Prologue (2/2)

THE LIGHT WAS BY FAR THE WORST OF IT.

Here, beyond the farthest outskirts of what could only laughingly be called the "civilized" reaches of Hell, any visitor—of which there were precious few—should certainly have expected horrors. Nor would they have been disappointed. The cramped passageways of this particular sanctum were flesh scraped raw; a wet, glistening, infected pink. Perspiration and other fluids, both fouler and more intimate, seeped from the ever-undulating surface. Each corridor flexed and trembled, an orifice trying to clamp itself shut, held open only by a thin latticework of what might or might not have been age-browned gristle.

Every footstep was treacherously slick. Every inhalation carried the acrid, choking stench of old sweat. Every hint of a breeze brought the echoes of unheard moans that might have been ecstasy, agony, or some unholy combination of the two.

And still the light was worse.

It flickered and danced, as firelight should, but its rhythms were subtly off, unnatural. The ambient hue was a jaundiced yellow, painful to view, somehow hot and sticky on the skin. It brought a sheen of perspiration to everyone it touched, as though the illumination itself were diseased.

Scattered at seemingly random intervals, in alcoves throughout the hallways and around the perimeter of a central chamber, glowed the sources of that awful light. Thick, ugly candles, from two or three to almost ten paces in height, arose from oily puddles. Only a close study of those waxen pillars revealed the figures encased within: mostly demonic, some few representing an array of Old Ones and even the occasional angel. Each blurred at the edges, flesh melding seamlessly into the surrounding wax; and each melted slowly, so slowly, body and life and soul providing fuel for the flame.

Flames that danced and flickered, not at random, but in time to the still-beating hearts within.

At one end of the vast hollow, nestled at the intersection of those passageways, sanity regained some semblance of a foothold. An array of gossamer curtains added a peculiarly stylish touch of color to the chamber. A raised dais, standing proudly against the wall of flesh, was constructed of mundane granite—although the interlaced web of gristle holding some of those stone blocks together spoiled the effect a bit. Atop that platform, a heap of demons writhed around a throne, carved of marble, cushioned in supple skin and locks of hair. Pressed tightly together, they moved almost as a single mass. Most were humanoid, but beyond that they had little in common. Some were beautiful, some hideous; some winged and some earthbound; some male, some female, some both, and a few neither. They squirmed and thrashed, moaned and gasped, as every so often their mistress would reach down from her throne and stroke their exposed flesh with hands as soft as burial shrouds.

Her skin was the deep purple of a nighttime storm, her dark hair wreathed in horns that only accentuated her unearthly allure. Emerald eyes that could coax an angel to sin—and had, on more than one occasion; a face to make a dead man ache; a figure to make a golem sweat. She was desire made flesh on a nearly divine scale. A palpable lust exuded from her, like an animal musk, with every gesture. Few indeed, in Heaven, Hell, or between, could stand resolute before her. Most would have gladly allowed her to skin them alive, if only they might gaze upon and worship her as she carved.

Lilith. Queen of Demons, Mother of Monsters, lover and betrayer, temptress and traitor. Creation's most exquisite lie.

(Picture here)

The chamber hummed, faintly but consistently, with the crackling of the candle flames, the sighs of Lilith's current favorites, the susurrus of her diaphanous silks. Lilith herself remained largely silent, however, her attention centered on the bulky figure standing at the foot of the dais, the source of the room's only

meaningful sounds. Visitors and petitioners were rare here in Hell's outer reaches, in the domain of those demons currently out of favor. And this visitor, at least, had promised interesting things to say.

He was cloaked and hooded in a tattered robe of gray, his features swathed in shadow—as though such a simple effort could possibly have kept his name from Lilith in her own home. Still, she'd allowed him his charade, and considered his words as he told her of his plans, and of what he'd hoped the Demon Queen might contribute to his efforts.

He kept his gaze lowered as he spoke—perhaps a sign of deference, more likely a feeble effort to protect himself from the overwhelming strength of her presence. She found the attempt amusing.

"Why?" When she finally spoke, interrupting the last of the stranger's presentation, her voice was thick, sultry, somehow enticing and repulsive at once. Addiction, given speech. "Why come to me with this?"

"I thought I'd made that clear." The stranger's words, in contrast, were gruff with only a hint of melody, like a troubadour who had long since lost his voice. "We all know that you dealt heavily with the Nephilim before their extinction, for all that you've kept the details of your relations hidden. You're said to know more of them than anyone, save perhaps the Charred Council. Who else has a better chance of unlocking the legacy they left be—"

"Yes, yes, yes." Lilith ceased caressing the demons at her feet long enough to wave her fingers in dismissal. Even that brief cessation was enough to draw a despairing cry from her pets. "I understand that, idiot boy. I mean why waste the time? It was courageous of you to come here—some might say foolish—but to what end? What could possibly have made you think I'd want to involve myself in your scheme?"

