Brust, Steven - To Reign In Hell

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TO REIGN IN

HELL

STEVEN BRUST

WITH A FOREWORD BY ROGER ZELAZNY

ACE FANTASY BOOKS NEW YORK

and John Dawson; words by Robert Hunter. Used by permission of Ice Nine Publishing Company, Inc.

TO REIGN IN HELL

An Ace Fantasy Book/published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

SteelDragon Press edition published 1984 Ace edition/May 1985

Cover art by Steve Hickman

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-81496-4

Ace Fantasy Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This book was written for my wife, Keen, whom I love and cherish.

"Wheresoever she was, there was Eden." -Mark Twain

Acknowledgments

My thanks to my first readers and critics, Martin Schafer and John Robey, and to Pat Wrede, Kara

Dalkey, Pamela Dean, and the rest of our writers' group for much helpful criticism. Special thanks to Emma

Bull and Will Shetterly for angelic patience and persistence in tweaking the final drafts. Also, thanks to Joel

Halpern for technical assistance, to my agent, Valerie Smith, for her encouragement, and to editor Terri

Windling and proof-reeders Nate Bucklin and Jon Singer for very fine jobs. Last, thanks to Pamela Dean for

corrections on the Elizabethan English.

Foreword

It was almost by accident that I read the MS of Steven Brust's To Reign in Hell. Actually, it was because

of a courtesy on the part of the author, the story of which is not terribly material here. But that's why I said

"almost." I can't really consider a character trait an accident.

I read the beginning to see what he was doing. I don't know him personally. I know little about him, save

what I can tell from his writing. When I realized where he was going with this story, my first reaction was,

"He isn't going to be able to pull this one off." Not without getting trite, or cute, or moralistic - or falling into

any number of the many pitfalls I foresaw with regard to this material. I was wrong. He not only avoided

them all, he told a fantastically engaging story with consummate grace and genuine artistry. I had not seen

anything really new done with this subject since Anatole France's Revolt of the Angels, with the possible

exception of Taylor Caldwell's Dialogues with the Devil. And frankly, Brust's book is a more ambitious and

successful work than Dialogues.

My immediate reaction was to provide one of those brief dust jacket comments containing a few loaded

adjectives and to hope that this would help call some attention to the book and sell a few extra copies. "A

hell of a good book" or "A damned fine story" sprang to mind, because I am what I am -and they're both

true, despite the flippancy. But on reflection I knew that that would not be enough, because I am not always

so fortunate as to encounter a writer as good as Steven Brust this early in his career. This is because there is

so much science fiction and fantasy being published these days - and some of it very good - that it would be

a full-time job just trying to keep up with the best as it appears. I have to be selective in my reading and I

miss a lot. But this time I was lucky, and I owe it to this kind of talent to remark upon it when I see it.

(I should add, here, that I have also read his other two books - Jhereg and Yendi - and that they are a part

of the reason I am hitting these typewriter keys.)

A dust jacket blurb only gives an opinion without reasons, and I need a little more room because I feel

obliged to tell you why I like Steven Brust's stories: Most good writers have one or two strong points for

which they are known, and upon which they rely to carry a tale to its successful conclusion. Excellent

plotting, say, can carry a story even if the writing itself is undistinguished. One can live with this. Good

plotting is a virtue. Fine writing is a pleasure. A graceful prose stylist is a treat to read - even if the author is

shaky when it comes to plotting or characterization. And then there are the specialists in people, who can

entertain and delight with their development of character, their revelations - even if they are not strong

plotters or powerful descriptive writers. And there are masters and mistresses of dialogue who can make you

feel as if you are witnessing an engaging play, and you can almost forget the setting and the story while

trying to anticipate what one of the characters will say next. And so on and so on.

Yes.

Yes, I feel that Steven Brust has this whole catalog of virtues - solid plotting, good prose, insightful

characterizations and fine dialogue.

Going further, he has those little tricks of ironic wordplay which appeal. - "''Milord,' called Beelzebub,

'get thee behind me.'" It tickles.

And there is his use of the fabulous. Pure science fiction is, ultimately, cut-and-dried, explaining

everything in the end.

Pure fantasy generally does not explain enough. A writer who respects the rational yet pays homage to

the dark areas where all is not known also has my respect, as herein lies a higher level of verisimilitude,

mirroring life, which really is that way. It is that mixture of light and darkness which fascinates me,

personally. It is a special kind of mimesis, cutting across the categories - and here, too, Mr. Brust wields a

finely honed blade.

A rare, resourceful writer, who has distinguished himself in my mind this early in his career, Steven

Brust: I feel he is worth noting now, for what he will achieve eventually, as well as for what he has already

done.

- Roger Zelazny

Angels and mortals

Fight for the right To have a little pleasure

And enjoy an easy flight.

Angels and mortals

Sometimes get their way

- Mark Henley, "November Song"

Prologue

I was set up everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was.

Before the mountains were settled, before the hills, was I brought forth.

