slaves, but the archdevil found her even more beautiful because of it. Yaahaxa’s eyes were like deep, radiant sapphires, and her lips were full and black, as black as her shoulder-length hair that came down in rich, lustrous curls, as black as her bat-like wings with talons atop them. She wore an iron collar about her neck to which was connected her chain. This chain was longer than those of the other slaves, for Yaahaxa was Azazel’s favorite.
Draining what little remained in his goblet, Azazel incinerated it with a flash of hellfire that had Yaahaxa gasping with glee, her eyes opening wider as she edged closer to the Lord of Addaduros. His bestial lips curved into a mirthless smile as he reached out and tenderly touched Yaahaxa’s face, allowing his hand to run down until it cupped her breast, his thumb-claw grazing her nipple. Yaahaxa shuddered and shyly averted her gaze, fluttering her eyelashes.
“How long has it been since you entered my service?” Azazel’s hand ascended, tilting Yaahaxa’s face up so that her gaze met his.
“If memory serves, Lord Azazel, it has been ten thousand years since Lady Lilith first offered me to you.” Yaahaxa’s voice was soft and sweet, silk made sound.
“Yes.” Azazel nodded. The archdevil only vaguely remembered the occasion. Judecca had come under attack; Azazel had led his forces to defend it; Yaahaxa had been one of the rewards. “Come, sit upon my lap.”
Yaahaxa’s chain clanked and clattered, shifting like an iron snake, as she seated herself upon her lord’s thigh. She gave a furtive grin as she noticed the rise that had already begun. Drawing herself closer to Azazel, Yaahaxa put her left arm around his neck and ran her right index finger tantalizingly down his chest.
The archdevil gave an amused grunt. “Do you ever miss Judecca?”
“No.” Yaahaxa shook her head. “Especially not since I first had the pleasure of experiencing you.”
Again, Azazel grunted with amusement. Any of the other slaves would have given that answer, too. Presently, the attentions of those eight other she-devils were fixed wholly upon Azazel and Yaahaxa.
“You do not need to lie to me, my sweet.” Azazel’s voice turned low and hoarse. “I know what it is like to miss a place that was once my home.”
“Is that what troubles you, my lord?” Yaahaxa spoke slowly and carefully. To speak of Heaven directly was to court execution. The favored slave placed her right hand on Azazel’s inner thigh and began idly toying with a strand of his hair. “Let us not concern ourselves with such things. Azazos is a grand place, your will made manifest. Might I suggest sending one of the other girls to fetch you more wine?”
“Oh sweet, sweet Yaahaxa, how much pleasure dwells within your abundance?” Azazel gently kissed her forehead and drew her closer. “But, I must insist that you answer my question. Do you ever miss Judecca?”
Yaahaxa turned her gaze away from Azazel and betrayed herself with a long, wistful sigh. Her whole body seemed to deflate; skin that had only a moment ago seemed milky and vibrant now seemed pallid, almost deathly.
“Yes,” Azazel whispered, “that is what I thought. Please, Yaahaxa, tell me of the Ninth Hell.”
Yaahaxa looked into her lord’s eyes once more; they shone with an eerie curiosity. “If I may be so bold, Lord Azazel, why do you ask this of me? Have you not been to Judecca many times already, even before I entered your service?”
Tension flooded into the throne room as the facial expressions of the other eight slaves turned fearful.
Azazel gave a smile that could have been born from either amusement or malice; only the archdevil knew. “You speak the truth, Yaahaxa, and so I shall honor you and your sister-slaves with my own truth, for none of you shall ever leave my throne room anyway. I want to hear of Judecca from the mouth of one who loves it enough to miss it one hundred centuries after leaving, for I do not understand how such an affection for any of the Thirteen Hells can be cultivated, not compared to what existed in the Perfectly Ordered Heaven of Qanûn.
“I know that such notions are not fit for an archdevil. Are we not supposed to take pride in what we have created since the Fall? Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven, yes?” Azazel’s smile turned sardonic as he moved his hand down and gently stroked between Yaahaxa’s legs, sliding one of his fingers into her. She moaned.
“Know this, my sweet, sweet Yaahaxa,” Azazel withdrew his finger and licked the fluid from it, “I take more pride in what I just did, what I am able to do to you at any time, and the fact that you take pleasure in it, than I do in this throne room, and, indeed, the whole of Addaduros, for you, my sweet, sweet Yaahaxa, my precious jewel who came to me from Judecca, are far closer to the perfection that I left behind, the perfection that the Thirteen Hells try and fail to imitate. I envy your capacity to feel love for the place from which you came, for if all of Nyrrakhâ were to crumble at this moment, I know that I would not be able to feel the same, not even a moment later, let alone ten thousand years.”
All nine of Azazel’s slaves were weeping by the time he finished speaking, and their shuddering bodies caused their chains to chime discordantly, an unliving chorus of sorrow.