The shabby hood twitched back, blatantly startled. "I … I assumed that you would see the value in the power we might unlock together. You've no reason to love Heaven or Hell. You could lay waste to everyone responsible for your current status, perhaps even force the great factions and the Charred Council to restore what was taken from you! You—"

"What was taken from me," Lilith hissed, leaning sharply forward, "is of less importance than you seem to believe. Certainly not enough for me to set myself against all the forces of Creation! I have my own projects, far more subtle than the wars you hope to ignite. You offer enormous power, yes, but power shared. Power focused toward your own agenda. And I've no intention of abandoning plans already in motion. I will regain all that is mine, and more—but in my time, my way!

"You will, I'm afraid, simply have to unearth your precious secrets elsewhere."

"I see." The supplicant below her nodded. "Then we have nothing further to discuss, I think. I should—"

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far." Lilith stretched languidly in her throne, arching her back and pressing her breasts against the flimsy silks with blatant intent. "I wouldn't want you to leave here unhappy."

"You wouldn't want me to leave here as a potential enemy," the other said. "Just in case I do succeed."

He was good, this one. He almost hid the tremor in his voice, the quiver of longing in his body.

"I won't deny that." Lilith's lips, darker than wine, parted as she slowly ran her tongue across teeth that should have gleamed white had the ambient light not cast them as an almost lightning yellow. "But surely you wouldn't want me as an enemy, either. Not when we can part on better terms, when even an informal alliance could be so much more—pleasant."

She knew the effect she was having on him, the effect she had on just about everyone. It wasn't even seduction, not really; seduction implied a choice, and Lilith's very nature stripped that choice from most sentient minds. She could practically see her influence crashing down on him in a deluge of need. He took a shuddering step, placing one foot upon the stairs of the dais, a hand reaching upward …

And just as swiftly he straightened, pulling away. "No. I'm not leaving as your enemy, Lilith, you can content yourself with that. But neither will I leave as your plaything."

Lilith recoiled hard enough to rock the granite throne. For a long moment, her features twisted between astonishment and rage, slowly settling into a wary respect.

"She must have been truly special to you," she said.

It was his turn to recoil, clearly stunned and more than a little alarmed at his host's clear knowledge, not only of his identity, but his history and motivations as well.

"Go," Lilith continued before he could draw breath to speak, "before I decide to take offense. Go and find your toys. I'll be fascinated to see whom you invite to play once you have them."

He was gone without another word. Lilith stared at the far wall long afterward, ignoring the plaintive cries of her pets, her fingers drumming thoughtfully on the arms of her throne.

FROWNING WITHIN THE SHADOWS of his hood, the visitor marched stiff-legged through the fleshy corridors. Every curse in Creation hovered about his lips, but he refused to give them voice—not, at least, until he was certain he was beyond the range of Lilith's hearing. He truly couldn't afford to make unnecessary enemies.

Not yet.

Throughout his trek, he passed not one single room or passage leading off the main hallway. He had no doubt they existed; presumably the flesh had some means of opening whenever an orifice was required.

Beneath his robe, his own flesh crawled.

Viscous fluids squelched beneath his tread or dripped on him from above as the corridor quivered. At one point he stepped on a particularly soft and pliable spot, sinking nearly to his knee before the substance ceased to stretch, and was rewarded with an obscene sigh from somewhere far behind.

It was actually a relief when he finally reached the door—or the hideous folds of leathery skin that passed for a door—and found himself outside Lilith's "palace," on the blasted plains of Hell proper. Blackened rock crumbled with every step, and he could feel his face cooking in the heat, for all that the great pits and pillars of flame were many leagues distant. Impossible spires, the homes and towers of potent demons, reached crookedly up from the horizon like threads on the frayed borders of reality.

For all the distance between him and the infernal societies, however, he found that he was not alone.

She was waiting for him, crouched idly on the cracked earth. She was, upon first glance, everything Lilith was not. Her features were broad and vaguely flat; not ugly, really, so much as shallow, as though carved by a sculptor who'd ultimately thrown down his tools and decided "Close enough." Hair the color of cooling magma fell across shoulders clad in harsh, blocky armor. Her entire aspect was squat, even as she stood to greet him, and it took the hooded visitor a moment to realize that, in fact, he barely reached her chin.

She was accompanied, one to each side, by a pair of only vaguely humanoid shapes, half her size, hewn of rough stone and covered in glowing sigils. Even without her artificial cohort, the visitor would have known her for a Maker—one of the greatest of the progenitor races called, collectively, the Old Ones.

"I could have told you it wouldn't interest her much." The woman spoke with the voice of a particularly gruff and surly avalanche.

"I … I'm sorry, what?"

"Lilith. Your plan. I have free run of the complex, heard the whole thing. I could have told you it wouldn't interest her." A massive shrug made her armor shift slightly across her torso. "She was desperate, once, to regain the knowledge and power that were stolen from her, but that was long ago. She's moved on to other goals, and they don't require the sort of brute force you're offering."

"And you're certain of this because …?"