- Proverbs, 8:23-24

Snow, tenderly caught by eddying breezes, swirled and spun in to and out of bright, lustrous shapes that

gleamed against the emerald-blazoned black drape of sky and sparkled there for a moment, hanging, before

settling gently to the soft, green-tufted plain with all the sickly sweetness of an over-written sentence.

The Regent of the South looked upon this white-on-black-over-green perfection and he saw that it was

revolting. His eyes, a green that was positively startling, narrowed, and his nostrils flared. The being next to

him took the shape of an animal that would someday be called a golden retriever. It shook its head and

snorted, since barking was yet a few millennia away.

"My gorge rises to think on't," said the dog.

The Regent nodded without speaking.

The other continued, "I mind a time when thou didst delight to see decadence."

"I mind a time when there were things other than decadence to compare it to."

"Verily," the dog admitted. "But think'st thou this can last forever?"

The Regent shrugged. "No, I know it won't. The Wave is still recent; its effects linger. Soon enough,

form will be form again, and jokes like this will be too difficult to be worth the bother. But it sickens me."

"Whose working is this then, milord?" the dog asked.

"It doesn't matter," said the Regent. "One of our arch-brethren, certainly. Maybe it was whoever put

Marfiel into a six-day sleep so she missed the harvest. It's the same stupid sense of humor."

"Certes thou art aware of that thou hast earned: to relax thy vigilance and enjoy this time, as thy

archbrethren do."

The Regent shook his head. "Perhaps," he said, "that is my own form of decadence."

The smaller one laughed and wagged his tail.

It had hard green scales, fiery red eyes, and a long forked tongue, and was several times what would

become known as man-high someday. You may as well call it a dragon and have done with it. It was the

Regent of the North.

It—he? He, then. He lived far in the north of Heaven, beneath mountains known for vulcanism. He had

carved places out of the rock at the heart of the mountain, where he could feel warm and safe.

His former shape had been lost near the end of the Third Wave, and he had taken this one. It was very

resistant to the effects of the flux. His breath could break any material down to its basic components, or turn

a wave of cacoastrum into living illiaster.

None of the new angels entered the Northern Regency, and no one at all lived there, save the Regent. All

feared him, for it was said that he was mad, that he had been wounded deeply, and it was unsafe to be near

him.

Alone, unchanging, nursing his rage and his fear, the Regent of the North turned in his sleep. The Third

Wave was over now, but when the next came, he would wake.

League upon league upon league of sea rose in temperature by exactly one and a half degrees, and she

basked in it. The tip of her tail broke the water and waved snake-like (had there been snakes) for a bit and

then a bit. The water was a blue that an artist would despair of capturing. Above, the air smelled of the sea.

Her sea! Here she was the master. As the last effects of the raw cacoastrum vanished, she found she

could command this water by an effort of will, for it was hers.

The Second Wave had driven her to create and enter the sea, forsaking her form in order to live. She

could have used the free illiaster from the Third Wave to recreate her old form, but she would not leave the

protection the waters gave her. And she had come to love the flowing, breathing sensuality of the currents,

caressing and soothing her.

The green coiled length of her body straightened, and she closed her eyes as she accepted the warmth

into herself. She sent forth a laugh that reverberated through the waters, which picked it up and carried it, as

fresh currents, to every shore.

The Regent of the West was at peace, for a while. Let us leave her there.

The Youth With Golden Locks looked to the west. He rested his left hand upon the golden hilt of the

shaft of scarlet light that hung from his waist and reached down to his knees. He was dressed in a tunic of

light brown that called attention to his remote blue eyes. He, the Regent of the East, was a proper half-a-head

taller than the black-haired, dark woman who stood at his side and caressed his arm.

She scrutinized him for a moment, then shook her head.

'Too much," she remarked.

He shrugged, and darkened his complexion a shade or two.

"Better," she said. "But the hair is still overdoing it a bit, don't you think?"

"If you say so," said the youth, and eased the curls somewhat, darkened the tone. As the woman studied

this version, impatience crossed the Regent's face.

"Forget it," he snapped. "It just isn't me."

She shrugged. "As you wish."

His hair grew lighter again, his form taller and thinner, and his skin took on an aspect of transparency.

"We're not going to be able to do this much longer," he said. "The effects of the Wave have nearly worn off."

"It doesn't matter," she said, soothingly.

"I don't understand this concern everyone suddenly has with appearance, anyway."

"What else is there to be concerned with? I expect things will occur soon enough, but for now—"

"I suppose. But is there any reason for me to spend all this time working on a form that I never look at

anyway?"

"Maybe not. But as a Regent, I should think—"

"That's another thing. There was a time when it actually meant something to be a Regent."

"I remember."

"When we first created this place," he gestured vaguely around them, "it meant that I was responsible for

a quarter of the terrain of Heaven. And it was needed then. Our brethren from the Second and Third Waves

needed guidance and leadership. But we're secure now. There hasn't been an influx in thousands of days.

And if there is another, Yaweh will call us—"

"You certainly are in a foul mood today, aren't you?"

