Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

As she rounded onto the Rule she saw the small demon contingent already a hundred yards ahead, their swaying forms generalized by the fog. A progression of three-story buildings, each with an overhanging jetty, lined both sides of the street, dropping gradually until she could only discern their hair-topped roofs. Dozens of receding braziers, their diffused, orange glows like soft stars, lit the relatively narrow street as it descended in long steps. Few demons trod upon its worn and fog-slicked flagstones, but many souls were performing their regular and unending tasks, taking little or no notice that it was so late at night. Their torments knew no hours.

Lilith's clawed feet left dry prints upon the warm flagstones as she made her way down the street. She kept enough distance from the small procession as she felt was safe, but all the while she wondered, as they never seemed to arrive at any destination, just how far from the citadel they would go. Doubt began to slow her steps somewhat. This quiet mission of Sargatanas', surely it was of no concern to her. What would he say if he knew that he was being shadowed by her? They had not even seen each other since her arrival.

Something drove her on nonetheless. Perhaps, she worried, a part of her mind was intoxicated with her newfound freedom and this almost inexplicable adventure was, in some way, a reflection of her clouded judgment. Or maybe it was something about Sargatanas, himself.

She passed silent crowds of souls—specters that were made solid as she drew near, some carrying mortar or wheeling brick-carts made of bone or burdened with skins or tools or metal fittings for building. Some looked at her directly, but none penetrated her disguise. She returned their gaze, studying their misshapen faces and seeing in most the unmistakable mark of evil. Only a few among many seemed out of place, confused and terrified. Those, especially were her souls, the human beings she had spent her time in Hell caring for. As she looked from one to another she wondered whether she had placed her faith in the wrong cause and whether their redemption was unattainable.

She glanced up and recognized a pair of twisting, smoke-belching spires that rose from the Forges, a landmark that she knew marked the halfway point between the palace and the quays. Even through the mask of her skins she could smell the airborne residue of the smelters and dozens of weapon forges. The number of bone-carts carrying weapons to the barracks rose dramatically as she passed the grimy building.

Farther down the Rule, Lilith encountered the dwellings of skin stitchers, the long drying racks loaded with skins visible through their courtyards, as were the stacks of skinned souls that writhed slowly by the gutter. The low demons sat in small knots chanting in throaty whispers in time with their sewing. Two thick-set gristle-dogs suddenly bolted from one courtyard directly in front of her, grabbed the arm of one of the discarded souls, and began to noisily growl and snap at each other, their white eyes bulging. They managed to twist and tear it free, and with foam flying in arcs they disappeared back from whence they had come. The soul gurgled something and went silent.

Lilith found it difficult to watch these unfolding tableaus. After all these millennia it was still hard for her to reason through what could be done about the souls, harder with the knowledge that the activities of souls in Hell were so integral to keeping it running. She knew it would not be easy to convince any demon in Hell—even, perhaps, Sargatanas—to reform their policies toward the souls. But, she was convinced, it needed to be done, and beginnings were always hard.

Eventually, looking past the demons she was shadowing, Lilith saw the oxbow of the Acheron, shining from the fires in the skies above and looking like a ribbon of copper suspended in the fog. If she had not known that it flowed with heavy tears she might have mistaken its reflective brilliance for lava. Dim shades of cargo barges occluded the river's brightness in shifting patches, as did the very occasional passing of formations of flying demons. So beautiful was the sight that she stopped in the middle of the Rule, for a moment, and put her hand to her mouth. And for the thousandth time told herself how lucky she was to be away from Dis.

Sargatanas and his party had continued down the street and she hurried to catch up. Presently she found her surroundings shifting toward those of the docksides where great square buildings rose, their portals agape, awaiting off-loaded goods from Sargatanas' many wards. In the distant past, when the city was young, she knew these enormous warehouses had been filled to overflow and the streets around them had been virtually impassable. Now they stood, for the most part, disused and hollow, their bricks looking about sullenly.