I had been trying to summon an angel but Satan showed up instead.
He did not look particularly frightening; he looked like he had been painted near-black from head to toe with occasional splotches of verdigris and sienna, as if parts of him were peeling away to reveal a more colourful self hidden underneath.
I tried to shoo him away but he refused to leave the pavilion where he had popped up.
“You summoned me,” he stated the obvious. “I cannot leave unless I grant you a wish.”
His voice was deep and smooth, rumbling up from the bottomless depths of his netherworld and rising up to his throat like a wicked yet sad laughter, both dangerous and poignant all at once.
I knew better than to make a deal with the devil, we all know how badly such things end, and so, touched by his generosity although I was, I nonetheless declined his offer politely.
“No, you do not understand,” he stood his ground. “You summoned me. I am bound to you unless I grant you a wish. It is the rule of such things. I cannot leave until I have fulfilled what I was sent for.”
“Isn’t is true that devils cannot grant wishes without taking away a part of the wish-seeker’s soul?” I asked.
He hung his head sadly and gave a slight nod. “But I used to be an angel once, you know. A very, very long time ago. I am not sure if that counts for anything at all.”
I could not think of a suitable response.
“They used to call me Lucifer back then,” he continued, his gaze abstractedly fixed on something beyond the edges of the planet. “It means the morning star.”
I made my wish then, and asked him to send me back in time so I could seek out Lucifer and summon him before he falls.
About Tales for Demesne