He stopped. "You're right," he said after a moment. "Sorry."

"It's all right. Is there something I can do?"

She said it with no special emphasis, but he suddenly felt the grass beneath his bare feet grow thicker and

longer.

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

The healer was tall, full-bodied, and pale of complexion. She wore a gold cloak over white garments. A

silver chain around her waist held a six-pointed star. She faced the sword-bearer, who was large, well-

muscled, and brown haired. He, also, wore a cloak of gold.

"Yaweh," he said, "wants to put it in his throne room, in a case, next to his sceptre."

"Fitting," she said. "I suppose it is cumbersome—and you don't need it now." "Not for a while, at any

rate. And I'm near to the Palace, so I can easily fetch it when I need it."

The healer studied the massive sword which the other carried over his right shoulder. Then she looked

away.

"I hope," she said, "that you don't need it for a long time."

He nodded without speaking.

He stood in the center of Heaven and looked about it, having chosen to have four eyes today. He noticed

that with less than two looking in any one direction, he couldn't see as well as he ought. He resolved to set

someone to discover the reason for this.

Outside of Heaven, cacoastrum still did its mindless, eternal dance of destruction. One day, he knew, he

and his brethren would face it again, for that was the way of the universe. When that happened, he would

again feel the sorrow of losing his brothers, perhaps one of those who had been with him from the beginning.

He would know the joy of seeing new ones created from illiaster, and the pleasure of watching them become

aware of themselves and the others around them, but nothing could heal the pain of loss.

Again, as he had so many times before, he wondered if there couldn't be a way to end the conflict forever.

He sighed, and, with his four eyes, looked about the ways of Heaven. He saw that it was good. But not

quite good enough.

Second Prologue

"There's plenty of pain here—but It don't kill.

There's plenty of suffering here, but it don't last. You see, happiness ain't a thing in itself—it's

only a contrast with something that ain't pleasant."

—Nark Twain, "Extract from Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven"

"There seems to be a lot of work left to do on it," said the Regent of the South. "All you have is the

barest outline."

"I know," said Yaweh, "but what do you think of it so far?"

The Regent licked his lips. "I... to be honest, I'm afraid of it—afraid to hope for it. It seems like a

dream. Of course, it's what we've always wanted, but—I don't know, Yaweh. Can it be done?"

"I think so. The one who'd be best at it is working on the details; he thinks so."

The Regent raised a brow over a bright green eye. "Lucifer?" Yaweh smiled. "Who else? He and Lilith

are—" He stopped, as a look of pain crossed the Regent's face. "What is it, old friend?"

The other shook his head, then smiled, ruefully. "Lilith."

"I'm sorry I—"

"Don't, Yaweh. If everyone had to apologize for all the hearts Lilith's broken, we could hardly speak to

each other."

Yaweh studied him closely. "Does she know how much hurt she causes?"

"She didn't do any hurting. I did it to myself. It was stupid, really. I wanted her to move into the Hold

with me. She wasn't sure, and I tried to push her, without thinking, and—" He punctuated the sentence with a

shrug.

Yaweh studied him somberly for a moment, then sighed. "I wish there was something I could do for

you."

The Regent shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll get over it. Maybe it'll teach me something. But

enough. What do you want me to do?"

Yaweh cleared his throat. "In order to accomplish this, we need the cooperation of every angel in

Heaven. But when I mentioned the plan to one of the angels who dwells here, he had a strange reaction.

Rather than being excited by the idea, he was frightened by it."

The Regent's eyes widened. "Why?"

"There will be some danger associated with it. I don't know how much yet, but certainly some. He

understood that, and was more frightened by the plan than happy with the idea of the safety that would

follow." He shrugged. "It's natural, now that I think of it. Most angels remember little or nothing of their first

Wave—the one that created them. Our hatred of the flux comes later."

"I don't believe that any angel could fail to see what we gain with this, Yaweh. We may have to explain it

to them, but certainly not more than that."

Yaweh sighed. "I hope you're right."

"I am," said the other. "It may take a little time, that's all."

"I hope you're right," he repeated. "In any case, Lucifer will be coming this evening, and we'll go over the

general plans then, and discuss things in more detail. There is an archangel named Uriel who can help

you—"

"Help me what, Yaweh? You still haven't told me."

"Let me save it for tonight."

The Regent looked at him closely. "Whatever it is, you don't like it, do you?" Yaweh shook his head. The

Regent changed the subject. "I'll want to go back to the Hold soon. It's quite a walk."

"All right. But can you wait until tomorrow? It's been a long time since you've slept under my roof. We'll

be having some pin-dancing. I would be pleased," he added.

"All right, old friend," said the other. "I'll stay the night. Have you brandy?"

Yaweh nodded. They both stood at once, as if a hidden message had come to them, and embraced. "I

don't see you often enough," said Yaweh.

"Heaven has grown too large," said Satan.

One

Descend, then! I could also say: Ascend! Twere all the same. Escape from the Created

To shapeless forms in liberated spacesl Enjoy what long ere this was dissipated!

