Elminster in Hell

pain. Hear me?

As ye desire, devil.

[diabolic satisfaction, images flashing up in disarray, then spinning past]

'Life,' as the archwizard said, 'is like a squirming maggot-isn't it?'

[bewilderment] Is that all there is of that? Who was that? Elminster?

Nay, Nergal, it was another arrogant old mage, not me.

I know that, you fool! I was bidding you answer me!

Ah. Well, I was just sitting quiet, letting ye find thy own way.

[raging growl] I'll break you, puny human!

Ye did that already, and don't seem pleased with the result. With such wavering resolve, Nergal, how are ye ever going to rise to rule Hell?

Don't mock me, elminster-unless you want to spend an eternity in torment.

In many ways, devil, I already have. Think on that, and bluster less.

[snarl, mind lash, bursting mind bolts, raw screams of agony, diabolic satisfaction, images whirling past like bright embers flung from a roaring fire]

'Holy… dancing… hobgoblins,' Asper said slowly, her voice unsteady.

And who or what was that? El.-oh, never mind. I will make you pay for this, human. I swear by the- oho! It begins!

***

Horns as tall as men thrust into the blood-red sky. Their cruel tips, curved slightly toward each other, were adorned with rows of charred spinagon skulls. The head beneath those horns might have belonged to a giant goat, and its large, sharp glistening black eyes bespoke fell, alert intelligence. It was a pity Harboring's face was also permanently lined with the pain given him by the Curse of Asmodeus.

It was not a rare distinction in Hell to have earned the displeasure of the Lord Most Deep, but few wore the sign of it as a constant, active torment. The Horned One was the only one of those victims free to move about and pretend to even the tiniest shred of freedom. It was freedom laced with pain, the constant reminder Asmodeus desired it to be.

Worms Harboring could not slay-for they were made of his own living guts-gnawed at him endlessly, burrowing in and out of his bulging belly. Streams of blood and foul fluids dripped ceaselessly from the wounds they made. Harboring's own talons and spells passed like smoke through the curseworms.

Only commanded devils and captured beasts could strike the worms and slow the gnawing that daily weakened Harboring. As it was, only prodigious feeding and frantic seizing of magic by the goat-devil kept him alive. He knew Asmodeus watched him and gloated-wherefore his mood was seldom less than savage.

Harboring was enjoying one of those 'seldom' moments right now. He squatted atop a pinnacle slick with his own gore, tearing hungrily at the ribs of a dragon he'd spell-fooled into flying at full speed into the mountainside above. Thrice he'd had to fight off pit fiends seeking to claim its heart or brain-and he'd given up chasing away spinagons and abishai from spattered gobbets of dragon flesh and errant scales.

This was the first large feast he'd had in days, and the Horned One was anticipating a serious interruption soon. The immobility of the dragon's huge carcass kept him in one spot to dine on it… and that meant foes could find him easily. Harhoring had prepared a few magics and was watching warily as he ate. In Hell, mistakes are luxuries one rarely survives.

There! Something coming fast, rushing up without any attempt at stealth or subtlety, hurtling across Avernus like a dark, silent bolt of devil-flesh…

Harhoring had keen eyes, and he used them now. This was an unfamiliar foe, or an old one wearing a guise he'd never seen before. Like a pit fiend, it seemed, but flew with its wings folded and drawn in behind it, as if it was an arrow shot from a bow. There was something strange about its body, too, as if it had many tiny legs, all constantly a-whirl around it___

Harhoring favored the arriving foe with a toothy smile liberally adorned with raw, bloody dragon-and unleashed his first spell.

Talons of acid sliced the air. The dripping latticework of death sizzled and spat as the foe struck it. A few scraps of armor, it seemed, caught the energy. They dwindled and tumbled as the acid ate through them.

The onrushing foe seemed a human woman, clad more in her own hair than in anything else.That hair was long, as willful as the tentacles of a hunting squid. Those tresses held wands and rings and other items of magic… and even aimed them!

Harboring's second magic slammed into her. The spell created stars of long thorns bristling in all directions, then caused them to explode, hurling their deadly shrapnel. The nearly bare woman writhed in her own blood, studded with dozens of javelinlike thorns, and fell through the air….

Fires of the Pit! She was going to plunge into the still-steaming guts of the dragon! What if she lived and fought on-what would survive of Harboring's meal?

With some alarm, but also with savage glee, the Horned One cast a bloodhook spell and pulled hard. The spell would snatch the human female-torn open and writhing in her death-agonies-to his feet.

The hook plunged home. The woman threw back her head. Cords of straining flesh stood out in her throat. She screamed her pain at the blood-red sky. Then she seemed to leap across the space between them. Somewhere along the way, her helpless parabola became a pounce. Her face grew a grin to match Harboring's own.

Magic flashed and flowed around the human sorceress as the two damned creatures came together. In sudden alarm, the Horned One belatedly conjured burning talons to augment the razor sharpness of his own.

They were just swirling into existence as the foe smashed into his chest, her own hands glowing fiercely.

Harhoring knew worse pain than anything he'd felt since the hand of Asmodeus himself. Red, shrieking agony! The Lord of Bones roared as his foe pierced him, and helplessly, convulsively, shoved her away to free himself-thereby winning greater pain.

The woman's spell had briefly turned her hands into metal fauchard forks, each with a long point that stabbed deep into the goat-devil. A cruel hook below tore the gash wider. Her points drove deep-one piercing right through the devil's body.

Shuddering and flailing, Harhoring spat flaming blood on her and wept more flames as he thrust her away. He pulled himself off her blades with frenzied, convulsive strength.

Coolly she caught both hooks around his exposed intestines as she went. She fell away to one side, and the fury of his shove carried her on past the screaming devil. Her hold on her foe's guts jerked Harhoring sharply around.

Squalling, the horned devil fell from the pinnacle, sprawling onto sharp rocks. Steaming innards tore themselves out of him in the fall. The curseworms reared and writhed in hungry agitation around his midriff.

Thrashing on the rocks in arching, broken agony, the Horned One cursed the hand of Asmodeus, which prevented outcasts from summoning any devil to them and their service. By all the blood in Avernus, he needed aid now!

With twin shimmerings, the woman's hands dwindled back to human form. She wrapped a loop of glistening devil guts around one forearm and began weaving another spell with her free hand.

Harhoring wallowed on the rocks, trying to get upright despite the burning pain of broken bones. He needed to spin a desperate magic of his own.

Harhoring offers little challenge, it seems. Hmmm. I'd thought him one of the strongest among us outcasts. Come, little wizard: it's time for you to see another corner of avernus.