Malus

Chapter Twenty-Four

The cavern had been forged by the demon in a single blow of power. Some of the doors and furniture had remained, molded into the walls. There was a pit in the center, bordered by a spiraling set of open tunnels that seemed to stretch down forever. One or two magicians had been forced into the long plummet down, and Jonathan did not want to join them.

Malus stood on his pinnacle in the middle of the pit. By some strange phenomenon, the demon had taken the form of a man—one that was inhumanly pale and clothed in the same blue-black mist that he sent to cause chaos among the resisting magicians. He flung bolts of dark energy and deadly mist all around the cavern, all the while letting out a morbidly elated, echoing laughter.

"Sorcery isn't working!" someone cried. Jonathan's gaze followed the source of the voice. A man near him shook his head, muttering, "Neither is magus."

Jonathan forced himself to focus. Nothing would work if everyone lost their heads. He held the marks in his mind, willing them into physical energy that would weaken the demon.

The walls shook suddenly and several chunks of rock tumbled down. Unable to regain his balance, Jonathan fell back into the wall, clutching for a hold, and prepared himself for an onslaught of debris.

There was an unexpected chorus of cheering, accompanied by a loud, rushing roar. He looked up just in time to see a comet shoot through the entrance at the cavern's upmost level. The fire ball was enormous, and headed straight for Malus. For its size and power, the comet must have been at least the fifth degree, which was impossible for an elemental, and ignavox wouldn't take that form.

When it collided with the demon, Malus ceased his insane laughter to growl, arms raised to keep the inferno at bay. When he brought his arms down, the comet was thrown back. To his surprise, the comet retreated, as if it knew when to back off.

Then it continued full-force in his direction. Jonathan, too shocked to move, watched as the wall of fire approached him like an oncoming train.

Despite its appearance, the man felt no burning pain as it neared, only the warmth of a distant hearth. The comet struck one of the doors that had fused horizontally with the stone wall. As the flame pulled into itself, arms appeared and hands grasped the edge of the crude table. Amazingly, the fire stood up—on the legs of a man.

The rest of its body formed as it straightened out. Jonathan's gaze swept up the strange figure, all the way to its blazing head.

"Perry?" he breathed.

"Jon," the creature replied. The wood beneath his feet vanished in a cloud of ash and he regarded the pile of burned wood with a faint apologetic glance.

The flaming boy did look like his son, somehow. Their voices were nearly the same, besides the differing accents, and his features were eerily similar, though they evaded solidity every time a faint breeze reached him.

The only completely distinguishable trait, besides a lack of flesh, was that his ever-morphing ears took to a distinct point. His hair was only a shadowed version of the rest of his body and his eyes, nostrils, and mouth were merely spaces vacant of fire. In the hollows of his eyes, a faint blue ring that mimicked his son's irises met his gaze.

"Jon," he said again, taking an subtle step toward him. "Where is Perry?"

The man stuttered for a minute before he could form a coherent thought. "Perry... He's safe." His hair stood on end as a familiar feeling flooded through him. "Erisef?"

"Aye," the demon answered. Now he realized that his accent was similar to that of many old sorcerers, touched by the scrawling language of demons.

So this must be his boy, immortalized in flame. A demon, incubated in the body of a magician, took the form of its sorcerer.