“Priest no longer,” I replied. “But a Saint.”
Malphas flinched.Flinched. A quiver of glee sparked inside me, and Asmodeus squeezed, approving of my newfound confidence. I was not the human filth that had wormed and begged his way into Malphas’ court, but something more, somethingnew. The first of my kind. It must have frightened the lot of them.
I must have been terrifying to perceive.
Behind Malphas came Furcas, centaur-bodied and spear in hand. His human half rose from the horse’s flanks like a relic carved from marble, wide of belly and long of beard. He stamped one hoof, and the floor trembled. But I no longer feared Furcas, nor what it could do to me.
“How far you’ve come from the man who begged so prettily at my sigil,” He leaned in, beard brushing my shoulder. "You carry more in you now."
“And you,” I said, “have been welcome to Asmodeus’ court—as promised.”
Of course, until that moment, I might have forgotten entirely all the things I’d promised to progress on my journey, but Asmodeus interjected, saying, “Some other time, good Knight—for now is a celebration.”
My Prince moved us away before the Knight of Hell might reply, and that guided us into the path of Marchosias. Though I knew his true form was a strange one–undefinable light burning from a she-wolf’s open maw–he appeared giant as he had when he had begrudgingly used me, his wolfish face wreathed in a mane of tangled fur, those grey wings folded sharply behind him. He did not address me but turned to Asmodeus. "YOU BROUGHT HIM THROUGH THE FIRE. I HAD WAGERED OTHERWISE."
Asmodeus said nothing aloud, though to me it said, “They all have opinions.”
I fought the urge to explain each experienceto my Prince, forgetting momentarily that it had witnessed it all; every touch, every desecration of my form. It walked me past Marchosias and said nothing more, though I recalled the warring tension between Marchosias and how it regretted its fall from Heaven. I wondered if it was jealous of me, now that I, too, had wings.
Then came Vassago. He glided through the haze in a storm of velvet and gold. His smile struck me before his voice. "Ah, my favourite pilgrim," he said, placing a jewelled hand to his chest. "Did the journey make a martyr of you, or a monarch?"
I could not answer, unsure of what he asked.
"Both, perhaps," he said, and laughed. "Or neither. You might be something new. In any case, you look beautifully wrecked."
He embraced me with something resembling genuine glee, a feeling I couldn’t help but echo. Then he, too, was gone, slipping away into the crowd.
The hags arrived crawling, lank and strange, dragging censers and curling their too-long fingers around bundles of scented bone. They hissed soft approval, and one pressed a glistening claw to her brow before pressing it to mine.
We passed Furfur then, first as a white hart with black ribbons fluttering from its antlers. In the blink of an eye, the form melted into that of a pale, androgynous angel with unblinking eyes.
A feast spread across the tables; cherry-bright wine and thick nectar black as pitch. Bowls of twitching fruit, silver trays of meat seared and seeping, loaves of warm bread split open with honeyed pulp. Smoke curled from the dishes, and they each pulsed as if the food itself were alive.
The music began low. String instruments strummed, though I could not see who played them. The drums sounded like thunder crashing beneath the stone floors. But thedancers! Oh, they did not wait. Dancers whirled in abandon, bodies braided with gold thread and sweat.
At the end of the far table sat Asmodeus’ throne, and a gilded chair at its right. That is where Asmodeus seated me. Its presence beside me was an anchor in the rising tide of adoration. I drank. I let the taste of lust’s domain touch my tongue. And I felt myself shifting again—this time not in body, but in station.
Dantalion approached last. Towering and robed, with a face that changed every instant, his every blink revealing new genders, new desires. He bowed his head. "Saint of Lust," he said, and I flinched, for I’d thought his bow was for Asmodeus. Dantalion’s voice echoed with the voices of many. "Not as the saints of yore art thou. How wondrous strange thy nature is; and how wondrous keen mine eye to see what fate awaits thee.”
I did not know how to hold its interest in me. I had not conceived of a future beyond reaching this point. But before the fear of the great unknown could take hold of me, I pressed my hand against Asmodeus’ thigh and squeezed.
The revel stretched long. Demons danced, and the hags threw bones that turned into birds mid-air. My name was shouted, toasted, blessed. And through it all, Asmodeus’ gaze barely left me.
At last, as the heat in the room reached delirium and the music tipped into frenzy, my Prince finally rose.
The court stilled. Asmodeus looked at me and nodded once. That wordless appraisal was enough to get me to stand, and I followed it down the dais and across the hall.
The crowd parted not in silence, but with hushed hunger. Whispers followed us. Mouths opened, tongues curled, all of them eager to know what was happening. Ignoring them all, we walked out of the hall and into shadow, through halls wreathed in veils and red-glasslanterns, and through doors whose mantels were carved with scenes of desire.
Asmodeus led me into a quieter chamber and shut the door behind us. Instantly, the frenzy of the feast was drowned out. This new chamber was dim and veiled in quiet, much smaller than the Grand Hall—though all of Lust’s domain seemed to warp and stretch depending on who entered and why. The walls pulsed faintly, warm as skin. Lanterns hung like low stars, casting gold light across the cushions and draped silks that littered the floor in unruly patterns. In the centre, a single throne of carved onyx rose like a root from the ground.
Asmodeus did not speak at first. It crossed the chamber with its usual grace, bearing itself with the restraint of ceremony. It sat, beckoning with the motion of one clawed hand. I sank onto the cushions at its feet, breath still ragged with the weight of what had just passed. Did it want me again, so soon? I did not mind, for desire was a permanent fixture in me. But its hesitation gave me pause. I rested my face against its warm leg.
Its hand came down to play with my hair. Quite affectionately it asked, "You wish to understand what you are now?”
I nodded, but did not speak, for I was afraid all the questions I had would spill out of me. Asmodeus urged me to look up at it. Slowly, I raised my head and met its beautiful gaze.
"You are the first to kneel without breaking. The first to open without demanding salvation in return. Others have loved me. Others have worshipped. But you gave yourself not as tithe or proof, not to bargain, but to belong. That is rare—even here."
