I should have bowed lower. I should have held my tongue. I should have smothered that childish part of me, the boy who always wanted too much. I should have bitten down on my curiosity and left well enough alone.
But it was too late. The words hung in the air between us still, staining the space with my hubris.
And Asmodeus—my Lord, my tormentor, my salvation—watched me with that red eye that saw too much.
A stillness had crept into its frame, one so profound it made my stomach roil with dread.
A lifetime of scriptural study rose unbidden in my mind. I thought of Moses trembling before the burning bush. I thought of Isaiah’s cry:“Woe is me! I am undone, for I am a man of unclean lips.”And yet, was I not beyond such fears now? I had cast my faith down into the pit. I had given myself over to Asmodeus. My soul was already stained blacker than the darkest, soulless lake of Hell.
Then why, oh why, did some ancient tremor still rattle in my bones?
Asmodeus breathed in and out, slow and deep. Steam wreathed the space between us, as though the very breath of Hell exhaled through its nostrils. It reached out with its clawed fingers and clipped those sharp claws across my skin. I trembled against those claws, for they could so easily bring my death.
“You presume too much,” it said. The growl in its voice struck hard, the sound edged with threat. Then a trace of amusement slipped through, lightening the tone in a way that caught me off guard. Eventually, it pulled away, body creaking like the trunk of an ancient tree subjected to bitter cold. I met that fiery gaze.
“There is. . .more I have not told you,” it said at last.
I felt my mouth part, but no sound emerged. My heart pounded furiously in my ears. I was no Isaiah, no prophet. I was a ruined man on his knees in Hell, and even so, I had dared to question a King. Thus, when Asmodeus reached out a hand for me–for me!–I froze in fear and did not take it.
“Rise,” it commanded. Even then, when I scrabbled to stand, I did not take the proffered hand. You must understand: before, with its mouth on me, I was the object of its desire. I was fulfilling my intended role in the unspoken covenant between us. We were master and servant, and when Asmodeus offered me its hand, it felt like God reaching out to an ant. Impossible. Ridiculous.
“I…” I swallowed. “I do not understand, my Lord.”
A faint smile curled those perfect lips, cruel and knowing. It slipped its hand back to its side and tilted its head. Then, it leaned in so close that the heat of it soaked into my skin. Its fingers wrapped around my throat. This was how changed I was. My body went limp, sinking into the touch, and in doingso, pressed harder into its grip. The tightening made me choke, but still a deep, shameful relief unfurled through me.
“You see, little priest,” Asmodeus murmured, “I have tested many. This you know.”
I nodded. It was as I had been told. I was not the first. I would not be the last. Perhaps I would become a consort, one of hundreds. I thought this until Asmodeus said, “I have tested them, used them, discarded them.”
I thought of the others—the nameless humans, the broken vessels who had come before me. How many had walked this same path? How many had spilled their seed and their souls upon these stones, only to be forgotten by the abyss? Part of me saw no fault in their fates. Lust burned so fiercely in me that I would not have minded being used so thoroughly. I was broken beyond repair.
“But you,” Asmodeus continued, voice like dark velvet, and my breath hitched in expectation. Asmodeus’ lips quirked. Its finger grazed my lower lip.
It had said nothing, yet I heard much in that silence. Was it pride to hope? Was it vanity to wonder if I had set myself apart? I thought of the verses etched into my heart —“For many are called, but few are chosen.”Had I, by some foul twist of fate, been chosen?
My breath came faster, shallow in my chest.
I fought the urge to say again,I do not understand.Instead, I bowed my head to it and leaned into the touch of its hand like an eager dog. “I have faith only in you,” I whispered. “But I am only mortal. I do not understand what you imply.”
“My little whore.” Asmodeus’ gaze did not waver. “You are a fissure now. You stand in the thin place between what was and what could be.”
My mind reeled. Images surged through me: the veil of the Temple torn in two, the trumpets of Revelation, the rift in Heaven where the Morning Star fell.
And now—me. A wretched man, once a priest, body defiled and soul blackened, trembling on the cusp of some unseen threshold. I had killed my flesh to enter Hell. I had eaten from Asmodeus’ dominion. I had thrown my very state into flux. Was that what my Lord meant?
“The flowers,” I said. “The hags and crones offered me flowers of your realm. I ate of them.”
“Do you know,” it replied, a low chuckle stirring the air, “that no one has done that before?”
There was a strange softness in its tone. After all its fury, the sound unsettled me more than any threat. I feared what such sweetness might mean, feared how it might shift the covenant between us.
But it spoke as if I had done something extraordinary. Necessary, perhaps, to survive this realm. I had killed the man I was. What remained was no longer fully human.
Ah. Was that it, then?
“What…” I swallowed. “What exactly have I done?”
Asmodeus gave no answer. It pulled me away from the pillar and set me in the centre of that hall. Then it began to circle me, gaze sharp and appraising. Now and then, a low sound escaped it, something between approval and hunger. A claw traced lightly along my skin.
