the many-horned secretary to Prime Minister Agares ushered them inside.
* * * * *
It was strange, Adramalik reflected, strange that suddenly so much should turn on Astaroth's faltering wards. Agares had been informed weeks ago of the departure of Sargatanas and his caravan. That was unusual; it had been six hundred years since his last journey to Dis. So long, in fact, that Beelzebub had grown petulant about the unorthodox, charismatic Demon Major and his evident lack of respect.
And now waiting with him and Agares in the Rotunda was a messenger from Astaroth. Spies in Adamantinarx had been informed of Sargatanas' intentions, and when news had reached Astaroth in his crumbling capital, Askad, the messenger had been hastily dispatched. He had flown the entire trip without pause and was still trembling from the effort. His wings were shredded and Adramalik saw tiny smoking pits upon his skin from embers that had buffeted him; he had apparently taken the most direct and perilous route.
When he landed he had been brought straightaway into Agares' chamber and met almost immediately by the Prime Minister. There they had spoken for some time, and even though Adramalik could not hear the conversation, he knew, afterward, that the messenger was here to strengthen his lord's alliance with Beelzebub and weaken Sargatanas'.
And now all three stood in the Prince's Rotunda awaiting him. Adramalik knew he was up amidst the hangings, watching them with his thousand wary, calculating eyes. He also knew that the messenger's journey was not to have been in vain. Beelzebub's jealousy-born indifference to Sargatanas was no secret among those in his court; the Demon Major's ways were appealing to many who still thought of themselves as Fallen angels and not as demons. For the Prince, who had watched the slow rise of Sargatanas as a potential rival with suspicion, it was a delicate yet irresistible moment to exploit. And for Astaroth, whether it ended as he wished or not, a moment that would bear the sanguinary rewards of war.
No one saw the slight smile that crossed Adramalik's face. Dis had grown boring of late, he thought. A war of some significance would certainly make it more interesting.
* * * * *
The steep ascent through the Keep to Agares' tower took nearly a day. Adjacent to the Black Dome and protruding through the flesh-mantle, it was a many-spired and buttressed claw tearing at the clouds that tried so hard to conceal it. From the long, vertical windows that ran the height of the building the small party caught breathtaking glimpses of the city. When they arrived in its vaulted reception hall adjacent to the Prime Minister's chambers, the secretary indicated a long row of bloodstone benches and then disappeared hurriedly into one of the smaller adjoining rooms.
None of them sat. Valefar paced while Sargatanas stood at a window, gazing down at the soaring thousand- foot-high Arch of Lost Wings. Eligor studied a dingy fresco of some long-forgotten battle that must have been applied millennia past.
When Agares finally did appear he seemed preoccupied and distant. He ushered the three demons into his opulent chamber of state and indicated some heavy chairs. A pallid greenish light streamed through the windows in broad, dusty shafts. Tall and gaunt, Agares had a brittle, bureaucratic air, and his movements were almost nervous. While Valefar had never said anything in favor of the Prime Minister, Eligor remembered, neither had he said anything too condemning.
'The Prince has asked me, in his stead, to discuss your situation. He is, at the moment, with his Consort and has asked not to be interrupted.' The Prime Minister's clipped, scratchy voice seemed grave but oddly tentative to Eligor's ears.
'We can wait,' said Valefar evenly. A frown had worked its way onto his features.
'I am afraid that will not be necessary, Prime Minister. The Prince has fully briefed me on his views regarding the situation on your border.' The Prime Minister folded his arms and Eligor could see the large gold fly-shaped ring of rank on his thin finger. It was clearly an intentional gesture.
Eligor saw Sargatanas tilt his head. Agares was neither looking at him nor addressing him but speaking instead to Valefar while adjusting his floor-length robes.
'Lord Astaroth is poised on our border,' Valefar said. 'We are simply asking what the Prince's reaction will be if we engage Astaroth.'
'You will not engage him on the field of battle and, therefore, there is no reaction to anticipate. We will assure you that he pulls his troops back. And we will attempt to revive his failing economy as well.'
'And if he strikes at us first? Should we not defend ourselves?' Valefar's tone was sharper, edgier.
'He will not,' Agares said, finally turning to Sargatanas. 'Lord Astaroth is desperate. You know the state of his wards. If he were to launch an attack he would lose everything, and he knows it. This is merely a posture to gain attention.
Sargatanas slowly rose. The hornlets that floated above his head were encircled by orbiting jets of flame. 'You do know, Prime Minister, that I will do what I must to protect my wards. I have spent far too much energy building them into what they are to let them be jeopardized. I may not have been waging incessant war on my neighbors, but trust me, I remember how it is done.'
Agares glared at him.
'And you may tell Prince Beelzebub that he is always welcome to visit Adamantinarx.' The remark was a direct challenge; Eligor knew the Prince had never visited the city.
With that, Sargatanas drew his cloak in, turned, and headed for the door. Valefar and Eligor, taking their cue from their lord, dispensed with any formalities and, without another word to Agares, followed. What he was thinking Eligor could only guess, but when he walked past Agares he saw the Prime Minister's jaw clenched and trembling slightly.
Sargatanas crossed the chamber, opened the thick, pressed-soul door, and burst into the hall beyond, nearly knocking down a diminutive passerby. Eligor, close behind, hastily sidestepped the pair, noticing that the figure, adjusting its white raiments, was female.
Sargatanas pulled back, steadying her in his huge, clawed hands, keeping her from falling.
She had apparently come from Beelzebub's Rotunda; the hall led only there. Her face was set, eyes wide, nostrils flared, jaw tight. It was an expression of some fierce emotion barely contained. The skin of her face,
