Prologue

In a country of sand and shadows, there lies a city. In the city of sweat and toil, there lies a temple. In the temple of redemption and damnation, is a room. And in the room, works an alchemist. The man is dressed in nothing but thin sand silk about his waist, serving no purpose but to protect his weak and useless organ. The room is hot, the air thick and filled with mist. The man’s face is red, sweat beading and running down his brow. Vials of alchemic horrors await his nine knowing fingertips. Somewhere, a she-serpent dozes in the heat, the tenth long since lost in its belly. The ghost of the digit lingers still, trying to grasp at vial and tool.

This story is his.

Through ally and past corner, she does wander past grandeur. The demon beast, born of mortal, raised an animal. Her skin bares the look of being thrown in flame and cast in shadow. She is one with the night, hiding effortlessly from the hunters. She’s been slaying men since her birth, and yet they still pursue. The methods vary, the weapons different, but in the end, they all taste the same. She could kill and kill long after she’s had her fill and forced to leave her food rotting in the damnable sun. But she has grown weary: Even demon beasts must rest. The walls of clay and mud are cool in the night and give to her hard fingers. She scales them to an open window. The halls reek of magicks young and old. She stumbles into a room.

This story is hers.

The West Ziggurat. He sits atop the temple, the blood of the priests coating his armor. He needs to be calm for what is coming ahead. The sky brings him a small bit of peace. The moon hangs heavy in the night, an ivory tusk, clinging like a handle to the tower that grows more each day, casting its daylight shadow across the city. Rising to his feet, he aims his crimson blade to the moon, carving at the darkness she holds. It’s not she he desires but her daytime lover. The bloodied man smiles, dreaming of his destiny. He will ride the chariot of flame, he will rule the pantheon, he will be a god with a queen at his side. A face flashes within like a framed mirror of obsidian and he grips the hilt tighter. No, not him. An impossible love, one he cannot accept for himself. But he will be a god. And nothing is impossible for a god. He whispers the name nonetheless. “Maram.”

This story is his.

Ch 1

All Faruq saw were spindly limbs of black as they flew across the room, reaching for his throat. Shouts and shattering glass filled the room as the alchemist tried to protect himself. The creature screamed like a jackal, but who attacked twice a fierce as one that starved. The walls of the temple were thick, making sound impossible to pass through. There was no one to come to his aid. The table he’d been working at carved itself onto his back as Faruq was assaulted into it. Scalpel and dagger rested across the room, too far from his grasp. He heard his death in the predator’s cries. Grabbing a bottle, he twisted in its grip and shattered it against a sinewy leg. The heavy clay did nothing to weaken, cut, or even distract the beast from its prey. The bottle neck crumbled in his hand. Darkness crept through Faruq’s vision as his pulse threatened to burst from his neck before the demon’s fingers could. The smell of the foul liquid contained within the shattered bottle attracted the weary copper serpent. It smelled like food and there was always room for more. Slithering past the glass and debris, she sunk her fangs deep into the ankle of the demon no less than 6 times. It felt no more pain than mosquito bites and clawed at the mortal’s face, unknowingly quickening the venom’s flow. When the poison spread at last weakening the beast, the alchemist was covered in blood and spittle. The demon beast fell to the floor with a muted thud.

Faruq could do no more than stand in place, massaging his neck and catching breath. Spots filled his vision and death still hung heavy on his senses. He studied the strange black creature that lay quite naked on the floor. He could only guess it was female by certain attributes it bore, although two pale spots rested where heavy breasts were normally held. The threat of death now gone, the scholar within him took hold and he began to examine her. The limbs were thin and long like a spider’s, the fingers hooks of iron. It was not difficult to imagine her prowling on all fours. The tight, knotted muscle in her arms had no give when he squeezed, except to continue giving a pulse. He leapt back when he found the beat and heard breath. Faruq had at first thought her to be some assassin tool, though the targeting motive was a bit of a question. She was not mortal, though what manner of creature she was, be it deava or homunculus, remained a mystery. Either that or she was simply immortal as the servant’s venom had caused horses to drop. As though summoned by his thoughts, she crawled up his leg, the cold scales encouraging an emotion he’d been trained to eliminate, and continued up to his shoulder. A gesture of love and gratitude, he thumbed between her eyes, and whispered “Thank you Paniz.” He lifted the lips of the demon beasts to reveal rows of teeth, shark-like and yellow. The stink of rotten meat still lingered on pink masses caught amongst the daggers. Despite the fear she embodied for all men, Faruq could barely contain the joy within. For over a decade he’d tried to conquer the many secrets the world held. And here, on this careless night, one had literally leapt into his arms.

