Modern Mythicals

Sihiri and the Devil

 Sihiri's plants kept dying. It really wasn't her fault either— how was she supposed to know that her flowers wouldn't love her favorite mineral water as much as she did? Besides, witchcraft was supposed to be about cool stuff, like talking to dead people and having a pet raven, not struggling to keep a tiny box of underwhelming flowers on a windowsill alive.

On a rather mundane Tuesday afternoon, she decided it might be fun to summon the devil. She was right— he appeared in the little chalk pentagram she had drawn in a very occult-looking cloud of dark purple smoke.

"Who dares to bring me to the light of day?" He howled thunderously, his voice shattering one of Sihiri's nicer vases.

"Do you have to do what I say now?" she asked him curiously, head cocked to one side. She was an odd little creature, just a few brushstrokes on the face of the world, with a great big mess of hair that all but swallowed her up, and constellations of freckles dancing across her cheeks and over her arms.

"I am beholden to no feeble mortal! I make no deals, I take no orders, I bring only suffering," shrieked Satan as Sihiri brewed him a cup of tea. "I shall never submit to your— what are you doing?"

"It's chamomile," said Sihiri. "It's good for your throat."

"But— nothing's wrong with my throat!"

"I put honey in it," she continued calmly. "It'll get you sounding like normal in no time."

"What? No, no, you don't understand. I'm doing the voice on purpose, to scare you. It's my job," said the devil, confused.

"Well maybe you should take a sick day."

"No I— I'm not really sick!" whined Satan. "How are you not understanding this?"

Sihiri ignored him. "Really though, do you have to do what I say?"

"No, that's just a rumor," said Satan "Hey— this is a little hot, do you have any milk?"

She passed him the milk, watching him sit cross-legged in the chalk pentagram to stir it in.

"You have a nice apartment by the way. I mostly get summoned to dungeons and stuff, sometimes to kids' basements by accident. Their curtains are never as nice as yours." He watched the breeze from the open window stir the translucent yellow fabric for a second, seeming to forget about Sihiri.

"Thanks, they were a gift from my aunt," she said, snapping him back into the present. On the street below, a few passersby had gotten into an argument, and their shouts drifted up into the room.

"I like your flowers too," he said, looking around the room at the many dead and wilting flowers scattered across the various tables and shelves. There really wasn't much in the apartment except for dead flowers and books. Sihiri had always wondered if it made her look lonely, having nothing but dead flowers and stacks of books to cover the empty walls.

"...and your damn boyfriend too!" came a shout from below. Satan snapped his fingers, and the noise cut off abruptly, leaving the two and the apartment in peace.

"Thanks for that," she said, pouring him another cup of tea. Such a pity— the devil was much more tame than she had hoped he would be.

"You're really nice, you know. If you ever kill someone or rob a bank or something, I'll put in a good word for you."

"Thanks," she said again, wondering if witchcraft would ever get any more interesting than this.

"It's not all that fun you know," he said, casually leaning out of the pentagram to rest his back against the side of Sihiri's favorite chair. He rubbed a spiral horn contemplatively, crossing and uncrossing his hooves as he spoke. "I mean, sometimes you just get tired of all the flayings and the lava pits."