—Goethe, Faust

Primordial ooze. Flux. Chaos. Cacoastrum.

The essential of the universe, in all its myriad forms and shapes. Essence.

Any and all combinations of form and shape exist within this essence. Eventually, of course,

cacoastrum may deny itself. Order within chaos.

How many times is order created? The question has no meaning. A tree falls in the forest, and the

universe hears it. Order doesn't last; cacoastrum will out.

The flux creates the essence of order, which is illiaster, which was the staff of life long before bread

had the privilege.

It can't last, however. Conscious? Sentient? Self-aware? Perhaps these things exist for a timeless instant,

only to be lost again before they can begin to understand. They may have shape; they may have the seeds of

thoughts—none of this matters. One of them may be a unicorn, another a greyish stone of unknown

properties, still another a girl-child with big brown eyes who vanishes before she really appears. It doesn't

matter.

But let us give to one of these forms something new. Let us give it, for the sake of argument, an instinct to

survive. Ah! Now the game is different, you see.

So this form resists, and strives to hold itself together. And as it strives, cacoastrum and illiaster produce

more illiaster, and consciousness produces more consciousness, and now there are two.

The two of them strive; and then they find that they can communicate, and time means something now.

And space, as well.

As they work together, to hold onto themselves, a third one appears. They find that they can bend the

cacoastrum to their will, and force shape upon it, and command it to hold, for a while. They build walls at

this place where the three of them are, and a top and a bottom.

Cacoastrum howls, almost as a living thing itself, and seeks entry. The three resist, and then there are

four, then five, then six, then seven.

And the seven finish the walls, and the top, and the bottom and for a moment, at last, there is peace from

the storm.

The Southern Wall of Heaven stretched long and static. It spanned six hundred leagues and more, fading

out of sight above, where it met with the azure ceiling. Its length was unmarked; its width unmeasured; its

touch cool; its look foreboding and ageless.

The Regent had built it in the days of the Second Wave, and expanded it in the days of the Third. He had

built his home into it, and out from it.

The foundations of the Southern Hold were deep into the bedrock of Heaven, carved and scorched with

the fires of Belial, made immutable by the sceptre of Yaweh. Plain and grey like the Wall, the Hold rose

over grassland and stoney plain, even and unbroken until its northern wall ended abruptly and became a roof

that sloped sharply up to the top. There it blended into the Wall, giving the impression that the entire affair

was an accidental blister from the Wall and would soon sink back into it.

The only entrance was built into the northern wall of the Hold. Here were placed a pair of massive oak

doors, with finely carved wooden handles.

A visitor to the Hold, no matter how often he had been there, would be moved by the stature of the hard

grey edifice— lonely, cold, distant, and proud. Like the Regent of the South himself, some said. But once

inside, the illusion was shattered.

The visitor, a medium-sized golden haired dog, padded through the hallway. Being a dog, and therefore

colorblind, he didn't see the cheerful blue of the walls. But he noticed the brightness of the lamps of iron and

glass, one every twenty dogpaces. The oil for the lamps, pressed from local vegetation and refined in the

basement of the Hold, had been scented with lilac.

The dog continued until he came to an archway. There was a small chamber, with large green couches

and overstuffed chairs. The north wall held a burgundy-colored buffet, with cups and bottles of cut glass and

stoneware. The lamps were always low in this room, but the dog heard the sounds of breathing, and smelled

a friend.

He leapt onto a couch, facing this friend across a table of glass. Neither spoke; the dog moved slightly

toward the Regent, who was seated with one leg on the table, his left arm across the back of the couch, his

right hand loosely holding a glass into which he was staring. The dog caught a strong, sweet smell from the

glass.

"Tis but cheap wine, milord," he said.

"It fits my mood, friend Beelzebub. I'm feeling cheap today."

"Hath thy mood a cause, Lord?"

"All things have a cause, my friend."

"Would'st care to speak on't?"

His answer was silence. Beelzebub studied his friend as best he could in the dim light. The Regent was

smooth shaven and somewhat dark of complexion. His hair was dark brown, almost black, perhaps a bit

wavy, and curled over the ears. His brows were thick, his eyes narrow, yet wide-set, with shocking green

irises and lines of humor or anger around the edges. His jaw was strong, his nose straight and pronounced;

and he wore colors matching his eyes beneath a cloak that was full and gold. Brown boots covered his feet,

and upon his chest was an emerald, as large as his fist, on a chain of gold.

Beelzebub studied him for a moment longer. "Perchance 'twould do thee good to speak, Lord Satan."

The Regent set down his wine glass, found a small bowl, and poured into it.

"Maybe. Drink."

The dog moved forward on the couch, sniffed, but kept his opinion to himself. He lapped up a bit and

managed not to shudder.

"What do you, friend Beelzebub, think of Yaweh's plans regarding the Fourth Wave?"

"Milord? Then it draweth nigh?"

"Who can say? It'll come eventually."

"Soon?"

