Robert Bee
Baldrick@worldnet.att.net

Robert Bee is a writer and teacher living in New Jersey. He has published over twenty short stories of fantasy, horror and mystery in a variety of magazines including Blue Murder, The Black Lily, Gauntlet, Gylph, Parchment Symbols, Welcome to Nod, Plots with Guns, Cabal Asylum, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Outer Darkness, Midnight Gallery and Eternity.

Fungus and Wayward Gods

The city of Esteban was in midfestival when Baldrick and Temir entered its front gates. Throughout the streets crowds drank and feasted, savoring the smells of goat, curry and stewed apricots. The festival honored the wine and moon god Matirsutrus. On nearly every major thoroughfare, fountains in the god's image gushed wine from his smiling mouth, for Esteban was a wealthy city, situated in the midst of the Silk Road.

Baldrick dismounted with a flourish, seized a wine cup from a celebrant and washed away the grit of the desert.

"Water would be better after a week of dry sand," Temir pointed out.

"Nay, have some," Baldrick said, refilling his cup with the wine gushing from Matirsutrus' mouth.

Temir shook his head, his face grim in his pilgrim cowl. "You know I can't. Until my sins are redeemed, wine causes me horrid pain."

"Have you considered that the pain is in your mind?" Baldrick tapped his forehead. "Curses work because we believe them, oft times not because of wizardry."

Temir frowned. "I know that you don't take my pilgrimage seriously. You need not have come." Temir dropped a bucket into the well and drank pure water. He had drank nothing but water and had eaten nothing but bread for three weeks now. He had followed the strictures of his pilgrimage to the letter. He sat on the edge of the well and moistened a stale loaf with the water, grimly satisfied that at least the bread was not wormy.

Baldrick gnawed on the last of his salted meat and washed it down with a cup of mixed wine and water. He gazed at Temir sidelong, wondering at the man's thoughts. He cut an odd figure with the red pilgrim robes and with his stout build, the mixture of a beer gut and impressive muscles. He didn't look much like a pilgrim on a fast. He was a harsh, powerful figure with dark hair and the scarred countenance of an Eastern nomad.

"Can we at least sleep in a decent inn and have a good meal before we finish?" Baldrick had grown tired of the excesses of Temir's penitence. Even if the man still believed in quaint concepts of sin and repentance, the least he could do was work off his sins at a more civilized pace and location. They had ridden like mad through the desert for a week. Baldrick had traveled with him because of his fascination with Temir's eccentricities. They had meet months ago while they were both working as caravan guards, and immediately Baldrick decided that Temir would make an excellent subject for a saga. Baldrick aspired to write tales in the mode of Vilmar the fabulist, and Temir gave him plenty of material. The older man had fought at the siege of Colchis, commanded men in the witch wars and traveled more of the world than most men hear about, much less see.

"I want to see Grimhaven's temple before I do aught else. Do you still wish to come? Go to the inn instead and have a drink if you want."

"I seek to prove I am as much of a fool as you. What else are friends for?"

As they led their horses through the throng, Baldrick tried to connect the penitent with the reckless sinner who brought a "curse" on himself. He saw the perverse personality swings typical of Temir -- the shift from civilized cynicism to Eastern superstitions. His cynicism, unlike the sneer of a native Kaldosan like Baldrick, was only skin deep.

The crowds offered them wine, opium, women and song, but in his red penitent robes Temir proceeded oblivious of his surroundings. He moved quickly as if the revelry about him was an affront. Baldrick struggled to keep pace, restraining himself from kissing the women or accepting the proffered drinks.

They halted a few buildings down from Grimhaven's temple and tied their steeds. Standing in the shadows, they watched the temple which no local would dare enter. The feared temple was unimpressive in structure: merely one story devoid of ornamentation and trimmings. The fear derived from the sight of Grimhaven hulking next to the temple, standing beside the doorway as still and solid as a statue. The demon seemed to guard his temple, but he had not moved for years. In the past when the demon had acted it was unexpected, a sudden flurry of madness, killing bystanders or dragging the unlucky into his temple. None ever emerged again. He was invulnerable to human weapons, so the locals made sure they maintained running distance between themselves and the demon.

"We will try it now," Temir announced. He envisioned a swift invasion of the slumbering demon's temple, the theft of the desired artifact and a hasty exit -- all while his gruesomeness continued to sleep. Then he could return to Kaldos, his pilgrimage finished, the curse lifted.

"What about the meal, a night's rest?" Baldrick said

"Nay, we end it now." Temir stared at Grimhaven. The demon appeared paralyzed in a deep trance. What could his thoughts dwell on for years? The creature possessed the magic of the Underworld, which would make it difficult to seize the holy relic from his temple if it awoke. He prayed the gods blessed his pilgrimage.

He would ignore the perverse Baldrick if necessary. With his red hair, lanky body and sardonic grin, Baldrick reminded Temir of a satyr. The man had rode with him, out of comradeship granted, but had tried to talk Temir out of the pilgrimage every step of the way. Although he wore his riding outfit and robes, he kept his fancy clothes stowed in his backpack. At any moment Baldrick was one step away from a brothel.

The men studied Grimhaven for any hint of movement, but the demon merely breathed, almost imperceptibly. Temir tossed a stone at the demon's feet.

"I'm going to try to find another way in," Temir said.

Baldrick watched Temir circle the block and unobtrusively examine the rear of the building. Did he really intended to proceed as exhausted as they were? He was as singleminded in his repentance as he was in his sinning. Just three weeks ago when the mangy prophet cursed Temir for his sins, they had just spent days drinking and whoring in the brothels of Kaldos. They had needed to indulge themselves after a three month stint as caravan guards: trapped in the desert with no wine, women or pleasure, legs wrapped around camel humps delivering spices across the great desert. When they returned to Kaldos, they blew through most of their pay in a weekend, drinking and whoring every night.

When they saw the prophet, they were staggering toward Temir's favorite brothel, passing a morning wine bottle, so early they would have to wake the whores.

The prophet stepped before them in the street, raising a gnarled staff. Stained and tattered robes covered his emaciated frame, lice crawled through his beard and hair, and sores ate at his arms. He roared in a voice stronger than his form. "Look at yourselves! The midst of the day and already you're drunk! You do not even value the manifest gifts the gods give you -- your skills in battle should service the good not your lusts!"

