The Lake of Fire rippled with molten waves, glowing bright when a cooled crust of rock slipped below a swell and disappeared. Smoke feathered upward and the orange sky was hazy with the smell of sulfur and death.
Erasmus Dark walked in long strides over the hills and down deep into the valleys of black rock, his duster swishing over his legs. He looked straight ahead, neither veering his glance toward the shimmering lake, nor toward the volcano above the ridge, spewing its glowing rocks and liquid fire down its treacherous sides. He tried to clear his mind. He knew they would try to listen to his thoughts and it was vitally important that they not be able to hear them.
The trail descended through a canyon so steep and dark that even the light from the molten lake barely penetrated. The sheer canyon walls were black obsidian, their vitreous edges sharp.
Still he descended, until he reached a land bridge made of rough black marble. Below that, a river of dark listless sludge meandered. He never knew where it went exactly, but he had no wish to find out.
The land bridge ended at a cavernous arch, and he passed under it into darkness. Torches set in recesses in the rough-hewn rock gave off feeble light compared with the surroundings, but their flicker was of some comfort. Yes, he thought viciously. He seemed to need comfort now.
The woman. What had compelled him? She had sworn it was not a charm or spell and he believed her, mostly because he knew she was not competent enough to have crafted them herself. Why was he drawn to her then? Why was he so completely enthralled to his own detriment?
He crushed these thoughts like a shoe could extinguish an ember and walked up to the altar of black stone, stone so old no one remembered where it came from or who had made it. It was older than the gods, so it was said. Stone so black it gave no reflection.
He stopped and waited. Time was nothing here. He could have waited a thousand years, and would scarce have known it. But he had the feeling he would not wait long this time.
A small green flame erupted from the altar and hovered, growing little bigger than a candle flame. And then the chorus of voices began. It arose from all around him, shimmering the steamy air with its discordance. It grew louder and soon the different voices joined until it became one echoing voice, yet still sounding like many. They spoke slowly, precisely.
“Erasmus Dark,” said the chorus in a harsh whisper.
He bowed. “My lords.”
“The Gateway that should have been closed now yawns wide. The book—”
“I know, my lords.”
“It has awakened you, has it not, Erasmus Dark?”
“Yes.”
“The Chosen Host emerges. Has she been made known to you?”
“Yes, my lords.”
Tendrils of thought curled about him, teasing his senses, probing his mind that he had carefully prepared as a blank slate. It pushed. He gently nudged it back. If they truly wanted to penetrate his thoughts, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Well? What have you done to secure the book?”
“One creature has been contained. A succubus. I am keeping watch for more.”
It sounded like laughter, the susurrating sound. It lingered and rolled over the syllables of “succubus.” They were clearly amused at the choice.
“Contained?” The chorus was surprised. “Such a dangerous creature. But not so much to females.”
“Another clutch released an incubus. That, too, she subdued.” He made certain there was no pride in that statement.
“Incubus.” The syllables of that word were lovingly caressed. There was a pause. And then: “We wonder, Erasmus Dark, why you simply do not accomplish your task.”
“My lords—”
“It is your nature, your destiny, to seal the book. Or is it that you enjoy the sport of delicious deception?”
“Y-yes, my lords. For if I am to be locked behind the prison of the book once more, then I will taste my freedom for as long as I can.”
Laughter. Shimmering sounds like rocks sliding over rocks into a molten pool. A long silence followed.
He took a breath. “And…there is a complication.”
The tendrils reached for him again, but did not push harder than before. They seemed to want him to say it, not force it from his mind.
“Shabiri. She…”
A loud rush of wind…or was it a roar…swept up, ruffling his long hair. He endured it stoically.
“Ah…” said the chorus of voices. “The Shabiri. But you will not allow it to complicate matters.”
“No, my lords. But…she is aligned with…with Baphomet…”
The roar swept up again, swirling around him in displeased gusts.
“It is a minor complication,” he said as smoothly as he could. “I shall deal with her as I have done before.”
“Yes. See that you do.” There was a hushed sound, like distant laughter. And then: “So be it. You may go.”
He almost sighed with relief. But even as he turned, the chorus called him back.
“Erasmus Dark,” said the chorus, stringing out his name so that it almost sounded like many more syllables. “Do not delay too long. If the Chosen Host escapes, if she somehow frees herself, you will suffer the everlasting torment of your failure. We hope that this is very clear…Erasmus Dark.”
He took a deep breath and bowed. “I have not failed in four thousand years, my lords. I shall not fail this time.”
The shimmering sound rose to a crescendo and then cascaded down all around him like sparks, dead once they touched the ground.