Baal was in the bath.
"May I assume that you have heard the news?" asked his visitor.
The Demon Prince of The War soaped his left arm thoughtfully with a bar
of something very orange and fragrant. Then he leaned back and closed
his eyes, sinking further into the steaming water.
"That Michael is arrogant beyond belief?" he asked eventually. "And stupid
beyond belief also? That cannot be news to any being in creation,
Asmodeus, although I'm flattered that thou sawst fitting to make such
efforts to inform me."
"Will you fight him?" asked the other politely. The Prince of the Game,
head of Hell's secret police and intel forces, favoured 17th century
garb and had done since the 17th century. He swept the embroidered hem
of his black frock coat away from a puddle of bath water on the floor
and sat on the only chair in the room, stretching out his stockinged
legs. It was after all his favourite coat. The ivory buttons alone had
taken several damned souls a century to carve, and no mere affairs of
infernal state would make up for its accidental ruination.
"I will certainly give the matter mine complete attention. Sometime.
When I have finished my bath."
"In a timeframe of under a century?"
"Who can say?" Baal stretched out philosophically. "And thou bring'st reports
on each of his recent battles with other superiors for me?"
Asmodeus sniffed, positioned the thin wire-framed glasses on the bridge
of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, and opened a briefcase.
"Indeed."
"Well?"
"My _friend_," the Prince of the Game murmured, "I would like an
assurance that you will not take part in these games yourself."
Baal propped an elbow on the bathtub and sat up, cascading waves of water
onto the floor. His eyes glittered like polished bootleather as he
stared the other prince down. "Because you think I would lose and it
would be bad for morale?"
His voice was pleasant enough, sweet like honey, and soft like butter,
and pleasant on the ear.
"It would be bad for morale in either case."
"There is no question in my mind but that I could defeat Michael in combat."
"If you win, there will be rumours of imminent Armaggeddon. If --"
Baal slammed a hand down against the side of the tub. "THERE IS NO IF,"
he spat.
"As you say," Asmodeus murmured politely. He bent his expensive wig over
the papers as he rifled through them. "Litheroy, Gabriel, Novalis,
Dominic. I can give you details of these matches."
"There is no if," whispered the Prince of the War.
Asmodeus adjusted his glasses again, wiping the steam from the lenses
with a lace cuff. He peered at the figure in the bath, glanced down at
his notes, and began to read.
Baal stared at him through narrowed eyes for a moment longer, before
settling back into the frothy water. The infernal bureacrat's voice
droned on in a soothing manner, describing archangelic defeats in
clinical terms.
"None of them really want to defeat him," commented the Prince of the
War, after several minutes of hot soapy silence. Any trace of temper had
vanished from his voice, and he merely sounded reflective. "They all know
what that would mean to the rest of Heaven. But he really wants to win.
It becomes a matter of mere Will."
"As you say."
"Thy spies and envoys seem well informed about Litheroy?"
Asmodeus smiled thinly. "He was disguised as a rock at the water's edge."
"And Novalis."
"He was disguised as a tree."
"And Gabriel."
"He was disguised as a cloud of sulpherous fumes."
Baal nodded. "A versatile chap, then?"
"Definitely."
"And so we obtain information about our enemies individual strategies."
"Indeed."
After a few more minutes, Baal turned to the other man and smiled as
brightly as an atom bomb.
"Old friend," he purred. "Your close relationship to all the Princes of
Hell is as reknowned as it is envied."
Asmodeus peered at him over the edge of the wire-rimmed frames.
"Indeed," he said again.
"Talk to Beleth," directed the Prince of the War. "Persuade her to offer
Michael a fight on her own terrain. Make haste to inform me of precisely
when the battle commences. And set your man to spying upon them both
with his usual subtlety."
"What purpose to this, my friend?"
Baal pressed his fingertips together, then he sent the other man a look
that would brook no opposition. "That was an ORDER, soldier," he
snapped. "We have a war to fight."
Asmodeus bowed his head low, and gathered his papers together. If there
was a whisper-thin smile dancing on his lips, it was hidden by the
gesture.
As he left the room, he could hear the Prince of the War calling to his
equerry, "Get me a towel, you laggard! And have my jeep ready!"
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EDG <edg@sjgames.com>
In Nomine Collection Curator