Baldrick stepped around him, but Temir halted and spit out a great quantity of wine. "We don't whore every day," Temir said. "Just on the third, fourth, fifth, sixth and sometimes the seventh day of the week. It depends on how much money we have old man. Whores are expensive. Especially the better looking ones."

Temir spit his words out. Kaldos was lousy with prophets: the city's main squares attracted them like fleas to a dog's hide. Temir often speculated that they contributed to religious disbelief more than faith. He enjoyed arguing broad minded ideas with the philosophers who flocked the same streets, but the prophets were moralistic and single-minded -- tiresome from any angle.

"Wha -- " the prophet stumbled out, examining the multicolored clan markings on Temir's arms. "You are a Hagardian. You wear the tattoo of our tribe. Have you forgotten reverence to your father and ancestors? I wear them; I have not forgotten." The prophet showed the Hagardian tattoos on his arms -- the fierce wolf and sword were identical to Temir's.

Temir spoke from gritted teeth. "We are a long way from Hagard Reef old man. Now stand aside; you have delayed me long enough."

"Nay, I shall not stand aside! I bring you a warning from the great god Organnum!"

"Ha, Baldrick do you hear? He brings us a message from Organnum."

Baldrick cackled, "Did the god send the message carrier pigeon?"

"Or did he call you? Noggle, Noggle, come thou forth to be enlightened. Old fleabitten prophet Knothead Noggle, carry forth this message." Temir cupped his hands around his mouth and mimicked the thundering voice of a god in the plays of Kaldos' amphitheater. The actors performed the god's parts with enormous masks that projected and deepened their voices.

"Fools, mock if you dare! The god warns you to repent and extends this curse. You, Temir, are enjoined to liberate a holy relic and return it to its rightful place. Decades ago, the worshippers of the demon Grimhaven stole the Reasoning Man sculpture from Organnum's temple in Kaldos and spirited it away to Esteban. The artist Lopate the pious created this relic through divine inspiration. Until you right this wrong, Temir stray son of Hagard Reef, the gods deny you your greatest pleasures. Your tribal gods and ancestors curse you: no wine drinking without sickness, no raised staff during love making."

Before Baldrick could stop him, Temir lurched forward drunkenly and smashed the bottle against the prophet's pate. The old man fell in an explosion of wine and glass. "What was I thinking?" Temir said. "I wasted the wine."

The prophet moaned and crawled away. At least he was not dead, Baldrick thought. "One day you will pay for your rashness," Baldrick said.

"Perhaps, but not by this old codger." He rolled the old man out of the way. "These old frauds separate the naive from their gold. If everyone tossed them in the closest river, we would not hear their prattle. Now to the Palace of Rustling Silks!"

They staggered laughing to the Palace of Rustling Silks, but Temir could not perform, despite the ministrations of lovely nymphs. He grew violently ill from the wine and vomited all over the girl's room. The bouncers threw them both out. The problem haunted Temir every day, regardless of the lady trying to coax his bull to roar. He sickened every time he drank wine. When he tried to locate the old man, he was nowhere to be found. Despite Baldrick's disquisitions on the power of the mind and guilt, Temir was convinced the curse was genuine. The old man was a supernatural being, perhaps an avatar of the god himself.

When Temir returned from his reconnaissance, he pulled Baldrick from his reveries. "There is no other entrance. No holes in the roof, no windows even. We must pass the beast to enter."

"Perhaps it is dead," Baldrick said.

"We can only hope. Now is as good a time as any." He watched the crowd, waiting for them to be distracted by a juggler then -- typically rash and without looking back -- slipped past the beast and entered the temple, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

As if the sword would do him any good, Baldrick thought. The demon still did not move. Baldrick's eyes trailed along the multicolored scales, the tentacles sprouting from under its neck and the massive jaws. He crept past Grimhaven as quietly as possible, making sure not to stir it through unnecessary noise. He only reached the top of its knee; the beast stood tall enough to crush him with one paw, its scales possessing serrated edges as large as a dagger. He was tempted to touch its still form, to see if its skin felt like flesh or stone.

He made it past the creature and through the temple entrance. The Temple's interior was one stone room, devoid of offerings. Its only feature was the sculpture of "The Reasoning Man" resting on the alter.

Temir gazed at the famous sculpture, impressed by the carefully carved muscles of the body and the chiseled wrinkles on the forehead and handsome face. Temir found it hard to believe that it remained for years in this dilapidated temple. Why had no one else removed it? Were the city's thieves fearful of a demon who does not move for years at a time?

Temir walked to the statue ceremoniously and picked it up. "I dedicate this pilgrimage to the memory of my ancestors, whose greatness my debauchery has offended." Hoping the gods watched and approved, he followed all the proper forms of respect.

Talons scrapped and scratched against the entranceway, and Temir felt something enormous behind him, causing him to whirl in time to see Grimhaven entering the doorway, squeezing his bulk into the temple. Gawking at the monster, he hid the Reasoning Man beneath a fold in his cloak.

"Halt!" Grimhaven roared, his angry voice echoing in the room. "I detect interlopers -- a pilgrim and a minor writer. What an odd pairing of thieves." He probed the air with a tentacle in Baldrick's direction. "A pretentious Kaldosan, and a nomad in repentance. Both believe you have a philosophy on life. If you wish to live, you will give me insight into a problem."

The sculpture tugged at Temir's cloak, and he wondered if there was any way he could replace it through slight of hand. As he saw Grimhaven alive and speaking, his awesomeness overpowered him -- his size, the jaws the length of their bodies, the razored claws the length of their hands, the tentacles that could sweep them in the air with modest effort. Grimhaven radiated power: magic crackled along his length, the supernal force of the otherworld. Temir did not want to consider all the ways this creature could kill them, leaving his repentance unfinished.

"Consider this," Grimhaven said. "I wish to create a perfect society, but I am hampered by obedience to Natural Law. I have made pacts with the gods," he sweeps one paw into the air. "Consequently I am hemmed in and can not act freely. I need a man with free will who can disobey the law, but will choose not to disobey it, who will follow the right and the good."