Azazel wiped the tears from Yaahaxa’s eyes and kissed her forehead. “And that is why, my sweet, sweet Yaahaxa, I would have you tell me of Judecca.”
Yaahaxa looked up at Azazel and gave a melancholy smile. “Gladly, my lord,” she whispered as she brought her hand up to caress Azazel’s face.
She continued speak, and the Lord of Addaduros hung on every word. Yaahaxa told of perfervid dances with her sisters, her real sisters, amid great storms of acid rain to which the devils of Judecca were immune. She spoke of the perfect smoothness of the ground, pale green stone patterned like the scales of a serpent. She spoke of fawning gazes directed at a sun that was the color of a dusty rose. With greater yearning, Yaahaxa talked of Judecca’s verdant jungles that housed primordial serpents and scintillating gardens, all as poisonous as they were beautiful. Yaahaxa had been a huntress in those jungles, slaying her prey and coupling with whoever she chose, be they devil or beast, male or female. She told of how she and her paramours had hidden themselves in tenebrous copses where hanging vines were the nooses of the damned.
By the time Yaahaxa had finished speaking, a single tear flowed from the uppermost of Azazel’s left eyes.
“Have I satisfied you, my lord?” Yaahaxa asked.
Azazel gave a wan smile. “Yes. I can see why you find Judecca as beautiful as I find you.”
Yaahaxa said nothing back; there was nothing she could say, not when all she wanted to do was to ask for her freedom, a question that she already knew the answer to, had known the answer to ten thousand years ago. She was a caged bird now, and she had just sung for her master.
“Now,” Azazel continued, again stroking between Yaahaxa’s thighs, “let us be as the beasts of Judecca for a while, shall we?”
“Of course, Lord Azazel…” Yaahaxa crooned as she gripped the archdevil’s hardness and began to stroke, thankful for the opportunity to take her mind off her lost home.
Azazel plunged his fingers fully inside Yaahaxa, drawing a moan from her. As the archdevil withdrew his fingers, Yaahaxa mounted herself upon him and began to rock back and forth. Azazel gently gripped Yaahaxa’s hips as he began to suck on her left nipple. Both devils groaned with pleasure.
Their love-play grew ever more raucous; both Azazel and Yaahaxa enjoyed everything the other had to offer until finally, the Lord of Addaduros threw up his head, roared, and lost himself for a few moments as he came.
“Sweet, sweet Yaahaxa…” Azazel whispered as he regained a semblance of his composure.
“Did my lord enjoy that?” she asked.
Azazel’s response was a deep, passionate kiss, one that had him driving his tongue down Yaahaxa’s throat. She was left panting as he withdrew.
“That answers that,” she said as she slid off Azazel and seated herself once more upon his thigh.
A gout of hellfire exploded in front of the adamantine portcullis. From the flames emerged a small creature that was a humanoid raven with glowing red eyes, and its arms and legs were lizard-like and covered in crimson scales. It flew toward Azazel.
The archdevil recognized the creature as a kuryaazos, one of the messengers of the Thirteen Hells, and was glad that it had not arrived sooner. “Who sent you?”
“No one, Lord Azazel. I sent myself.” The kuryaazos’s voice resembled the cawing of a raven. “I come bearing news that I felt you would want to hear.”
“What news?” Azazel cocked his head to the left. Kuryaazoses were not known for their intelligence, barely rising above the level of animals, and so were incapable of noticing the subtleties that dictated so many of Hell’s schemes. That one of these messengers had seen fit to come to the domain of an archdevil uninvited…
“Zeraga Baal’khal and Zamyyr Ôth slew your Fangs, my lord. I witnessed the battle myself.”
“Is Baal-Kephor dead?” Azazel concealed the concern in his voice. He had sent that devil specifically because he had fought Zeraga many incarnations earlier.
“I could not tell.”
“Is that all of the news you have?”
“Yes, Lord Azazel.”
“Good. Leave now.”
The kuryaazos disappeared amid another gout of hellfire.
“An interesting development, my lord,” Yaahaxa said, “If I may be so bold, what are you going to do about it?”
Azazel pensively stroked his beard. “I’m not entirely sure yet. I do not believe Baal-Kephor is dead, but he will not return to me in failure. However, I do think that it would be wrong to deny the rest of the Fangs an opportunity at the glory of slaying the Doomfire…”
* * *
Baal-Kephor did return to Azaba’ar, though he did not opt for the main entrance. Instead, the Fang of Azazel returned through one of the many clandestine passages, with this particular one being located in a cavern on the underside of the floating island. It was guarded by an acquaintance of Baal-Kephor’s named Vrabaxxos, who was one of the minotaur-devils of the Deathroar Clan that lived in Azaba’ar’s outer labyrinth. Baal-Kephor had also arrived with a trio of damned souls for Vrabaxxos to devour (in a fashion that left gobbets of flesh and bone clinging to the ceiling as gore dripped from the minotaur-devil’s face).
