Mists of Velvet

“Soon,” he whispered to himself. Soon, he would shed his chameleon ways. Then he would possess the powers of heaven and hell in the mortal realm, as well as those of the Summerlands and the Shadowlands in Annwyn.
    The Dark Arts, he thought with amusement, were not so difficult to master. Not for one such as he. The witch Morgan had been a most agreeable tutor. But he was done with her. Her death had been necessary and enjoyable. She had taught him all she knew. Once he had exhausted the witch’s talents, he had turned elsewhere, to another who had been exceedingly adept at sex and death magick. But like Morgan, she, too, had worn out her usefulness. What he needed now were more victims—sacrifices; offerings to the Dark Arts so that his magick could grow. There was so much that could be learned in Annwyn—much more than in the mortal realm.
    And he was learning, growing, and becoming the most powerful creature to walk in either world.
    Chains clanked together, and a groan rumbled above the metallic scrape of metal against stone. His captive was rousing yet again, despite the fevered beating he had dealt.
    Strolling over to the naked, dirty form, the mage bent and reached for a handful of black hair and used it to pull his captive’s head back.
    “Why won’t you die?” he snarled.
    “Because I have something to do first,” came the weak reply.
    “After a thousand years?” he asked in disgust. “There is nothing left of the world you once knew, Brother. ”
    His prisoner, weak of body and spirit, still had enough strength to mock him. “I have something you don’t, and that is my faith.”
    “Faith is for mortals,” he spat. “Not your kind.”
    “Are you not one of my kind?”
    “Shut up!” he snapped, shoving his captive’s head against the cave wall. “You know nothing of me.”
    “You have blinded me, Brother, but I still know your voice. Even after all this time, I know.”
    “You were always such a stupid, blind fool, Camael. Blind to everything but your desires.”
    “My desires are not so different from yours. I hungered for the flesh of a goddess. You hunger for power. You seek a kingdom to rule, Uriel, because you’ve been banished from God’s.”
    He had not heard his name in so long, he had nearly forgotten it. He had become someone other than what he had been. The Dark Mage he was now, but hearing his rightful name once more forced him to recall what he was.
    “And the angels who did not keep their own position,” Camael whispered, his voice broken and hoarse, “but left their proper dwelling, He has kept in eternal chains in deepest darkness for the judgment of the great day.”
    Uriel did not need any biblical quotes or reminders. Camael was a fool. It was so much more than hatred for the humans. It went even beyond Uriel’s desire to triumph in his banishment.
    “Your chains are metaphorical, Uriel. You did not keep your position, so He banished you. You have imprisoned yourself with darkness, and chained yourself to its seductive call.”
    “And why shouldn’t I?” he snarled. “When He banished me, He left me to rot among His filthy creations. Keep my place? No,” he growled. “My place is not with the fleshings. My position is my own. My kingdom is to come. And then we will see what He has to say on His great day of judgment.”
    “Angel of prophecy,” Camael said mockingly, “what will you do when you discover you have fallen victim to your divination?”
    “I will cause pain and destruction. I will turn the righteous into sinners. I will turn the Destroyer into a creature of darkness and despair. I will take, and take, without thought or reason. I will take to hurt, to fulfill my greed, just as I did when I took your goddess lover.”
    Camael gifted him with his struggle against the chains, the pain etched on his face. He could almost see the hatred that would have been in his old adversary’s eyes, but the orbs had long been plucked out.
    “Your precious Covetina.” The whimper of pain that whispered past Camael’s lips was like the stroke of a lover to Uriel. His cock was hard. He was aroused by the pain he felt shuddering through his brother. “What was she . . . Oh yes, the goddess of the well and the womb. A healer, a protector of childbirth . . . and as lusty as any common whore. But as pleasurable as it was to bed her, it was far more delightful to watch her blood spill onto my hand.”
    “No,” Camael cried, struggling to be free of the