What? Temir thought. He did not know how to respond to this bizarre beast.

Humoring it seemed the best course of action. He found his tongue and spoke. "Could you create him incapable of breaking the law?"

"Then he would not have the necessary free will and would be hampered as I am," Grimhaven responded. "On rare occasions it might be necessary to break the law to do the right."

"Create a being that can always judge what is right or ethical," Baldrick said. "Then their conduct will usually conform to natural law but will deviate from it when necessary."

"That is a good point; the two of you show insight into the problem."

"We sometimes listen to and debate the philosophers in the central atrium. I was educated in the forums of Kaldos, whereas Temir is well versed in the books of wisdom -- for an outlander," Baldrick responded.

"So you enjoy spending your time debating philosophy?" the god asked.

Temir bowed low. "We are honored that we have aided your cogitations, but now we must be off. I am under obligation to Organnum." As he bowed the sculpture slid down his cloak, and he had to hold it in place with one hand.

"Nay, I fear not." The god-demon glared distastefully at the bulge under Temir's cloak. "You are thieves and have forfeited your normal rights of freedom."

"We act on the orders of the god Organnum," Temir said.

"I find it hard to believe a god would order you to desecrate my temple."

"But you sto-- " Temir began but Baldrick cut him off.

"We will return your sculpture lord," Baldrick said.

"We cannot," Temir hissed.

"My concerns are those of a higher being and take precedence over yours. I seek to leave my natural sphere; the underworld holds no attraction for me. The gods will not allow me to join them in the supernal regions until I have solved a number of philosophical conundrums, which true gods know the answers to. I have to prove that I can solve these dilemmas before I am worthy of godhead. Despite your interesting theory, we still have not dealt with a number of problems. For one thing, we have not established what "natural law" is. For another, we have not determined how to create a being who always knows the right."

"These questions would take years or centuries to unravel," Temir protested. "That is, if they can be solved."

"I fear you are correct, yet my concerns outweigh yours, as I have already established beyond refutation. Although it strikes me as unfortunate, I fear I must devour the two of you, for I learn from everything I absorb."

"It strikes you as unfortunate!" Baldrick exclaimed, but before he could draw his sword the god grasped him in his mouth and swallowed him. Temir turned to run, but the god caught him before he made it a step and gulped him down as well. Grimhaven's throat initially resembled an ordinary digestive tract. They slid down the vast throat, their fingers and boots scrambling for a hold to halt the descent into the beast's belly. After passing the beast's throat, they suddenly plunged into daylight and landed with a thud in a grassy field.

They stared at the sky, uncomprehending. The god swallowed them, yet they lived. They were not in his belly; they lay in a grassy field. Above them, slightly higher than a tree top, gaped the opening leading from the beast's throat. Whenever it opened its mouth, they could see the outside world.

An elderly man with a long grey beard and a philosopher's robes approached them. A crystal slanted through his head, one end protruding from the top of his head, the other end growing from his cheekbone, as though someone had jammed the crystal through his skull at an angle.

"I am Wrothnath. The crystal you gawk at grows from my brain, at the behest of Grimhaven, enabling the god to communicate directly with me. The god bids me welcome you to his stomach, a haven for the thoughtful."

"A haven?" Temir said. He looked around. "How do we leave?"

"I fear you do not. First, you should change into these." He dropped two robes at their feet. "It has been speculated that loose fitting robes allow for easier cogitation, allowing the blood to circulate freely and offering bodily ease for meditation. I fear your current martial gear might impede the flow or cloud the mind with aggression or violence."

"I think not," Baldrick said. "We do not intend to be here long."

"Regardless of what you intend you will be here long."

Temir bound the Reasoning man to his belt. He would find a way out of here, and he would end his obligations to Lord Organnum.

Behind Wrothnath a dozen or so people straggled into view, all wearing the same dirty and tattered robes. Many had long tangled hair and poorly washed bodies, as if they had given up personal hygiene. Their eyes glimmered as though haunted.

"How long have these people been here?"

"It varies. Years usually. In my case hundreds of years. People stay until the god no longer finds them useful and then reduces them. It remains in your best interest to cogitate effectively."

"Cogitate?" Baldrick asked.

"Aye, Lord Grimhaven places people with a philosophical temperament here to help him work through the problems given to him by the gods. He wants as many viewpoints and thoughtful responses as possible." The man sat next to them in the lotus position. "Be stoic about this place. You have plenty to eat and drink." He ripped up a patch of yellowish-white fungus, which grew from the ground in a bloated, diseased mass and chewed it with relish.

Taken aback, Baldrick asked: "Is that heathy?"

"It's the only thing we have to eat here. Perfectly nutritious, the fungus possesses the heartiness of beef with the health properties of a vegetable. It enables us to think through philosophical conundrums without worrying over diet, just as our identical robes free us from the concern for dress." He scooped up another handful and offered it to Baldrick.

Even though he was starving, Baldrick waved his hands no. "I just ate," he insisted.

He gobbled it down. "In some ways we are blessed."

The scraggly crowd had moved closer, standing behind Wrothnath in a ring. At the word "blessed" someone scoffed.

"That's right!" he raised his voice. "Blessed! As long as we offer penetrating insights and do not annoy Grimhaven, we are immortal!"

"Immortal. What's the value of immortality here?" Temir asked.

"If we manage to solve his conundrums, when Grimhaven ascends to the heavens we will be amply rewarded."

Wrothnath's crystal began to glow. His eyes went vacant, and he placed a hand to his head. A murmur ran through the group.

One man, with a long yellowish grey beard and a map of wrinkles on his face, scrambled to Baldrick and Temir. "The god communicates with him now."

The crystal ceased glowing and Wrothnath turned to the crowd. "I have a new question from the god for the forum to consider. Everyone gather about." The crowd shuffled into a circle around Wrothnath. "The question he wishes us to debate is: why is there something rather than nothing? Is there something because there must be; because the gods need to create? Does the universe need meaning, which being grants it? Or is there something because of sheer coincidence?"

One of the philosophers hugged his knee and moaned in distress.

"I have a theory," a toothless old man said.

"Proceed," Wrothnath told him, precisely as a school master.

"I believe Grimhaven created the universe as an expression of his innate goodness. I would like to return to the world to spread this theory to the unenlightened."

