God's Demon

Chapter Eight

Adramalik watched the white figure pick its way across the Rotunda floor toward the empty throne. She was still some distance off, and, as she approached, she faded from view behind the irregular clumped piles of flesh and bones that dotted the floor. Her pure white body, undraped the way Beelzebub insisted, contrasted starkly with the deep reds of the surroundings. She stepped so lightly upon her bloodstained bird-feet that she avoided touching any of the disarticulated bones that littered the floor.

He wanted her just as did nearly all the demons of the court. As a sexual plaything, as a possession. She was, he thought, at turns beautiful and terrifying, sensuous and cold, fragile and strong, and, perhaps, because of these intimidating, unfathomable contradictions, almost irresistible. But, like all the demons, Adramalik knew what the penalty would be if Beelzebub even thought there was any competition. His paranoia was matched only by his wrath.

The buzzing started as she drew nearer.

Adramalik did not bother to look for the origin of the sound. He knew from past experience that this was futile; even if he could pierce the gloom, the sound’s pervasiveness told him that there was no single point of its origin. His master was up there, he knew. Up there amidst the densely packed hanging skins and floating chunks of meat, watching Adramalik and Lilith as she crossed the Rotunda. Navigating the moist columns and islands of rotten flesh was slow work.

The buzzing grew more intense, more localized. Now, if he concentrated, Adramalik was sure he could see movement, see them take wing, the first of the tens of thousands of flies that he knew were coming. He had long ago grown used to Beelzebub’s entrances. But in that Adramalik was somewhat unique.

Lilith was close; he could see the red sclera of her eyes, the tiny nostrils, the thick, tight curls of her snowy mane. And, brought on perhaps by the stagnant, hot air, the thin sheen of perspiration that glazed her perfectly sculpted body.

Above them a wavering dark cloud of flies was growing and coalescing, rotating like a slow tornado in the debris-laden air. The buzzing rose and fell arrhythmically, an insectile threnody that almost sounded like words. Beelzebub’s Voice never failed to bring a crooked smile to Adramalik’s hard features.

He thought of it as a miracle, a miracle that only Lucifer could explain, for solid rumor had it that it had been he who had created Beelzebub. Adramalik had heard that Lucifer, just before the War, had wanted a fearless and unquestioning lieutenant, a being so different from his angels as to answer to none but himself. Secretly, and against the will of the Throne, he had created such a being, had dipped into the stuff of the Above and imbued the motes he found there with a loyal soul. It was not called Beelzebub then; no one but Lucifer knew its original name, and that was now lost.

After the Fall and after Lucifer’s disappearance, Beelzebub, in a hate-filled rage, had crushed those original motes that were himself into rapacious flies. Upon them he impressed grotesque caricatures of the faces of those seraphim still in the Above. His transformation was a grand gesture of self-mutilation, an event so incomprehensible that Demons Major still spoke of it with whispered awe.

This was all nearly forgotten history to Adramalik. His thoughts were almost always of the here and now and rarely of those chaotic days immediately after the Fall.

Above the persistent buzzing he heard the faint delicate splash of Lilith’s footsteps as she crossed the final few puddles of blood. She stopped at the base of the throne, head down.

Above her the flies swarmed, winged atoms of her master’s body. From what court-spies had related, he was sure that she wished she could tread upon each one, crushing them until he no longer existed. He was also sure that she would willingly sacrifice nearly everything just to accomplish this.

When he spoke it was in the Voice of the flies, a layered and droning Voice that emanated from a thousand tiny throats.

“Fleurety tells me of a growing cult among the souls. A cult of… you?” The ambient Voice paused, but a buzzing wheeze continued for a moment. “What do you know of this, dear Lilith?”

Adramalik thought, from where he stood, that he saw Lilith wince when her name was pronounced.

“I have heard rumors, but nothing more, my Prince,” she said, still looking down. Her voice was strong, husky. And not particularly contrite.

“You are mine, Consort. Not Hell’s at large. I would find it most distressing if Fleurety’s tales about you proved true. He is convinced that you are, in some way, fostering these cults. Just as you once did with the living humans.”

“The Duke has his own designs, my Prince,” she said plainly. “Perhaps you might ask him why he takes any interest in me at all.”

“I have. For once, his suspicions outweigh his obvious urges toward you.”

The Chancellor General reflected on that with mild amusement. Duke Fleurety’s carnal interests were extraordinary, his imagination nearly unmatched, his resources boundless. He must be very sure indeed, thought Adramalik.

Lilith tilted her head up.

“He suggested that I have Lord Agaliarept minister to you—that, perhaps, only he is capable of gaining the truth from you. I found that suggestion… disagreeable. What are your feelings about this?”

That had an effect, thought Adramalik, pleased. Her slight movement backward had been unmistakable. She was too proud, too unaffected by the Prince’s presence.

