Demon Angel

enemies' progress, and continually measured it against their own. Demons had not been blessed with such happy ignorance, and war had decimated the population on both sides. Unsurprising that many demons had gone rogue, or chose to live on Earth in whatever capacity they could, whether congressman or FBI lackey.
    Much better than here, where the stink of death permeated everything. Lucifer's empyreal throne: built on rot, gilded by deceit. His cities had deteriorated since last she'd come Below. Though a simple thing for him to reconstruct them—little more than a thought—buildings lay in ruins, pitted by the sulphuric air. The lake had grown beyond its boundaries, and liquid fire ran in rivulets down the streets, melting away gold and dulling the black marble with smoke.
    It had never been beautiful—too gaudy for beauty—but Lucifer's pride had disallowed him to rule over a kingdom in disrepair.
    Strange, that it was now. She did not know what to make of it. But she did not know what to think of many things of late.
    No. She took a deep breath, let the stinking air fill her. This was not the time for confusion, or for uncertainty. Not the time for sentiment.
    She circled around the cities; though war had reduced their populations, the air above them was still busy with demons, like bees over a hive. And though a confrontation and fight might have steadied her nerves, she dared not risk it. Lucifer might approve of such squabbling—or he might not, depending upon his mood.
    And it was the territories closer to the throne she needed to focus on, to get through, before she could think about fighting.
    She flew through the barrier ringing the throne's territory— Lucifer's magic vanished her wings, and she plummeted. She'd known the barrier was there, could have prepared for it, but she'd seen halflings and demons try to avoid the fall and be punished for it. None could approach Lucifer without being reminded from whence they all came.
    But she had no intention of crawling to Lucifer on broken limbs; it would inspire hatred, not pity. She controlled the descent, fast but not reckless, and rolled at the last moment. Breathed a prayer of thanks to the scales and hardened flesh.
    A growl from beside her made her quickly amend, "Thanks to the Morningstar for giving me scales and flesh of stone," she said with an ironic smile, but Cerberus only cared that the words were correct, and thought nothing of the tone.
    She did not stand half as tall as the hellhound's shoulder; a few more centuries and Sir Pup would be as large. "Your son is well; he begs for pettings and obeys my every command, just like a human's dog." Rage darkened the hellhound's eyes, and Lilith added, "I'd have a treat for you, but I fed the pup the last of the meat I had for being such a good boy ."
    Cerberus went still, as if deciding whether to kill her. But he would have only left the throne at Lucifer's behest and most likely to fetch her. Lucifer would not mourn her death, but he would punish Cerberus for disobeying him, and the hellhound weighed that decision now.
    As Lilith had known he would, he let her live, pushing her forward with a violent shove. Through another barrier, from heat to ice. On Earth, the cold did not affect her; here, it bit and clawed, tore hungrily at her feet. Magic, most likely. Use of which Lucifer kept a closely guarded secret, as he did most knowledge.
    She tripped as Cerberus pushed her again, and she sprawled flat—and squeezed her eyes shut too late. Only inches from hers: a face, frozen into the ground, frozen in an eternal scream of horror.
    Darius. One of the demon halflings; once a murderer, Lucifer had transformed him—then later, destroyed him for taking pride in his human accomplishments. Impossible to serve Lucifer if one prided oneself in giving—or taking—life. When Darius had made that last trip to the throne, the halflings and demons had lined up, watched him walk though the frozen wasteland. He'd walked with his head down, placing each step carefully, though it was not so packed with those terrible visages and stepping room available. The demons had mocked him for his cowardice, for refusing to meet their eyes with pride as he marched to judgment. Such it was Below; to be destroyed for pride, and then mocked for lacking it.
    But the halflings watching him had known Darius was thinking of how soon he'd be in that frozen stretch, and that he did unto others as he would have done unto him. They would