"Unlikely, if Grimhaven had created the universe, he would not ask us to answer that question."

Temir found it astonishing that academics could be drawn into arguments even here. Were they not aware of their position? They were not competing for publication and tenure. There was nothing here, but years of argumentive conditioning overcame them.

The moaning philosopher leaped up, pulling at his scraggly greasy hair. "You don't understand, you fool, these questions cannot be answered due to their very nature! The gods have given the stupid demon these problems because they cannot be solved, and they do not want him in the supernal regions."

Wrothnath said calmly. "Please sit down Grifweal. You idealists have always had the tendency to become overwrought. He who never takes his eyes off the stars, will often trip upon a base stone."

"Aaargh!" Grifweal howled ripping at his hair. "You are a fool also! This pointless debate will continue forever, while that fool of a demon kidnaps hapless third rate philosophers!"

"You rapidly approach the point of no return," Wrothnath told him calmly. Grifweal continued ranting while the others stepped away from him.

A bright flash enveloped Grifweal, and he was no more. In his place lay a steaming pile of fungus.

Wrothnath sighed. "A fool will tread the treacherous path, despite the warnings of the wise."

The other philosophers surrounded the steaming fungus, eyeing it greedily, but waiting. Wrothnath nodded his head. "Go ahead."

The men dove into the fungus devouring it. "You may go ahead as well," he told Baldrick and Temir.

"I think not," Temir said. "Cannibalism holds no attraction for me. I am on a pilgrimage to absolve myself of sins as it is."

"Cannibalism? Well, it's not cannibalism. By definition cannibalism is the eating of human flesh. This flesh has been transformed into edible fungus."

"It used to be human flesh."

"But is no longer, thus making it no more cannibalism than eating a mushroom. You will get hungry soon enough."

"When I do get hungry, I will eat some of that," Temir pointed to the fungus Wrothnath had eaten from earlier.

"Oh, that is Ozmung. He frantically cursed the god several months ago. All the fungus derives from transformed humans."

While the others gorged themselves, Wrothnath harangued the group: "Remember what happens to the disobedient. We debated but were unable to establish whether the fungus state possesses nerves or not. We only know it regenerates into an endless feast. If the fungus possesses nerves and consciousness, the pain continues forever."

When Wrothnath settled down, Baldrick asked him: "If Grimhaven is a god, shouldn't he know the answer to these questions?"

"Lord Grimhaven is a lesser god, trying to understand the greatest problems in divine thought. The more brains that contribute to these discussions the better."

"Tell me more about the god," Temir said.

Wrothnath studied the two of them. "Good. I'm glad that you have taken an interest in the god so soon. Grimhaven is one of the sons of Matirsutrus, the god of wine and the moon. His mother is a beautiful demoness the god ravished, thus making his nature half divine and half demonic. When he learned of his parentage, he longed to enter the heavens as an god. For centuries he has striven to overcome the demonic side of his nature. Because he is the progeny of a wine god and a demoness, wine causes him to recur to a demonic irrational state. He has eschewed wine and rich foods for hundreds of years and keeps his mind and body as clean as possible; he falls into a fury if someone approaches him with so much as a cup of wine."

"There remains one problem," Baldrick said. "Have you people ever solved a philosophical question?"

"A problematic issue. We have arrived at a consensus on a number of occasions. The god has taken our consensus on advisement, uncertain as to whether he should present it to the gods."

"So you're actually no closer to solving these problems after hundreds of years?" Baldrick asked.

"We have some strong theories about free will and ethics. We also suspect -- the great Grimhaven and I -- that once we hit upon the right combination of positions, the answers will come at once. Insight and progress could be instantaneous."

"I fear the god should release us," Temir cut in. "We will prove disappointing to him, and I would hate to impede his progress."

Wrothnath waved his hand at that point. "No matter. If you prove disappointing, you will become part of the fungus garden. We all contribute in our own way to the greater good. Walk with me, and I will show you wonders." He turned to the others. "When I return from showing the new people about, we will discuss why there is something rather than nothing."

He led them through the "philosopher's paradise," which mostly consisted of green lawns, trees, a pond and periodic mounds of fungus. After listening to his growling stomach, Baldrick asked Wrothnath: "Is there anything else to eat? Fish in the pond perhaps?"

"Nay, the god has generously provided ample provision for our larder. To catch fish would distract us from our meditations. Take a handful from any mound."

"I find myself not so hungry," Baldrick said.

"The final part of our tour is the crystal field. Inside this field lie rows of crystals each magical in their properties; they are the source of the god's power." Baldrick and Temir walked forward only to bump into an invisible screen. "No one can approach them; the god protects them with an enchanted doorway."

The crystals were sources of higher magia, Baldrick knew. If Grimhaven was a demon, or half demon, his use of higher magic was probably inadequate for him to mimic divine power. He must draw power from these crystals to practice divine magic and maintain this alternate world. This may even be the place where he intended to reward his worshippers after their death.

"Find an opening," Baldrick hissed to Temir. They began to feel along the wall of force.

"What are you doing?" Wrothnath inquired. "You are wasting time; we must return to the forum."

They could find no opening, no gap. Temir remembered that Wrothnath had described the wall as an ensorcelled door. Baldrick chanted a hoary old spell that opened magical doors, "askance he entered the trail, to dance widdershins opens the way." While he chanted the spell, he sidled widdershins through the walls of force until he moved through a gap, then another. Finally he fell through an opening and found himself standing amongst the crystals. "Quickly," he said to Temir, "enter as I did."

Temir lacked rhythm: he hadn't trained in the dances and balls of Kaldos' lower aristocracy like Baldrick, so he had to be directed. "No, you clumsy fool, not a jig, widdershins," Baldrick demonstrated and soon enough Temir fell in a heap amongst the crystals.

"You fools, the god will destroy you."

Before Grimhaven struck, they grasped an armful of crystals, holding them as the demon enveloped them in light. A second time light enveloped them, but they stood unharmed. One of Temir's crystals no longer glowed bright yellow -- he tossed it aside. They used Grimhaven's magic against itself.

The crystal in Wrothnath's head glowed vibrant purple and crimson, and Wrothnath's face twisted in pain. "The god is angry and instructs you to drop the crystals immediately and face your punishment."

