“Not a pet. Not a slave. Not some common thing to be used and discarded. Mine. And not merely in flesh,”Asmodeus went on, voice lowering to a dark purr. “Not merely in this pitiful human form.”
Its gaze sharpened, burning through me as if to strip me back to the marrow in my bones. It grazed a clawed finger over my nipple, which stood to rapt attention beneath the demon’s interest. I twitched at that touch, but my arousal couldn’t suppress my fear.
“You will not leave that Court as you entered it. You will be remade. You will be marked. You will be transformed.”
I trembled. My breath came ragged, chest tight with the weight of it.
Be transformed.
Scripture rose once more unbidden.The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.A verse meant for the faithful, twisted now to fit the damned.
But what new thing awaited me? What would I become? A demon? A thing of lust and shadow? Yet beneath the tide of dread, another voice whispered low in the depths of me.
You want this.
And God help me, I did.
I wanted it more than forgiveness. More than redemption. I wanted to be seen. To be chosen. To belong to Asmodeus completely.
The Prince of Lust watched me still, gaze unwavering, voice a slow, deliberate caress.
“You will walk beside me,” it said. “Not as a mortal. Not as a slave. As mine.”
I found I didn’t need the specifics. The words pulled something from deep within me. I was used to serving. I had struggled enough with enjoying my own pleasure and taking of men even at my Lord’s command. But this demanded a change in my status. Asmodeus wished to mark me as different. That seemed such a fine line to walk; my past as human and priest would always mean I was lesser, and I could neverwish to feel equal amongst fallen angels. But where I was comfortable being called filth, and eager to prove my whorish nature, discomfort ate at me now for reasons I couldn’t name. What exactly Asmodeus wanted for me, I couldn’t say.
But to be seen and chosen. . .I could not stop what rose to my lips.
“Do you…” I swallowed, throat tight. “Do you want this, my Lord?”
A stillness settled between us, vast and heavy. Then Asmodeus spoke, each word steeped in something ancient and hungry. “I burn with my want.”
I was shaking now, every inch of me alive with that same want and human terror. My body ached. My mind reeled. But beneath it all, beneath all reason, I knew there was no turning back. Perhaps there never had been. Perhaps this path had been written beneath my skin from the first breath I drew. Perhaps God had seen and let me stumble into the Church as a child, knowing how thoroughly I would betray it.
Asmodeus rose to its full height, towering above me. One clawed hand lifted, and for a breath, my heart stopped, sure it would seize my throat.
But instead, it traced the line of my jaw, the touch both possessive and unsettlingly tender, sharp enough to draw a thin ache beneath the skin.
“To the Court.”
And I followed, half out of obedience, and half out of want.
4
With fingers both deft and somehow profane in their dexterity, and wielding a sorcery far beyond my mortal grasp, Asmodeus conjured a passage from the void. Shadows slithered forth and wove themselves into an archway of trembling black. We crossed its threshold without a word. The silence pressed upon us like a cathedral’s weight, vast and suffocating, thick with unseen judgement. But perhaps that was only a latent worry in my flesh–perhaps the judgement of Hell’s court would be different from Heaven’s.
We descended a long, winding corridor, its air cold as a crypt. Only the distant wails of unseen souls–these thin, flayed cries that echoed from no discernible source–marked the passage of time. I followed close behind, my gaze fixed upon the unholy perfection of Asmodeus’ form. I watched its sinews rippling beneath skin that seemed sculpted by some blasphemous hand. It was a beauty, both alien and divine.
At last, the Prince of Hell came to a halt. Before us loomed another archway, darker than the rest, a portal that seemed to breathe. In that moment, some primal instinct inmy body whispered of peril. Like frightened prey sensing the gaze of its hunter, I knew we now stood before the final threshold to the place of my judgement: the Court of Kings. And silly my hope seemed, then. Heaven may have been limiting and strict, but it prided itself on goodness. Hell was, at its core, a place of chaos. Why had I hoped my judgement would be easy? Why did I think they would only look upon my willingness and whorishness? The way my body shivered, I knew it would take much, much more.
Then my Lord turned, that single infernal eye flaring–a star of living flame!–and casting wild, leaping shadows that disturbed the dense umbral walls. Asmodeus began to circle me, slow and deliberate, the force of its presence bending the very air around us. It felt as though the breath of the damned stirred at its passing.
"You do not yet understand what waits beyond the next chamber," it said at last. Its voice was calm, yet beneath it lay an edge, something that trembled between reverence and warning.
I lifted my gaze. This was a new side to the demon, and it unnerved me. I thought it had impressed upon quite severely what lay ahead, and so this hesitation felt strange. Concerning. I whispered, "Tell me."
Asmodeus drew closer, its hand still resting at my nape, its warm fingers somehow cool upon my fevered skin. "There are seven," it said. "Seven Kings of the Infernal Realms. Not all are of my Circle. You will stand before the eldest of our order, the true Thrones of Hell."
Asmodeus turned to look at me, asking carefully, “I am sure you do not need me to name them for you.”
