Of Opium and Asphodel

I. Death's Pale Court

The demon lord reclined in his chair, lounging with as much ease and arrogance as a king on a throne. He may as well have been; with the figures flanking his chair left and right, and the dark silk clothing he wore, he struck an imposing figure. Dark viridian hair spilled down his shoulders, virescent in the low light of the room. The boy--more of a man, really--standing before him held his gaze stalwartly, but the demon knew well the scent of fear emanating from the man in waves. He inhaled sharply, deeply, feeling the chasm of his chest fill, sustaining him in the same way that mortals fed on living and growing things.

Lord Asmodeus smiled and beckoned the man closer. The youth was dressed in fine clothing, neatly cut curling golden hair, and face scrubbed clean. Even in the flicker of torchlight, his eyes were flinty blue. Soft, but perpetually slit in the way of one who is attempting to masquerade their watchfulness as arrogance. The planes of his face were sharp and angular, but there was a delicate elegance inherent in his features despite it. He was not the sort one would expect to be seeking help from a demon crime boss, but then again, those who came rarely were. His eyes darted left and right, surveying the figures of the Wraiths flanking Asmodeus where he lounged in the chair. Asmodeus' clawed nails curled into the wooden armrests of his chair, their ink-dark tips scraping against the grain as he relished the mortal man's fear. His mouth lifted in half a smile that did not falter, even when the man met his gaze once more and began to speak. His stare carried a hint of derision, but his voice was soft.

"Are you the demon I was told of?" He asked, voice carrying a bare hint of an accent. Lilting and melodic, like Scottish interwoven with Welsh. It was teasing and intimate, practiced and warm, and so pleasant it took Asmodeus a moment to realize the man was weaving enchantment into his words, attempting to enraptured his audience and set them at ease, seducing them to his will.

The demon inclined his head, the picture of cordiality. "You may call me Asmodeus. Though perhaps your mortal tongue may be better suited to my title of 'Deathless One'." He smirked, enjoying the pretentiousness his position afforded him. "But tell me, what brings you here?"

The man raised his chin, seemingly reassured despite the looming Wraiths and Asmodeus' attention riveted on him. Braver men then he had pissed themselves in Asmodeus' presence.

"My name is Cairn." The man began.
Asmodeus tilted his head. This was a lie; the demon lord sensed no tugging spark at the sound of one's true name freely given. Names were powerful things. Asmodeus himself had not uttered his true name to anyone, not in hundreds upon hundreds of years. The only remaining one who knew his name was in the ground, far far below. He could not begrudge the mortal for taking such measures to protect his name. Particularly from a demon lord. In a way, mused Asmodeus, it was almost flattering. It betrayed Cairn's knowledge of him, how dangerous he was. Asmodeus ached for that fear, hungered to swallow it all like a dark wine. A slight thrill ran through him.
Cairn continued. "I've come to ask you to kill someone for me. I can pay you, handsomely--money is of no concern to me."

Perhaps this century was not a complete bore after all.

"Who is it you want killed?" The demon inquired. This man was becoming increasingly compelling, and Asmodeus had had rather a dull few centuries. Here was a mortal who could weave magic into his words, one who needed his aid. The things Asmodeus could do with such a man--he was always in need of more hands for his opium and demon drug cartel, and this mortal had invaluable skill. The demon lord steepled his long, shadow-stained fingers, the beginnings of a plan taking form.

"Well. The matter is I don't particularly care who you kill, so long as it's no one I'm fond of. I've been cursed, you see. To take life. And given my line of work, it's rather cumbersome." Cairn said.

"And what is your line of work?" Asmodeus asked, positing a banker's apprentice as his bet.

Cairn glanced up through his lashes, mouth set. "I work at the House of Asphodel."

The room seemed to shift at the mention of the notorious brothel. "Do you know it?" He asked, seemingly unconcerned by the change.

Asmodeus paused. "I know it." The courtesans under the Insignia of Asphodel were known to be very expensive, and for good reason--they often bore uncommon traits. Voices so beautiful they could cause the trees to bough and weep, or hair so long and lustrous it could drive men mad with the desire simply to caress it. The mortals who bore these gifts were the descendants of demons, those who had fled the underworld when it had last been breached. Centuries later, their demonic bloodline now resurfaced in their features. They were very rare, and the House of Asphodel made a point of collecting them. Cairn must have demonic blood, Asmodeus realized, to work at the house. That explained the enchantments he wove into his words. How very intriguing this human was turning out to be.

"This curse. You want me to break it by fulfilling it on your behalf?" Asmodeus guessed.

"I was rather hoping to transfer it to you altogether. I assume you've rather a lot of cause for killing in your profession, so it only seems convenient for us both." Cairn's voice was a smooth lull. He was almost convincing.

Asmodeus ran his tongue over his teeth slowly, considering. Their sharp edges had torn out the tender throats of many a man. Then he shifted forward, forearms resting on his knees. There was a low murmur among the Wraiths at his back. The demon lord is intrigued. The demon lord is never intrigued.

"If this is what you ask of me, Cairn," he began, enjoying the name as it rolled off his tongue, "then the cost to you will be a great deal more than money." Cairn paled at this. Asmodeus' smile grew wider. "But first tell me of this curse."