"Tell him to release us," Baldrick said.

"You cannot give orders to a god! Drop the crystals!."

"So he can turn us into your dinner? Tell him to release us, or we will go among his worshippers freely blaspheming him, blasphemy he will be incapable of resisting. Perhaps we will give every person here a crystal, so the god will be helpless to punish anyone and incapable of practicing divine magic," Baldrick said.

A roar resounded from Wrothnath's mouth; a sound of anger that derived from the god himself. They were lifted in the air and rushed towards Grimhaven's throat. They flew up the throat and were hurled from his mouth.

They tumbled to the street at Grimhaven's feet. The festive crowd gave them a wide berth as the enraged demon towered above them, twice their size.

"Perhaps we did not plan this part well enough," Temir said.

Waves of force projected from the god's waving tentacles -- resembling waves of heat rising from the ground on a summer day. The force filled the air between Grimhaven and the two men, striking the air before them, then scattered in all directions, smashing into the observing crowd. Skin and muscles boiled on screaming victims, the heat and force tearing dozens of people apart. Baldrick and Temir looked at what was left of the dozens of people behind them. The crowd to either side pushed and fought to flee in a surging mass.

"My magic may not work against the two of you, but I can rend you apart!" Grimhaven snarled.

"The Gods do not allow you into the heavens because you are not worthy of the title god!" Temir yelled.

The god halted, gazing at the crowd he had destroyed. "I behave in no wise different from the other gods. Have you studied the behavior of higher beings?"

"Wait!" Temir said. "Should not a god practice justice? If so, is the carnage you created just? If not, what will the gods think? The gods could be testing you now. If you act rashly, you could waste thousands of years of effort; your divinity forfeited due to petty revenge."

The god halted, turning that around in his brain. "Your conjectures intrigue me. Would I risk my divinity by destroying you? No, it is hard to imagine that the gods would care for worms such as you." He sunk deeper in thought, and they began to hope he would fall into one of his unconscious reveries.

The demon ceased his conjectures, saying: "No, several fallacies reside in your position. "One, the gods are not overly concerned with human justice. Although I admit from a human perspective the destructive of the innocent passerby was unjust (if we can use the word innocent about people we don't know -- some of the bystanders might have been murderers, rapists, etc, and thus an inadvertent justice could have been practiced). Two, the gods might even be testing me to make sure I am willing to impose the rule of higher beings on humans. Also, destroying -- "

Temir tapped his sword against the pavement, annoyed at the verbose creature's conjectures even though his life depended on them. Running to one of the bystanders, he seized a goblet of wine and rushed the creature. Grimhaven laughed, not bothering to halt his line of thought as he lifted one tentacle to swat Temir away like a fly.

Temir dashed the wine in its face. Grimhaven howled and fled, shaking the drops of wine from its face, a livid crimson blushing across its scales. "Wine," it sputtered, "you dare put wine on my person." The scales glowed bright orange, then mahogany red. The demon-god shivered and shifted from one foot to the other, shaking and trying to clear its head. "After hundreds of years, you dare destroy my abstinence."

Temir wondered if he had made a mistake. How much wine would it take to make that bulk drunk? He stood before one of the wine fountains and taunted the demon. "You're no god; you're not even a philosopher. You can't decipher the simplest philosophical problem for yourself; you remain nothing but a beast."

The demon roared and hurled himself at Temir, who dived to the ground as the massive shape flung itself above him. Grimhaven slammed into one of the wine fountains, shaped into a statue of Matirsutrus, his father. His bulk shattered the statue, causing the wine to gush forth and splatter itself over his entire length. Soaked and dripping, he staggered away from the fountain, his knees wobbling as he glared at Temir.

Suddenly his eyes changed, and he forgot about Baldrick and Temir. He reminded Temir of a panicked horse that had once nearly stomped him to death -- in the middle of the attack, its eyes blanked out, forgetting that it intended to kill.

Grimhaven thrust his muzzle into the fountain, gorging himself on the wine. They watched him warily, but he showed no sign of stopping or coming up for air.

"Let's ride back to Kaldos," Temir suggested. "We don't need to find out if he's an ugly drunk."

"Your pilgrimage is finished when we return home."

"Aye, I already feel the sap returning to my root. I think you were right to teach me not to be overly concerned about the morals of the gods. My guilt fades with the first cup of wine. The gods are more mad than mankind."

Tirmagel's Cathedral

by Robert Bee

As I walked down Monument street, I could smell the decayed flesh of the damned and hear them as they pressed against the walls separating the worlds. They called me to them. They beat their multitude of hands against the barriers -- which thinned on this night -- a staccato of anguish which made it impossible for me to eat, sleep or even think straight. All Hallow's Eve: on this night I became my father's son and growled in lust for blood or agony. My father was an incubus, a minor demon, my mother a human woman. Upon coming of age, a creature of my heritage must choose between Hell or humanity, and I had chosen humanity. But my humanity became less bearable on nights such as this.

I entered the vacant house climbing in through the broken window in back, seeking the company of the haunted. Scattered bottles and old rags cluttered the rear rooms, but no occupants sheltered themselves from the cool October night.

The next room held what I expected: Joseph Wineburgh in full spectral glory, his substance almost material as he sat in the far corner. He was dressed in the clothing of a Victorian gentleman with a bloody human arm in his hands: I ignored that, it was just show, no more real than his body.

The form that Wineburgh chose was none the less significant, an expression of mood. His face was unshaved, his clothes unbuttoned and awry, and his eyes held an unfocused, crazed stare.

"The great magician Tarn Shiel," he addressed me sarcastically. "I hoped that I would have a visitor tonight, although I would prefer one easier to terrify. Maybe some small children, they sometimes enter the haunted house on a dare; I send them scurrying home. I find it difficult to grasp them firmly, if I could I would do worse." He halted, raised his nose and sniffed. "Do you smell the dead? They want out for a real massacre."