He hurried to the scrolls, tearing them open for a secret, ignoring the burning wounds torn in the soles of his bare feet. Paniz fell in a ropey coil and left to hunt a late meal. The parchment he found longed to return to dust, but the answer he had sought burned clearly like starlight. Carefully reading, he steadied a shaking hand to complete the most important magick he’d ever dared perform. In an octagon he shaped seven triangles on her belly, carving deeply with knife he’d left in a rock salt stone. Letters of a voiceless language rippled along the slashes. She did not stir as he cut, react as he recited the short incantation for her binding, or unsettle her breath when the gashes healed in bronze mounds. He let fall a drop of his own blood upon her tongue and the enchantment was complete. She would not desire the flesh of any mortal lest he command it so. “Dream well demon,” his voice was quiet, as is he feared he would shatter the magick with too strong a breath. “Enjoy your last taste of man flesh. You belong to me. And you will help me in my goals.”

A terrified squeak came from the doorway. Paniz had found her meal in a dark rat. “Come to me,” he beckoned, the stillness in the air was broken but the spell remained. His heart thanked the snake for that. “I have a new pet. And we must name her.” The girl gave a slumbering yawn, her maw stretching past mortal limits. “Basma,” he said to the snake flicking her tongue along the shadow beast’s bitten ankle. “She shall be Basma and she is our own.” And now that the time of praise had ended, the time of cleaning began. Blood and sweat and spit sank into the dust and windswept sand as Faruq collected the precious glass pieces and clay shards, remembering what had been lost and thinking of lies to request new supplies.

General Mukhtar did not bother to conceal the blood hardening on the steel and leather of his armor. He had re-entered the ziggurat and reveled in his victory, one of many. The walls though splattered red, still shone the carvings of the gods, the ancient heroes, the nameless language of the daevas and drugs. In the center of the small temple, there stood a dish of gold filled with sacred oil. A bright flame of sapphire had burned there before the blood of priests drowned it to nothing. In the semi-darkness, Mukhtar heard a gargle, a choke. A survivor? How embarrassing that he would be so sloppy. He could almost swear he could hear the man’s heartbeat as his footsteps echoed through the holy space. “Dahaka,” the priest managed to spit through his pooling blood. “Unholy demon. What do you plot?”

He lifted the man high above the ground, noticing the new lack of legs. “I would prefer you address me as Ahura. As for my plot, I won’t waste my breath on dying swine. For now, I’ll let you have a drink.” He carried the priest to the dish, a bit of heat still shimmering within. “Drink,” Mukhtar commanded shoving the dying man’s head into the oil. He struggled and writhed and a scream could be heard through the liquid. Mukhtar even heard a few gulps before he finally hung still. He fell like rotten fruit from the general’s hand.

High Priest Bakr with an open belly laid not ten feet from the dish. Mukhtar reached inside the smiling wound like a purse and pulled out his silver coin: The holy man’s liver. He squeezed the fleshy sack like cheese above the oil, taking in the sharp smells of the meat piece. When all that remained were tired drips, he punched the organ onto his sword and pulled out a small stone from a pouch at his side. In one swift motion, he tore the flint along the blade igniting the liver before dropping it into the oil. He calmly stepped back as the splash brought along a rush of dark light. The amethyst hellfire blazed wildly, threatening to consume the dish and its pedestal. Voices spoke unlike man or beast through the flames. They screamed and they reveled and they clawed at the barrier now weakened by the general’s heresy. With no hesitation or drop of fear, he reached an armored hand into the fire until he felt a grip. The tongues of violet caused the still fresh blood to scream along his armor.

When he at last pulled back his hand, twenty minor daevas slipped through the flame. Hoarfrost shelled his fingertips as well as the hides of his newly acquired minions. The voices still screamed from behind the flames, commanding without words that they be freed as well. The daevas ran about in their freedom, tearing along the walls, desecrating the texts, feasting on the flesh and slurping the fluids from their sacrifices. Mukhtar studied their merriment, waiting for their attention. When it did not surface, he seized it. “Obey me!” The general bellowed with such force all heads snapped to attention, strings of arteries still threading from mouths. “Obey my and make me a god.” He spoke not of deals or exchange, but servitude and slavery. Absolute loyalty was what he craved. A daeva began to laugh, pieces of flesh launching from its lips. Swiftly Mukhtar slew the vile thing, killing those beside it for no reason but to prove a point. He had full attention now. Blood as dark as the hellfire mixed with the crimson blood of man. “Obey me or die. You are expendable.” A proud thing leapt at that to which he would not kneel. He was dealt with similarly. Daeva blood stank like hot urine along the floors, shortening the general’s nonexistent tolerance for the stupid beasts. “Maybe I should just show you how worthless you really are.” Cowards fled like rats from the eternally thirsty blade. All were found. All were exterminated. General Mukhtar spit away the blood that had splashed from his lips and reached again into the portal, hoping to this time gain cooperation with the sight of the slaughter.