Ten thousand faceted eyes were fixed upon her.

“My feelings?” Her voice broke ever so slightly. “I… I have done nothing.” Adramalik saw a tear well up and glisten down her ivory cheek. It stopped for a moment on her jaw and then dropped onto her clawed foot where a few black and green flies had gathered. One sizzled briefly from the moisture and vanished, and Adramalik could not be sure that he had heard a momentary sigh mingled with the low buzz of Beelzebub’s breath.

“Nothing. That is good, Lilith,” the Voice buzzed with no inflection. “I will not share you, not with Fleurety, not with Agaliarept, and certainly not with the dirt of humanity.”

There it is again, thought Adramalik, that incredible possessiveness. And who can blame him?

“Thank you, my Prince,” Lilith said quietly.

“And keep that handmaiden of yours at heel. Her many trips away are at an end.” His Voice trailed off into a prolonged buzz, losing all semblance to language. The faintest whirring of wings could be heard from atop the throne, growing in volume as more and more of the flies of his body grew agitated. Lilith stood her ground, her red eyes focused somewhere beyond him, somewhere in the dark recesses of the dome, searching the gloom above for the first signs of movement.

The buzzing increased and Lilith’s eyes betrayed her. The Chancellor General could see the weight of her resignation in how she held her head, the way her hands hung by her sides.

Adramalik always wondered if when Beelzebub broke apart or came together it started with a single fly, one who gathered all the rest about himself. One with that particular spark that was Beelzebub. He would never know. As the Prince took wing, his garments tumbled and floated toward the ground and Adramalik caught them with practiced hands.

He watched, fascinated, every time his master approached. The already-thick air around the throne grew dense with a shimmering cloud of flies, each trailing a tiny flame of green. They circled the dome’s interior, fading in and out of the murky light, growing in numbers and density until it seemed that an almost solid, fluid body twisted between the hanging skins. After a few sinuous, blurred revolutions the swarm finally coalesced yards from Lilith into a dark, roughly humanoid shape. There, a few feet from the ground, it floated, its surface alive with the settling movement of the flies. Suddenly each fly purposefully inlaid itself like a tiny fierce tile in some living mosaic resolving its form, smoothing itself, and when it finally extended a taloned foot to step upon the floor it was transformed into the Prince of Hell.

Adramalik hastened forward to help drape the fine skin tunic, the sumptuous crimson and gold cloak, and then the heavy necklaces of state upon his Prince’s form. He took special care, as he did so, not to touch the huge iridescent wings that hung, trembling ever so slightly, from Beelzebub’s back. As the Chancellor General stepped back, Beelzebub’s ornate sigils flared to life upon his chest, fiery filigrees that cast a dull light upon the Fly’s face.

Unincorporated flies still swarmed, like the eager pets they were, around him and then made their way to Lilith. She ignored them, staring fixedly at the charnel-house floor.

Adramalik stepped a few paces back. He took a deep breath and looked, once again, with pleased reverence upon his Prince’s face. It had been weeks since he had been in the Rotunda.

“Ah, Lilith…,” the Prince said.

She looked up, then, into his face. It was a beautiful face, Adramalik thought, an uneven split of human and fly, the greater influence leaning toward the insect. This time, he noted, Beelzebub had fifteen eyes; it was a number that changed every time he appeared.

Adramalik could guess what Lilith thought when she looked into that face, softened, as it was, with the unforgivable love its owner felt for her. Personally, the Chancellor General could not fathom that emotion. Lust, no matter what the form, he understood, but not the additional embellishment; that he regarded as a sign of weakness and vulnerability. Not that he would have ever explained that to Beelzebub.

Adramalik watched Beelzebub, as he had so many times before, reach out a clawed, bristled hand, palm up and coaxing. She took it, unhesitatingly, unflinchingly. She had learned, Adramalik thought, smiling approvingly, remembering all the hard lessons. The millennia had taught her. That and the Scourges.

The Prince drew his Consort close. He towered over her and it was only after the flies at his joints separated somewhat that he could bend to reach her. And when he had, he tenderly held her head in his hands, guiding it toward the long proboscis that depended from the center of his face.

Lilith closed her eyes. She had learned that, too.

He kissed her, the long, thick tongue reaching downward, its hundreds of glistening black flies dancing in her throat.

Throughout the long embrace Lilith held herself rigidly still; Beelzebub either did not notice or enjoyed her resistance. Adramalik found himself unable to look away.

He knew that, somehow, she had found ways to ignore Beelzebub’s paranoia, his strict authoritarianism, his delusions, his rages. These things, Adramalik reasoned, she could forgive. But, he knew, she would never forgive Beelzebub his affections.

Adramalik continued to watch; he found her unwillingness beyond exciting.