"Not that we know. But Yaweh wants to be ready this time. He wants to build a place that will be safe

from the flux."

"Verily, have we not that now?"

"Not permanently. What he has in mind is a place that's complete by itself, and won't be subject to Waves

at all."

"Hmmm. Ambitious, nay?"

Satan glanced at him sharply. "You sound skeptical."

"Thy pardon, milord—who is't shall build this place? They must deal with the outside, so they must needs

risk the ultimate end. Who is't shall do this? Thyself and thy brethren? You are strong, but only seven. Those

of us from the Second Wave? We're less than a score of scores; the task is beyond us. Those of the Third

Wave? Aye, they can do't, milord. Will they? For they know naught of such things save the fear of them.

They must needs see the danger ere they fight it, I fear."

"You have a way," said Satan, "of getting right to the heart of things."

"It cannot last," says the first. "We will make it last," says the second. "We will build walls that are yet

stronger," says the third. "They must be larger," says the fourth, "for there will be more of us."

"That is good," says the second.

"Aye," says the first. "Let us begin, then, for 1 see the walls crumble before me."

And the evening and the morning are the Second Wave.

"Milord?"

"Hmmm—yes?"

"Thou seem'd befuddled."

"I was thinking. Sorry." He shook his head. "Maybe they do need a Wave before they can understand—

that's what Yaweh was afraid of—but I don't think so. We, the Firstborn, didn't, and we are all of the

illiaster. No, I think our brethren will aid us."

"Perchance, milord. An they do not?"

"Have more wine."

Beelzebub felt the hair above his eyebrows twitch, and he bent his ears forward. "I have not yet finished

the dregs of this bowl thou hast poured. An they do not aid us, Lord Satan?"

"Perhaps some brandy, then. I've some as a gift from—"

Beelzebub felt his ears lie back against his head. "Milord," he barked, "I crave an answer! Suppose our

younger brethren aid us not? What then wilt thou do?"

Satan sighed and sat back. This time Beelzebub remained silent.

"All right," said the Regent at last, "what if they don't? What if we do nothing? I've been thinking about

this for the last twenty days, Beelzebub. I haven't been able to find an answer I like. What if they don't help

us, and we do nothing? What then?"

"The task will not see its end."

"And eventually another Wave will come. We'll lose more friends."

"Aye."

"If the angels from the Third Wave help with the plan, we can save tens of thousands—millions—of our

future brethren."

"Aye."

"So it is in everyone's interest that they help, even if they don't know it."

"Aye."

"So we have the right to coerce them."

"Nay."

"I agree."

"But—"

"Or rather, I'm unsure. Yaweh isn't sure. Michael isn't sure. Lucifer is sure and Raphael is sure. We

haven't spoken to Belial or Leviathan."

Beelzebub absent-mindedly lapped up wine from his bowl and then rested his head on his forepaws.

"Meseemeth," he said at last, "that thou and thy friends have taken much upon you e'en to think on't."

"I agree," said Satan. He shrugged. "Nothing like this has come up before." He drained his glass. "I admit

it, Beelzebub: I have doubts. I reassured Yaweh, but his questions have worn off on me."

Beelzebub looked up as Satan's voice rose.

"You think we can sit here asking ourselves if what we do is right, while the Storm rages out there? Do /

think so? By what right do I argue the right and wrong of saving millions of lives? Answer me that!" Satan

gave a short laugh. "Coercion? We are the ones being coerced. By that." He gestured vaguely southward.

"How so, milord?"

He shook his head. "Lucifer is right, as usual. We know that we risk all of Heaven, if we do nothing.

Each Wave has come nearer to destroying us completely—Lucifer proved it with numbers, somehow.

Sooner or later, we'll have to do something." He laughed again, bitterly. "No, I shouldn't say that the flux

outside is coercing us; what is coercing us is our own understanding. We can't know what the problem is,

and know what to do about it, without acting. That is our curse."

Beezlebub watched him, his mind unclear but his heart filled with pity. "Thinkest thou to have no choice

at all, then?'

"The greater one's understanding, Beelzebub, the less choice one has. For the love of Heaven itself, my

friend—if you can, remain ignorant!"

The dog lowered his head and his voice. "Then thou hast chosen, milord? An the hosts wish not to help

thy plan?"

Satan stood. His eyes flashed green fires; his cloak shone gold in the flickering light. Two paces brought

him to the buffet, where he grasped a brown stoneware bottle. He brought it back to the table, throwing the

cork impatiently to the floor. He sloshed red-hued liquid into his glass, unmindful of the spillage. He

slammed the bottle down, then lifted and drained the glass. He fixed Beelzebub with his gaze.

"Then," he said icily, "it is my task to make them."

Yaweh stood by the Sword of Michael, regarding it in its glass case. He stood in a spacious chamber of

white curtains, tiled floor, and silvery walls. Toward the back was a throne— huge and gold. Opposite the

case was another case, this one holding a large sceptre, also of gold. A great arched doorway opposed the

throne.