"It will not happen; the barriers between the worlds are secure; there will be no Armageddon. Your sad fantasies of blood will remain unfulfilled." The specter of one of Wineburgh's victims appeared on the floor a few feet before him: her face drained from poisoning, her eyes a deep unnatural blue. Wineburgh had been a 19th century pharmacist who kidnapped and experimented on his victims. He injected dye into their eyes to turn their pupils different colors, and slowly poisoned them to study the onset of death. He subjected his victims to enormous doses of opium and interrogated them about their hallucinations as they writhed. When he died twenty bodies were found buried in his basement.

His fear of the afterlife was so intense that his specter remained here in the old house for a hundred years. Most ghosts slowly fade, but Wineburgh's will and power was as intense as ever. He had even hurled the last tenant from the second floor a decade ago. Wineburgh intended to maintain this house as his private hell -- a solipsistic expression of his mind and will.

"The way between the worlds is easier on this night, and I could guide you to your final rest, if you will accept your severing from this place," I offered.

Wineburgh laughed: corpses appeared in the room all around him; he enjoyed gloating. "Rest does not await me in the afterworld."

"Your will is not infinite and absolute. Eventually you will have to cross over."

"Perhaps, but not for a long time, I do not need a sorcerer and a halfbreed demon to lead me to my rest. You have far more important things to worry about tonight than me." He gnawed on the bone for effect until I grew impatient and turned to leave. "Hell is abroad tonight," he announced. "The wall has been breached."

"What do you mean?"

"Follow your nose: blood has been spilled; one is dead already and many more will follow. Touch me and I will show you."

"I tire of your games."

"No games. Come I will give you a sending and you will not have to cast a spell."

I grasped his hand and felt the near solidity of the protoplasm Wineburgh had shaped into his body.

Wineburgh smirked as the sending poured images and senses through my consciousness. Something dark pierced the barrier and roared as it entered our world; a novice had called forth a powerful presence from Hell. Blood soaked a wall as cries of agony reverberated through a home. I saw the inside of a room with black candles and symbols of power painted on the floor; one man writhed on the carpet as his body mutated, lumps protruding from his head.

Then a flash shot through my mind, and my body convulsed. I saw again the room of rags and bottles and Wineburgh's gloating face.

"See, there's something evil afoot," he laughed. "If I had not told you, you might never have known. The killing would have occurred without your intervention."

"Is this some type of sick game?"

He ignored my question. "Now your conscience requires you to try to stop whatever is loose. Isn't that right? It could kill quite a few people if not caught soon. It will do Hell's bidding, and you have chosen humanity."

"Is it a demon, which one is it?"

He did not answer. He dissolved himself into blood stains while the walls dripped blue dye. The instruments of his trade -- chemicals, syringes, scalpels -- appeared on a laboratory table.

When I left the house the direction of the manifestation was obvious; I could feel the power just north. I half ran several blocks while the damned pressed ever closer, for they detected that the barrier had been breached and flowed towards it like animals seeking blood. I tried to decipher Wineburgh's plot. He would just as soon see me dead of course. On a number of occasions, I tried to banish him, his worse fear, but he was too strongly tied to this world and the house. Wineburgh was a menace. If he told me of a manifestation, it was not to my benefit. I found the source, a suburban house with a dying lawn, no different than the other brick structures on its block. But it reeked of hell: the stench of decay, brimstone and burnt flesh smothered me from the moment I opened the front door. A corpse lay at my feet, a college kid with a pointed beard and wide staring eyes, his chest ripped open, exposing his missing heart.

I followed the trail of sweet reeking blood from the front hallway into the den, entering the room I recognized from Wineburgh's sending: with black candles scattered about the floor; an overturned alter burst asunder in one corner; and a dead goat sprawled in a tangle of limbs. A living man kneeled in the middle of the floor with his eyes closed and his body rigid.

He was not a threat, but there was power in the house. Like the corpse, the young man was college age, no more than 20. I strode over to him and slapped him hard across the face.

He opened his eyes wide and screamed frantically, looking from side to side. "Is it still here?"

I squatted before him and said: "Tell me what happened."

" Who are you. . . man, you've got to get out of here."

"Explain to me what happened, slowly and carefully," I ordered, commanding with my eyes.

"We preformed this magic ritual . . . I thought it might work but I didn't know . . . it killed Harry." his eyes were blank; he was half in shock, barely responding to my questions.

"What magic ritual?"

"We found it in that book." I picked up the rotting, mildewed book on the floor, Liber Malifici, and flipped through it slowly -- its pages handwritten in human blood. The spells and rituals were authentic: this was the notebook of a sorcerer -- not a bogus mass paperback, or even the coded books the initiated sometimes write. This was a book of power; the sort of language that an adept would not casually bestow.

"Where did you obtain this, boy," I said, angry -- the unitiated should not have this language.

"We heard that the abandoned house on Monument Street was haunted, so we went in and looked around . . on a lark . . . and found that book." He cradled his face in his hands. "We've been playing with magic for months; it's never worked like this."

"You never actually used real magic before; power is for those who know how to control it." My face darkened as I flipped through the book; it was all black magic: signs and ceremonies to evoke demons, with their signs and their attributes. Wineburgh left it for these kids to find. The book was poisonous and old, eaten away with patches of mold, yellowing and crumbling at the edges. It was probably Wineburgh's notebook. Anger poured into me. No adept should give novices such a book. I would make Wineburgh pay for this: both for the needless loss of life and for betraying the secrets of the arcana.

"Wagner -- he always came up with the ideas and organized things," the boy said.

"Wagner -- there's a third person?"

He cried and cradled his head. "That thing took his body, possessed him and went to the basement. It even changed the way he looked."

"You'd better go, get as far away as you can."

"I cannot," he said and glanced behind him.

A tube or membrane of flesh, a foot in diameter, grew into the boy's back, winding its way up from the basement through ripped floorboards. Its scaly skin trembled and convulsed as it pumped a blue, viscous fluid into his body. I ripped away his shirt: his entire back was covered with scales and membranous growths. Fist sized ulcers hung from his back like loose skin. Hell prepared his body to be a receptacle for a demon.

Glancing around the room I saw the sacrificial knife that killed the goat. As I hacked through the soft membrane, the rotting slimy fluid poured onto the floor and the boy collapsed, convulsing.

That gave him some chance of surviving, although he would probably die of shock. But there are worse fates than dying -- as he would have found out shortly. At worse, he would find a merciful death.