"Because I've spent centuries trying to convince her otherwise. I cast my lot with hers, abandoned my realm and my people, because I was fascinated at the thought of the wonders she might perform, might create. I've devoted far more time and effort than you, to no greater effect."

; The gray-robed figure reached up, scratched briefly at his hidden chin. "I see. And who are you, exactly?"

"Belisatra."

Another shallow nod. "I've heard of you. Lilith's pet Maker."

Belisatra scowled, and the two figures at her sides shifted idly, stone scraping deafeningly against stone. "You might devote some effort toward not being offensive," she told him. "Considering that I'm offering to help you."

"You? Why?"

"Because if we succeed, I can make the Charred Council restore Lilith's power. I can stand at her side as she changes Creation. And because, Lilith aside, the legacy you seek is almost as fascinating to me as the greatest of her creations."

He had doubts and suspicions, of course; would have been a fool not to. And she'd have been as great a fool not to expect him to have doubts and suspicions.

But in the end, where else had he to turn?

"All right, if you think you—"

"But I want to see it first."

The hooded man offered up a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "Why does everyone here insist on interrupting me?" Then, before Belisatra could answer, "You want to see what?"

The Maker laughed, low and gravelly. "Don't ever take me for a fool. You'd never have come to Lilith with this if you weren't absolutely certain they still existed; if you hadn't already found at least one of them. Besides, I can practically smell the emanations. I may lack Lilith's experience and expertise with the Nephilim, but I recognize their scent well enough."

The robes shifted and shuffled, the hood twisting about as though checking for spies. Then, with a simple flick of the wrist, it sat in the shrouded traveler's hand.

Not particularly impressive in any way, it was just a pistol, clunky and thick. The Forge Makers had been crafting sleeker weapons for centuries, if not longer. A complex array of multiple polygonal cylinders sat heavily at the weapon's center, rotating and revolving with ungainly clicks, feeding ammunition to the weapon's triple barrels.

Belisatra frowned. "I was expecting something more …"

She started to look away, and found for the barest instant that she couldn't. The weapon seemed more solid, more weighty, more real than the man holding it or the badlands plain on which they stood. It tugged at her gaze like a petulant child, refusing to relinquish its grip.

She saw the inner workings, the mechanisms, though she couldn't possibly have seen. The gun didn't open, the pieces didn't slide apart; she simply saw inside the horrid thing, as well as out. She saw, and she knew that the metal of the frame had been melted down from treasured heirlooms and ancient works of art. Saw the tendons that wound through the jagged gears; the shriveled eye, crammed between the barrels, to assist the wielder's aim; the old blood, still impossibly fresh, pumping through the iron itself; the hammers of bone, and the seemingly infinite supply of teeth, drawn through the dimensions to serve as projectiles.

In its own way, it was far more disturbing even than the organic passageways that wound through Lilith's home. Those had been grown, but this? This had been taken, forged from the hopes and organs, synapses and souls, of the living.

On some primal level she could sense but not quite hear, it still screamed.

"This," the traveler said, his own voice hushed and almost reverent, "is Black Mercy."

"What …" Belisatra took a step back, finally tore her gaze from the deadweight in his hand. "What does it …?"

"Now? Now it simply kills. Now it's just a particularly potent gun with a rather distasteful shot. But at its height? When the Nephilim rode between worlds, trampling whole races as they passed? A soldier armed with Black Mercy could slaughter armies. This isn't a pistol, Belisatra. Black Mercy is a handheld massacre, a herald of genocide. You and I, we're going to wake it up—and we're going to find the others. If," he added intently, challengingly, "you're still game, of course."

"Yes …" Again her gaze had locked on the weapon, but now their bond was one of fascinated avarice, not startled revulsion. "Oh, you couldn't keep me away."

Within the hood, teeth glinted in a crooked smile. "Well, then, my companion …" A second flick of the wrist, and Black Mercy disappeared up a voluminous sleeve. "You get to suggest a starting point."

"I think I can do that. I …" Her head cocked to one side. "We'll need to gather my little helpers." She idly reached out, brushed her knuckles across the nearer of the stone figures. "They'll try to stop us, you know."

"Let them. I know the ways of Heaven and Hell too well for them to—"

"And the Horsemen?"

Again he stopped mid-sentence. "The Charred Council's attack dogs? What of them?"

Belisatra smiled without an iota of mirth. "You've heard of the Horsemen, clearly. And just as clearly, you've heard nothing about them."

"Deadly, obscenely powerful, without mercy, and all that, yes, yes …"

"I mean who they are. The Four Horsemen are the Council's enforcers, yes. They're also the last of the Nephilim."

The other sucked in a breath. "The Nephilim are dead!"

"As a race, yes. But to the very last? Not quite. And should they learn of your efforts—our efforts—I can't imagine they'll respond kindly."

A few calming breaths, and then, "I don't much care how they respond, really. My quarrel is with the generals of the White City and the Dukes of Hell, not the Horsemen. But after all they've done? I'm quite certain that not a single tear will be shed, anywhere in Creation, when the Nephilim have gone well and truly extinct."