Presently, Baal-Kephor made his way through the lower sections of Azaba’ar’s outer labyrinth. He was searching for another acquaintance, though he was not sure if she still dwelled within Azaba’ar. The stone halls that the devil walked through were devoid of light, but that was no impediment to his vision, and the walls, floor, and ceiling hosted sprawling tableaus of cracks and erosion that were like miniaturized versions of Addaduros’s landscape. Baal-Kephor did not encounter any others among the Deathroar Clan, either. The minotaur-devils mostly preferred to muster in the upper sections of the labyrinth where they could remind the whole of Azaba’ar that they were the city’s first line of defense. As far as Baal-Kephor was concerned, such displays reeked of pretentiousness. The Deathroar minotaurs were good fighters, but so were the Fangs of Azazel, and many other devils within Azaba’ar besides.
The hallway came to a T, and Baal-Kephor took the left-hand path. He was not far from his destination now, if memory served. The corridor continued on, taking a few more sharp left turns, becoming more worn and cracked each time and hosting webs of crimson moss. The subterranean passage eventually yielded to Addaduran badlands, the underside of Azaba’ar. A cavern yawned open before Baal-Kephor, though the mouth had been ensorcelled with darkness that even his devil-sight could not pierce.
The Fang of Azazel stopped. “Does Maraduamnaa Mephiston still dwell here?”
“Only if Baal-Kephor of the Fangs of Azazel is the one asking,” returned a rich, womanly voice.
Baal-Kephor smirked, feigning apathy. “He is.”
“Then you may enter my abode without fear.”
Baal-Kephor passed through the eldritch darkness, ducking as he entered the cavern. The shadows receded to reveal a room that was about twenty feet in length and width with walls of gold, lit by many black candles placed seemingly at random. A dresser made of exquisite blue stone occupied most of the left wall; on top of it were many different pieces of jewelry. Iron racks occupied most of the right wall. These held a suit of feyrferreus scale mail and a circular feyrferreus shield. The shield was emblazoned with an ashen skull that had fiery orange eyes and was flanked by wings of the same. The last item on the racks was a long, sickle-like sword wrought from a strange purple metal, and rows of twitching teeth ran along its inner curve. Beneath the racks stood a small wooden desk, elegant but not garish. Upon it was laid tomes of various shapes, sizes, and materials, ranging from mundane leather and parchment to skin and bone taken from devils and demons. A wooden bed, crafted in the same style as the desk and furnished with violet blankets, took up the back wall. Above it hung a painting that depicted grand rows of columns and arches lording over blackened ground split by rivers of lava. Volcanoes loomed off in the distance. Baal-Kephor recognized the image as being of Pandemonium, the capital of the Thirteen Hells. His gaze lingered on the painting for a moment before drifting down to the glayruk who sat upon the bed.
She was significantly shorter and smaller than Baal-Kephor, for she was a mortal, and she bore many of the trappings of fiendish heritage: crooked horns upon her head; bright, crimson eyes; dark, ruddy skin; cloven hooves; and four long, segmented spider legs, sleek and black like obsidian, sprouting from her back and shoulders. The glayruk wore a simple black dress made from luxurious silk and a silver pendant bearing a bright ruby.
“Please, have a seat,” the glayruk said, gesturing to the floor. “I’m sure it must be uncomfortable crouching.”
Baal-Kephor seated himself at the center of the floor, saying nothing.
“So,” Maraduamnaa continued, “did you get into trouble with Azazel again?”
“I’m trying to avoid that,” Baal-Kephor replied.
“Oh?” Maraduamnaa touched her index finger to her lower lip. “Do tell.”
Baal-Kephor recounted his last encounter with Zeraga. Maraduamnaa was grinning by the end.
“Ah, so the so-called ‘Doomfire’ is alive again,” the glayruk said, “I had heard rumors suggesting that such a thing was going to happen soon, but I hadn’t put much credence in them. There are too many devils who will take even the stirring of the wind as a reason to believe that Zeraga has risen again. That aside, I presume, then, that you would like my aid in defeating him?”
“Yes, but it will take more than just us, and I know that you have allies.”
“Not among the Thirteen Hells, no, unless you count yourself, but I suppose you are not averse to working with the devotees of chaos, not if you are coming to me.”
“I only need to be able to present Zeraga Baal’khal to Lord Azazel.” Baal-Kephor had long known Maraduamnaa to be in league with the powers of chaos. Once, the glayruk had been a squire to the Swords of Arioch, one of the greatest legions of Pandemonium, thus why her shield bore the crest of Satan’s vizier and why she was supernaturally long-lived. But, her quest for vengeance upon Mephistopheles for the enslavement of Clan Mephiston had since taken her path elsewhere. Lord Azazel did not know that Maraduamnaa lived right under his nose, either.