The room had been designed by Yaweh, who wished it to be bare and unimposing. Those who entered,

by dress and attitude, set its mood; it had none of its own. Here, Yaweh could address the archangels, all

three hundred, if needed. He blended in so well that he nearly wasn't there.

Next to him, regarding the case, was an archangel. He was of the Second Wave, and small, thin, and

black-bearded. A brief glance would lead one to think his frame slight; a closer look would reveal chest and

shoulder muscles confined within the frame as though trapped and held in place with iron bands.

Yaweh turned from the case to him.

"You build well, Asmodai."

"Thank you, Lord. I am pleased. It served well in the Third Wave."

"Yes, it did. As did my sceptre, and Satan's emerald, and— but why go on? I am pleased with with your

work. Now I want more."

"Anything I can do, Lord."

Yaweh smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Asmodai. This means a great deal

to me, and to all of us. Come, I'll show you what I want. It isn't small, I'm afraid."

Yaweh was overcome with a great fondness for the little craftsman, but that wasn't unusual. He had never

felt anything but fondness for anyone, and the occasional enmity between angels left him sad and puzzled.

They turned from the Sword and left the room.

A wide, sweeping stairway of white marble brought them up and around amid paintings and sculpture in

a large hallway of bone-white walls. Some of the art wasn't very good—but Yaweh took delight in the joy of

an artist whose work was placed here, so he rarely had the heart to say that a piece wasn't good enough.

They walked, arm in arm, until they came to a small chamber containing a long table covered with papers.

"Here, Asmodai. This is what we plan to make."

Asmodai spread the parchment and began studying it. By increments, wonder and amazement spread

over his features. "My Lord" he cried, "but this is "

"Large?" suggested Yaweh, gentle amusement on his face.

"Aye, large! It's bigger than Heaven itself!"

"Many times bigger."

"My Lord—where will we put it?"

"Outside, of course. It will exist amid the flux, just as heaven does."

"How can that be?"

"It will be your task to discover this, my friend. It will require nearly everyone working together, and

many days at that. And the longer we're out there, the more of us will be maimed or destroyed. So we must

decide exactly how this is to be put together, what each angel is to do, so that we can spend the shortest

amount of time at it. This is your task, if you are willing to undertake it."

"Lord! I cannot—"

"If you cannot, there is no one who can. You know what it takes to build from raw cacoastrum, and that

is what we need. Your name is tied to the Sword, the Sceptre, the Throne, the Star, and many more things.

You are trusted—and deservedly so. If you cannot, who can?"

Asmodai was silent for a long time. Yaweh knew what he was thinking—he was thinking of the

greatness of the triumph if he succeeded, and the magnitude of the failure if he didn't. But Yaweh himself

had asked him to—and that would make a difference.

"I'll do it, Lord," said Asmodai. "I'll try."

It rages, it cries, it tears and bites and burns. The first one is nearly overcome, but holds himself together

despite the violence of the flux. The second is filled with rage, and it falls back before him. He causes a wall

to be, and envisions his home extending from the wall. He doesn't see the scores of beings that come into

existence as he rages and shapes, nor do the others see the results of their actions, except as their area

becomes larger.

The third one goes to the aid of the first, but his help is no longer needed. They stand near each

other, and cacoastrum flares yellow and red and blue, and dies, turning into illiaster, which shapes

itself.

Some of the new ones are destroyed even as they come into existence. The first one, alone of the

Seven, notices this and is saddened by it.

The sixth one is suddenly overborne. She cries in pain as her shape begins to slip away, but the

fourth one comes to her aid. She remains alive, but her form is changed now, into something long and

powerful. She creates water around herself, and it soothes her. She feels she should rejoin the battle,

but as her head clears the water, she sees peace around her, and four walls, and more than three

hundred angels who hadn't been there before. She realizes that, for now, it is over again. She dives to

the bottom so that none can hear her cries of anguish.

The first one hears anyway, and sends to her aid the fifth one, who heals her wounds and soothes

her, though her shape cannot be restored to her.

But she has the capacity to be happy with what is. She learns to enjoy the water, and life goes on.

Thrumb thrumb thrumb.

The Regent of the West heard it, distantly, through leagues of water, and recognized it at once.

Thrumb thrumb thrumb.

She rolled over, dived, and headed for it, her tail flipping and her enormous eyes alight.

Thrumb thrumb thrumb.

She broke the water and he was there—very dark, small, stooped, seated on a rock along the southeastern

shore of her Regency. His head was covered with a small hat, narrow brimmed and of dark grey. His eyes

were covered by a brown bandage, almost matching his skin. In his lap was a device made of mahogany

from the forests of Lucifer. It was strung with silk wrapped over fine steel.

He heard her approach, and he began humming along with his playing. His fingers moved as fast as the

Emerald of Satan, as his lips emitted a string of nonsense sounds that took her back to the brief moments

before the Second Wave, when she had been whole and healthy, yet not aware of it.

She waited, perfectly still, and let voice and instrument transport her to places she'd wished to be—the

Southern Hold, Yaweh's palace, the meadows of Lucifer. Slowly, his voice faded, and his hands were still.