After sliding the knife into my boot, I walked to the basement door to meet whatever lay downstairs, hoping that the power I sensed was not a major demon. When I opened the basement door, a heat struck me as hard as a humid wind descending onto a jungle. A throat surrounded the stairs, a pulsating tunnel of red flesh trailing to the floor. Dark veins as large as my fingers crisscrossed it. I stood on the threshold watching its undulating surface. From the basement echoed the sound of hammering or pounding. I moved down the slippery living substance and braced myself against walls covered by salvia. A warm breath brushed against my body and the sounds of pounding increased, alongside the groaning of many voices.

When I reached the end of the tunnel, I halted in shock. The entire basement had been transformed into a bizarre combination of machine and biology. The walls were a living tissue of colors: blacks, vermilion, azure, blues, purples, each section a different being: some covered with eyes or hands, or reaching arms or mouths that greedily sucked in oxygen. The floor was covered with fleshtubes pumping nutrients into the walls and machinery. Bones had been carved into ornamented ivory ridges and rough arches which extended far above my head.

There was a tremendous machine the size of a furnace, but wholly constructed of compressed glistening red meat, with arms serving as moving pistons. I suspected that this machine pumped the fluid from the small hole in the wall from whence all the tubes and wires progressed. The hole itself -- a round 4 foot aperture -- led directly to hell; it was the breach in the barrier.

This was the most extensive look I had ever obtained of hell and its attendant madness. I touched a black chain that dangled alongside me, its skin warm and dripping like a tough fibery plant in a tropical rainforest. The room extended much further than it really could have: the angles and length stretched beneath several houses. A figure stood at the room's end working at a heavily draped table with tubes and glasses.

I could not approach the figure or flee; I was awed at the unearthliness, the cosmic sublimity of the room. A soaring monstrousness surrounded me on every side, a sweeping cluttered vista, a combination of the exalted and the depraved. The arrangement of the walls' colors exhibited a strange beauty; I forced myself to look away from them when I realized that their sparkling nearly hypnotized me, the more I stared the more jeweled and multifaceted they became.

Everything in the space dripped: sweating or spitting or spewing fluid. I groped through a forest of tangled tubes and lines, all grown not built, with water pouring in rivulets around me. One half man, half machine crushed bones into powder, its fists grown together and engorged by a rigid membrane. Reverberating like jackhammers, the fists pounded against the ground in a rapid blur, cracking and pulverizing bones, then brushing them away for more. His face was horribly tortured, his eyes glaring straight ahead in shock; his lips ripped away and peeled back by chains extended to the ceiling and tipped by fishhook barbs. The tortured lips revealed teeth chattering audibly like cracking nuts.

"You view the greatest alchemist in France," the distant figure informed me. "I taught him how to turn lead into gold, water into wine and women into lustful companions. Alas, the Crusher is now being punished for his sins." He motioned me to him. "Ah, do come all the way in. I wish to offer you my hospitality."

It was not yet clear which demon I faced, but I had clearly stumbled into more than I had bargained for. I cautiously walked to his table, controlling any expression of fear.

Demons cannot materialize without taking a body, and he had assumed the body of Wagner, the third of the college kids. There was not much left that was recognizably human. The skin had peeled away and was replaced by a rough moth-brown coating. At places an armor grew, a layer of exoskeleton surmounted by spikes thrust from his neck and chest. Lines of the fleshtubes vigorously pumped into his body, trailing into hell's hole like umbilical cords. If he needs that type of aid to materialize on earth, then he is not a major demon, I thought. It could be worse.

He noticed my glance. "As you can see I am reshaping this body for my needs, it grows and expands with my laboratory."

"Who are you," I demanded, casting a questioning charm.

He brushed away the hex with a wave of clawed fingers. "If I told you such it would take away the challenge of discovery. Let us test your skill; you are an adept -- name me. I know that you are Tarn Shiel, the wizard."

So he knew my name, that made it clear that this affair was Wineburgh's plot. There was no other way that this demon could know me; they were not omniscient, although they pretended to be. I examined the table before him carefully, which was laden with test tubes, cauldrons and alembics. In one aquarium sized container a severed human head floated. With one scaled and clawed hand he poured a gleaming solution into the water, which began frantically bubbling. The face melted and then reconstituted itself as a malleable block, bone, skin and muscle reforming into a pale white lump. "As you can see meat can be reshaped into any form and put to many uses."

The alchemical apparatus made his identity clear to me. "You are Tirmagel, demon of chemistry and alchemy," a member of the lower hierarchies and an obvious mentor for Wineburgh, I added mentally.

"Good my little man, but all that proves is that you have memorized your lists of demons. You know not my true name nor the names of power that work on me." "

What do you wish, demon?"

"Just the opportunity to develop my art. You do not know how long I have desired to leave hell, and I have not had an opportunity so superb in centuries. My immediate ambitions are small: to stake myself out here and follow my experiments. I have found manifold ways to reshape, reform and warp flesh. My fellow demons take magic in esoteric and metaphysical directions, when our true direction should be the study of the living substance of creation, so we can reshape it for our needs and pervert it from the plans of the enemy. Flesh can become an art if you know how to control it; this room is my sculpture. Is it not beautiful?"

"This level of pain and suffering cannot be beautiful."

"Listen to my symphony." He raised his arms in the air and a wail echoed from every corner of the room: in some cases screams, in others moans of despair, in others groans from pain that had lasted so long that screaming had become redundant. All of it combined into a unified, unbearable agony. It ceased when he lowered his arms and announced: "I am Hell's Michangelo; when I accumulate enough bodies this room will be a finished cathedral. You can help -- in fact if you wish to leave this room, you will help. Otherwise you will become an ornament on the west wall, your face leering forth from the skin of agony."

"Help you -- why would I want to do that?"

"You are an adept -- a seeker after knowledge. I can give you more than you can imagine. You can finally join your own kind, half-breed. Does it not bother you that you are a traitor to your own? Look at the walls."

Symbols began frantically covering the walls as if etched by an invisible hand. A shifting chaos of symbols -- a library of magic writhed on the walls, every inch a grimoire. Medallions of flesh raised themselves, and were rapidly covered by symbols, the open hand of power, the hieroglyphs of Egypt, traces of hourglasses, and the secret signs of the Archdemons.