“This is more than you have ever asked of me before.” Maraduamnaa gave a pregnant pause. “It is true that I could muster a legion of fanatical mortals for your cause; I am something of a goddess on a few of their worlds. I also understand that this is something of a personal matter for you, which brings me to my next question: what will I receive in return?”
Baal-Kephor bristled but quickly regained his composure. “I could convince Lord Azazel to mount an attack on Cocytus. He desires the secrets of hellfire that Mephistopheles has kept from all others save Satan himself, and I daresay my lord will be more amenable to the idea once he has Hellscythe in his grasp.”
“And what if I want Hellscythe for myself?”
Baal-Kephor shook his head. “You know that I cannot offer that.”
“You could if we killed Azazel afterward; Hellscythe would gladly aid us in exchange for the opportunity to drink the soul of an archdevil.” The teeth upon Maraduamnaa’s sword began to twitch excitedly.
“That’s heresy!”
“It’s only heresy if we fail. After all, is not victory the basis of right?” Maraduamnaa’s voice became huskier. “Besides, are you honestly telling me that you have never thought of such a betrayal? Do you not crave greater power for yourself?”
“It would also mean turning my back on my legion.”
“Again, only if we fail. If we succeed and you are seated as the Lord of Addaduros, the Fangs of Azazel will be yours to command. You could even rename them to be the Fangs of Baal-Kephor.”
The devil paused. “I cannot refute your logic, save for this: why would you not want to be the Lady of Addaduros? Do you not want one of the Thirteen Hells as your dominion?”
Maraduamnaa gave a venomous smile. “You already know who we’re going to kill after Azazel is dead. Cocytus, the ancestral home of Clan Mephiston, will be mine, and I will be an archdevil then, at which point I will see to it that my clan returns there as rulers rather than slaves. So, my dear Baal-Kephor, do we have a deal: my aid and my armies to defeat Zeraga in exchange for Hellscythe, at which point we will turn on Azazel and Mephistopheles?”
“Yes.” Baal-Kephor growled the word as he fought to keep himself from scowling. It was a perfect plan. Too perfect.
“Good. Now, let us consummate our pact.” Maraduamnaa slid out of her dress. Her navel was pierced with a tiny silver chain that matched her amulet.
“Must we do it this way? We can use blood instead.”
“There will be plenty of bloodshed soon enough, and it has been far too long since I have felt a devil inside me, especially you, Baal-Kephor. Mortals get bland after a while. Now, be a love and come closer, will you?”
Despite his reluctance, Baal-Kephor obeyed, undressing and leaving his weapons on the floor before seating himself upon Maraduamnaa’s bed. The glayruk placed her hand between his thighs and began to stroke. Her movements were slow and sensual; Baal-Kephor couldn’t help but shudder in pleasure. A latent desire for Maraduamnaa writhed and coiled in his flesh even as his mind wanted to reject her.
“Oh my,” Maraduamnaa said, “it seems that I have also forgotten how big you devils get…”
She lowered herself and placed Baal-Kephor between her breasts, rubbing up and down as she took him in her mouth and began to suck, lavishing him with her tongue. Baal-Kephor groaned; his frustration melted way as he found himself pushing deeper into Maraduamnaa’s mouth. The glayruk giggled as she continued, not stopping until she felt a thick surge.
“I suppose I should begin the incantation, shouldn’t I?” she asked with feigned innocence.
“Just put me inside you,” Baal-Kephor growled back. He had forgotten just how good of a lover Maraduamnaa was and had to admit that she was right. It had been too long.
Maraduamnaa rose so that she was on her knees, her legs spread wide. Her spider legs wrapped around Baal-Kephor’s back and pulled him closer. “I want you to feel how wet I am first.” She took Baal-Kephor’s hand and placed it between her legs.
As Baal-Kephor began to rub, Maraduamnaa began to cast a spell. After the first few words, the glayruk moved the devil’s hand away and slid onto him. She continued the incantation as Baal-Kephor grabbed her hips and thrust into her again and again, his groaning forming a feral spell all its own.
The love-play continued until Baal-Kephor could no longer hold back, half growling and half crying out as he came. Maraduamnaa squealed with delight as she came with him, calling out the final words to the incantation amid the tide of pleasure. An inky black, eight-pointed star then appeared on each of the lovers’ throats and faded away, and Baal-Kephor felt a new, tenebrous bond form metaphysically between him and Maraduamnaa.
As the glayruk slid off of Baal-Kephor, he couldn’t suppress the gnawing feeling that he had just made a huge mistake. But what could he do now? By the laws of the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ, the pact was sealed, and he was bound.
The End
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Next Chapter: Onto Darkened Paths
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