She sighed. "Welcome, Harut."

"Thank you, Leviathan. Been a long while."

It was strange, she reflected, but when he wasn't singing, his voice sounded harsh and raspy. "Yes, it has.

Have you been happy, Harut?"

"Hard to say. Been making music. People seem pleased to see me. I think I'm gettin' better. Yeah, I guess

that makes me happy. You?"

"I'm at peace with myself. It took me a long time, but I'm not bitter anymore."

"I'm glad," he said.

"Have you heard news?"

"Yeah. I visited with Yaweh himself a while ago, and with Michael, and an archangel named Asmodai,

and an angel named Abdiel. They're planning something big, honey."

She was instantly alert. "Is another Wave coming?"

"I don't think so. It sounded more as if they were gonna start one themselves—well, not exactly, but

something like it. All I heard were bits and pieces of the talk."

Leviathan was silent for a moment, then she said, "Harut, will you be seeing Ariel?"

"I see him from time to time. Pretty often, I guess."

"When you see him next, would you send him here?"

"Sure, honey."

"Thank you." She relaxed. "Play me something, Harut. I think I'm going to need it."

His answer was not with words.

Thrumb thrumb thrumb.

An owl circled over the vast expanse of water, hooting loudly, and then flew back to the shore. Soon

Leviathan's head broke the water. She looked around and quickly spotted the bird on the rock that Harut had

occupied a few days before. A lash of her tail brought her close.

The owl spoke. "O mighty one of salty sea, word has come you've need of me." "Hello, Ariel. Yes, I'd

like a favor. And your scansion is off, by the by."

"This life would be both hard and droll, took everyone the critic's role."

"I suppose. Well, I've heard strange things are happening in the center. I'd like you to find out what you

can and, in particular, why no one mentioned it to me."

Ariel snorted at this last. "If your time were spent upon dry ground, perhaps you'd be more easily found!"

She shrugged with her eyes and lashed her tail a bit. "I'd suggest you get help."

"Your every wish and whim to please, I'll speak to Mephistopheles."

"And you might want to consider some form other than rhyming couplets. They do get dull, after a

while."

Ariel ruffled his feathers with displeasure, and cleared his throat.

"The judgments that you tend to pass,

On poets you wish to harass,

Would give me to swear,

Were I unaware,

That you are naught but an asset to the Heavenly throne, wherefore I leave you alone."

And, having gotten in the last word, he spread his wings and departed, just too late to miss a deluge of

sea water.

After the Second Wave there is a pause, and a naming of names. It is a time of creation. The Seven

Firstborn, called Yaweh, Satan, Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, Leviathan, and Belial, fear another Wave, but

can only wait and watch.

They are given tasks, by each other and for each other.

Yaweh takes the center of Heaven, where he can look out at everything during the Waves and influence

the illiaster everywhere.

Michael stays nearby, ready to protect Yaweh with his strength and power.

Raphael also stays near the center, for it is her task to heal those who are injured by the flux and save

those she can.

Leviathan is given a Regency in the West, most of which is her sea.

Belial—indrawn and quiet, yet nearly as powerful as Michael—takes the North to watch, and finds

pleasure in the barren rocks and crags there.

Lucifer, during the Second Wave, found himself in the East, and had accidentally discovered how to make

the soil of Heaven produce things that grew. Now the eastern lands are covered with grasses and shrubs,

which are spreading to the rest of Heaven. So Lucifer takes the East, and he is content.

Satan was in the South, where the battle was thickest. It is the most populous area of Heaven save for the

very center, because so much was done there that many were created.

It is a time of learning, and the beginning of art. It is found that those who came from the Second Wave

are weaker than those who came from the First, and have less control of their own illiaster. It is also found

that as time passes, all use of illiaster is limited. It is, at least in part, due to this that the angels stop varying

their forms, unless there is some need to change.

Lucifer discovers that many of the growing things of Heaven, when eaten, bring sustenance to angels—

restoring illiaster to those who are tired. Eventually, farming becomes a major occupation in Heaven.

Raphael discovers that those damaged by the flux cannot be fully healed, or resume their old shapes. She

travels among them, healing as best she can, but the maimed remain maimed.

Asmodai, who came into being during this Wave, discovers how to shape the textures of Heaven. He

envisions Michael, who has more raw power than any other of the Firstborn, cutting through the

cacoastrum and leaving a wake of illiaster behind him. He creates a tool for this.

Others see and admire it, so Asmodai makes more, and is still making tools when the Third Wave begins,

with no warning, as the southeastern side of Heaven begins to yield.

The Sword of Michael does as it was intended. Yaweh holds a sceptre, which forces shape and order

upon chaos. Satan bears an emerald, which turns cacoastrum in upon itself, burning until it is consumed.

And other tools are used, as well.

The Seven Firstborn lead the hosts into battle.

