The Angel of Frost

Prologue

"What shall we write, then?" Miss Coldpress asked the historian beside her. As she held a pen over a piece of parchment, her hand trembled. She itched to slap it.

They were in her old, rickety office. It was one of the four rooms of their humble cottage, which had been bought with funds she had managed to salvage after the end of the cataclysm. It had been perfect; situated in a remote corner of an unnamed valley, with no one to trouble them. Coldpress hated the loneliness, though.

They had lived a relatively peaceful life - until now.

"What we both survived," Mr. Giganoogin replied.

She dropped the pen. Ink spilled from its tip, blotting the parchment.

"Would anyone believe us?" she asked, her voice wavering. "Knowing that we'll live to see a new age dawn anyway, whatever happens, do we still have to tell them?"

"We should. Gabriel said so."

"I'm tired of having our lives dictated by that archangel! He was the one who said we should go into hiding - and from what? Lucifer's been defeated, the Leviathan's been slain, and here we are, forced to stay in this horrible--"

Her rant was cut off by a sudden tremor that shook the cottage. The walls cracked, sending splinters flying into the air. A fissure formed under Coldpress's feet, and she slipped. Giganoogin caught her just in time. The fissures in the floor emitted clouds of sulfur and spewed out steaming chunks of melted rock. Deep in the fiery light of the cracks, the small horns of a dozen imps slowly emerged.

"He's found us," Giganoogin stated grimly.

"That can't be," she muttered in disbelief. "I dealt him the killing blow myself!"

"There's no time to think about that now. Stay here, I'll get my blade."

"No, you can't, you'll be hurt!"

Giganoogin put a finger to her lips. "He won't hurt us if he doesn't know who we really are. Whatever you do, don't say my name."

He left, slamming the office's door.

Despite his advice, Coldpress decided to follow after him. Obviously, she wasn't safe near these cracks that were clearly entryways for demons. She made for the exit. The intense heat building up in the room made her pant and slowed her down with dizziness.

Just a few steps more, she told herself. Silently, she begged for strength from the heavens. She made every movement sluggishly, like an insect trapped in amber. Black spots clouded her vision - signs of approaching unconsciousness. Her age had finally caught up to her.

She was a few steps from the door when the unholy laugh of a demon stopped her in her tracks.

"Dear me, he's still an oaf, isn't he? Did you think my memory was that faulty? I don't easily forget those who bested me, mortal."

She trembled as she turned to face him. She knew that voice; she had heard it order the deaths of thousands of screaming, innocent souls. Lucifer, the devil himself, had finally found them.

"I must say, your spirit seems strong. Maybe that'll help you hold out through the hours of endless torture. Doesn't matter, anyway. You're mine now."

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