Little Billy Stubbins loved sno-cones.

He loved the way their bright preservative-laced juices trickled down his face and stained his clothes. He loved the way his sticky fingers left traces of crimson, lime, and ultramarine on the tan interior of his mommy’s Suburban. But most of all he loved the sweet taste of sugar on his tongue, a burst of flavor that, though it was soon gone, left behind it garishly decorated teeth that no amount of brushing would clean.

So when his mother, harried by a horde of small children and the sweat-and-chlorine stench of the city pool, handed him a dollar and told him to go away, he waddled straight over to the rainbow-colored shack where true happiness was found.

He marched to the counter, shoving aside three smaller children, who immediately began to wail. But Billy thought of one thing and one thing only: the glory that was sno.

“I want cherry!” he screeched at the surly teenager slouched against a freezer inside. “I want grape! I want lime! I want—“

“Yeah?” the teenager said with elaborate disdain. One lank lock of fire-engine hair dangled over an apathetic eyebrow bristling with piercings, his artfully ripped black t-shirt absorbing the summer sunlight.

Billy stiffened. Mommy told him not to talk to bad people, but—

“I want everything!” he bawled.

The sno-cone guy smiled suddenly and leaned forward. All traces of languor gone, he stared at his customer, eyes transfixed upon Billy with a slightly maniacal glint.

“Kid,” he said, “This is your lucky day.”

“But what’s a soul?” Billy asked, confused by the man’s offer.

The sno-cone guy, who had discarded his t-shirt and jeans for a set of flowing blood-red robes, sighed. “Well, it’s just one of the parts of your biological make-up that you seem to have very little use for at the moment,” he explained. “But since you need your brain for basic bodily functions, it’s your soul I’m interested in.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

The teenager, who now looked not so much seventeen but sort of ageless and omniscient, smiled. “Let’s just say I’m a…collector.”

Apparently the sno-cone stand was much larger than it appeared from the outside, as the two were now seated in a grand chamber luxuriously upholstered in red velvet, lit by torches, and guarded by several menacing onyx gargoyles. It seemed as if the entrance lay somewhere between the icemaker and the gallon jug of lemon-lime syrup.

“Peppermint?” the sno-cone guy asked, proffering a candy dish that looked suspiciously like a human skull.

Billy shook his head stubbornly. “Who are you, anyway?”

With a wave of his skeletal hand, the guy snatched a heavy parchment business card from the air and handed it to the boy. It read, “Drazgoth Zul A’Mortuan: Fiend First-Class, World-Daemon of the Second Order, 567th Annual All-Inferno Lawn-bowling Champion,” and, in smaller, spikier letters at the bottom, “Souls Bought and Sold.”

“Oh, okay,” Billy said. “So if I give this, uh, soul thing to you, I get free sno-cones for the rest of my life.”

“Yes,” Drazgoth murmured, “and several new, shiny quarters. Shall I fetch the necessary paperwork?”

Scrunching up his forehead, Billy thought about it for several long moments. It was obviously a great effort for him. Finally, his face brightened, and he nodded. “Okay!” he said. “I want grape first!” He frowned. “But shouldn’t I tell my mommy?

“She’ll be happy for you to become either a Republican politician or an executive at Microsoft,” Drazgoth reassured him. “In neither case is a soul required.”

He produced a long scroll of yellowed parchment and an ebony inkwell filled with blood-red ink. Billy picked up the black peacock’s-feather quill, brought it to the dotted line, and paused.

“What is it? Drazgoth snapped.

Billy frowned. “Is it okay to print my name?” he wondered. “We don’t do cursive until third grade.”

Drazgoth nodded curtly. “Oh yes, fine, fine. Now print here.”

He did.

There was a tiny flash of green light, and Drazgoth made a halfhearted attempt at an evil cackle. “All right,” he said. “There you go. You’ve pledged your soul to the Prince of Darkness! Congratulations, kid.”

He handed Billy a small plastic bag containing a voucher for a lifetime’s free sno-cones (“valid at any participating portal to the Netherworld”), an official Brimstone™ brand flashlight keychain, and an autographed photo of a horned man who looked suspiciously like a cross between Santa Claus and Richard Nixon.

“The Boss,” Drazgoth breathed reverently. “Oh, and just one more thing.”

After a few seconds, Billy’s nose started itching, and he unleashed a mighty sneeze. With a satisfied grin, Drazgoth caught the golden ray of light that flew from his left nostril in a glass jar, screwing the lid on tightly.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Stubbins,” Drazgoth said. “I’ll see you in 69 years, 4 months, and 28 days.”

Under his breath he added, “And for all eternity thereafter.”

Billy strolled back to the parking lot, happily licking a grape sno-cone.

“Mommy, mommy!” he announced, “I sold my soul to an agent of Satan!”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Mrs. Stubbins absently as she removed fifty-eight cents from her youngest daughter’s ear. “Now get in the car. We don’t want to be late for soccer practice!”

And with that, little Billy Stubbins embarked upon the road to damnation.