Mephistopheles strode up to the doors of Yaweh's palace, an almost-smile upon his lips. Inside, he found

a page and asked said page to announce him to Uriel, who dwelt within. The page scurried off, pagelike;

Mephistopheles placed his hands behind his back and studied the huge entry-way of the palace.

The archangel Mephistopheles wore only black. After Bethor had invented whiskers he had adopted the

custom. He sported a thin mustache that curled just a little around his lips. His face was high and angular; his

eyes slanted upward a bit beneath thick black brows that nearly met over his nose. As he waited, he began

whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

Uriel appeared behind the page, saw the dark angel in his usual carefree attitude, and didn't quite gnash

his teeth. Mephistopheles saw big, somber Uriel in his purple and silver, and didn't quite laugh. Nor did he

quite hide his desire to do so.

Uriel dismissed the page with a nod, and led the way to a small sitting room with a pair of comfortably

padded beige chairs against walls of mushroom. He offered wine because it was expected; Mephistopheles

accepted to be difficult.

"Cool," he announced, as he tasted the wine, "and yet it warms the heart. Sweet, and yet an almost bitter

aftertaste."

Uriel was stubbornly silent.

"It reminds one of Heaven, nearly."

Uriel opened his mouth a couple of times, but didn't say anything. Mephistopheles decided that he was

trying to find a way to say, "What do you want?" that didn't sound quite so rude. He took another drink,

closing his eyes to further enjoy the coolness and the sweetness.

"This place is a bit degenerate, you know," he remarked. "I mean, not to cast aspersions on anyone in

particular, but one would think that a few things worth doing would get done from time to time, rather than

this continuous revelry—"

"You don't consider our studies worthwhile?" interrupted Uriel.

"Ah! So you can speak after all! I'd started to wonder."

Uriel's lips compressed. Mephistopheles continued. "As to studies, I don't know. It depends. What are

you studying? For what purpose? To satisfy idle curiosity?"

Uriel scowled. "Who are you to belittle the efforts of anyone? So far as I know, you haven't done

anything of any benefit to anyone since the Third Wave."

"As opposed to whom?" Uriel shrugged and looked away. "I doubt any of this was what brought you

here."

"Why shouldn't it be? I just thought I'd stop by and find out how you and my other friends are."

Uriel opened his mouth as if to say, "What other friends?" but didn't. "I thought," continued

Mephistopheles, "that I might give you news from other parts of Heaven. Did you know, for example,

that Lilith had been seeing Lucifer since—"

"Enough!" cried Uriel, the shadow of pain crossing his features. "If all you came to do is distribute

and collect petty gossip, you may leave again. I have no wish to hear such things."

Mephistopheles's face softened, and he bit his lip. His voice was lower as he said, "I'm sorry, Uriel.

I'd forgotten that perhaps you wouldn't wish to know how Lilith fares just now; after all—"

"Please!"

"Certainly, my friend. I have no wish to torment you."

Uriel scowled.

"No, I mean it. I enjoy bantering, but I don't want to hurt anyone." He stood and crossed to Uriel.

The big angel looked up at him, suspiciously. Mephistopheles sat in a chair next to him and touched

his shoulder.

"I know I joke too much," he said. "Maybe I do hurt people, but I'm not malicious—at least, I don't

think I am. I'd forgotten about—things—or I wouldn't have brought up what I did. I hope you can

believe that."

Uriel's eyes softened, but he still said nothing.

"Perhaps," Mephistopheles continued, dropping his voice still further, "I'm a bit jealous of you. I

try not to be, but here you are, always next to Yaweh, seeing Michael and Raphael every day, getting

in on their plans, speaking to them all, while I always seem to be on the outside and—never mind. I

guess I'll be leaving now."

He stood up, but Uriel held out a hand to stop him. "Please," said Uriel. "I overreacted."

Mephistopheles paused, half-turned toward the door. Uriel touched his arm, and Mephistopheles

nodded and sat.

"You have little cause to be jealous, believe me," Uriel continued. "Yes, I live here, but Yaweh

spends his time with Asmodai of late, and Lucifer and Abdiel, as well as those others you mentioned."

Mephistopheles studied him. "Do you feel left out, Uriel? I doubt that you should. I'm sure it's just that his

plans require—"

"Oh, I know that. No, I'm not hurt. And yes, there are good reasons for it. Lucifer understands more

about cacoastnun than anyone else; Asmodai will be planning the construction of the globe itself. And

Abdiel is helping to organize it."

Mephistopheles appeared uninterested in these details. "You have your role, though, do you not?"

"Oh, yes. I am content. I'll be working with Satan."

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TOREIGNINHELLSTEVENBRUSTWITHAFOREWORDBYROGERZELAZNYACEFANTASYBOOKSNEWYORKLinesfromthesong"NovemberSong"copyright©1984byMarkHenley.UsedbypermissionofMarkHenley.Linesfromthesong"FriendoftheDevil"copyright©1970byIceNinePublishingCompany,Inc.MusicbyJerryGarciaandJohnDawson;wordsbyRobertHunter.Usedbyperm...

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