I thought of all I could learn from those walls, the answer to puzzles I had studied for decades. I could observe the secret rituals and powers of demons, I could, as he pointed out, join my own kind, enjoy the heritage of knowledge bequeathed to me from my ancestry. In those walls lay the characters and seals of demons, with their forms of evocation and dismissal.

"You are more like your heritage than you wish to admit. You chose humanity, but you also live the life of an adept, fascinated by the black arts and the hell you repudiated. Accept what is inside you and ask me for something," he suggested, his voice smooth. "There must be something that you want written on those walls; they contain hell's library. One piece of knowledge or a spell, I give you that as a boon."

The cathedral's hate and agony beat into my brain and blood. The side of myself that I tried to control came pouring forth. "I want Wineburgh; I want to send him to hell."

"Ah, hate, and desire for blood, good, although Wineburgh has been a loyal servant, who usefully prepared the way for my return. He planted the book and suggestions into the fool's head whose body I possess."

"Wineburgh is part of the price for my service." Whatever this encounter would cost me I wanted to make certain Wineburgh suffered as well. I wanted to destroy him as badly as he sought to destroy me.

"Very well, a magician such as yourself is more valuable than he, and if you banish him to hell I gain a soul. Many feel that he has avoided his damnation for too long. Read the spell off the wall."

The flesh wrote on itself Wineburgh's doom, which I memorized.

"Now, bring me bodies. You can begin with the bodies upstairs, but then I will need fresh ones. " He halted for a moment. "No, first, show your new loyalty by kneeling before the hole and praying to hell."

I walked to the portal, my mind a maelstrom; this was the choice I had rejected long ago. It would be unwise to tie myself to a demon that threw away his loyal servant so quickly. I remembered intimately my first taste of hell. I was in my early 20s and had been raised in a foster home. I did not know my father was an incubus. When I came of age, a demon appeared before me and gave me a choice between the powers of hell or the limits of mortal life. For days of bemusing horror, he showed me what I was and the powers and benefits I could enjoy through an alliance with hell. In the end I chose humanity: I could not abide the suffering that created hell's powers. But my brief view of the infernal regions gave me a fascination with the arcane arts, which I have spent my life studying. In a sense I have tried to live both lives: achieving the power of an adept while avoiding the service of hell. Now I felt trapped, I did not want an alliance with this demon, but a direct attack on him was unwise.

I stared into the long tunnel, which opened into an fathomless abyss, where nothing could be seen, not even an inch ahead. There was no sound from that void other than -- faintly -- the all-encompassing wail of the damned. A hot wind exhaled from the portal as if from an animal's mouth, reminding me of an incantation I once learned. I remembered from Wolfe's Demonlogie: "If ye repeat this incantation while next to a hole to hell ye may create a burning wind to torture your enemies." Pretending to obeisate myself, I repeated the chant, fixing my mind on the burning wind. Concentrating was difficult, for I faltered as I imagined the pain I would suffer if I failed, the eternal torture wrenching my body and soul. I pulled myself together and used the supernaturalism that surrounded me to focus my will. I finished the incantation -- my heart palpating and my pulse pounding -- and stood, pointing to Tirmagel.

A vortex of flame and wind tore from the tunnel and lifted the demon into the air, dragging him across the far wall. He tried to stand, but the funnel of force and flame battered his body, curving in mid-air and blistering his skin. Now that he had adopted a physical form, he could feel pain, his exoskeleton had not grown over enough of the body to protect him. He howled as the flame and wind burned him, the reek of his burning flesh reaching my nose. The damned trapped in the walls and floor screamed with him until the sound deafened. I needed to finish this battle. I could not allow myself to flee from this place of madness as I desired. He would find me as long as he remained on earth. I removed the sacrificial knife from my boot and hacked at his fleshtubes, desperately hoping that the flames would last until I severed them. I worked frantically, my heart pounding and sweat pouring down my hands, the tubes slipping in my grasp. Sawing at the resilient membranes, I heard the lfames roar and die before I looked over my shoulder.

Tirmagel stood enraged, his chest a red and black mass of burnt flesh and exposed gore. "You will pay for that half breed; I will turn you into a wall so that your suffering will last for centuries; every cell in your body will agonize individually."

He realized then that I had sliced through the last of the fleshtubes. "No, he said, "this body is not ready for independence; the preparations are not complete. Even my room and walls will die. My exquisite monument to suffering, all sunk to ruin and dust, my sublime art." He slumped against the wall, pieces of his body falling away in nauseous chunks. The rapid deterioration reminded me of fast motion from a film, his skin and muscle crumbled frantically until his skull gleamed. I watched his vocal cords convulse as he spoke carefully with stringent self-control. "You know that hell never forgets; her memory is endless. You have moved from being an apostate to an enemy."

"I welcome it," I said, as he "died," returning to his home. The room would soon be reabsorbed into hell, for she takes care of her own.

When I entered the house, Wineburgh sat in the corner, his eyes dreamy and staring into the past. I knew what he was doing: reliving the days when he tortured and killed, his mind focused on his moments of glory. He smiled at me maliciously. "You're alive, how impressive. Did you become his body snatcher to save your miserable hide?"

I was too angry to speak; I recited the formula Tirmagel had given me and vortices of force formed around Wineburgh. So much waste, I thought, a man who even in death sought to destroy others, a motiveless malignancy. "No," he said, genuine fear in his voice. "I am not ready, you can not send me away before I am ready. I have cheated hell of my soul for too long; do you know what they will do to me?" Then Tirmagel's spell shifted his body to a swirl of protoplasm which seeped away through the cracks in the wall. He was gone now, and the haunted house on Monument street was unteneted. For a man who cheated death and robbed the living of their life it was only just -- no more deaths to gratify his ego, no more destruction. I felt satisfaction flow through my body, a madman in life and death fell to his punishment. My need for blood as satisfied as his, I felt truly comfortable for the first time on the night of souls. Pleasure soaked my mouth, as electric and sweet as blood. I glanced at Wineburgh's book, which I clutched, intending to study it to expand my knowledge of arcana. Lust and excitement pumped through my body. I wondered if I had stepped closer to hell in defeating it.