Page 49 of Metatron
Like literally. A dozen cyclops piled atop him, and I guess even his magic couldn’t fight off that many. Although he tried. Not all the guards survived the pile-on. But enough did to wear out the prince.
By the time Astaroth emerged from the pile, dusty and bruised, I expected him to have lost his cocky attitude. Wrong. Rather than be contrite, he got pissed.
“How dare you lay hands on me!” he yelled. “I am Prince Astaroth. I demand to speak with Lord Satan.”
Rather than reply, they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him. Someone was in trouble, and I did not want to be associated.
I inched back toward the tunnel, only to be blocked. A glance over my shoulder showed the original doorman caked in gore. His one eye stared at me unblinking.
I sighed. Guess I wouldn’t be sneaking away. “Where to, big guy?”
He kept staring. and I headed in the same direction the others had taken Astaroth. The area where he’d been tackled appeared to be a vestibule of some kind, with a first set of doors leading straight to a second set farther in. The difference once I stepped past that second entrance proved startling.
While my initial impression of Hell had it dirty and unkempt, the place grew nicer the deeper we went. No more nasty smells, unless you hated sweet and also spicy incense. Stone all around, not only smooth but intricately carved. A bunch of halls connecting rooms that had a medieval-vampire style to them. Vivid tapestries on walls, hanging candelabra, red velvet-covered cushions on gilded furniture. Some rooms contained people—aliens—in them. Many obviously female with their mammary glands clearly visible, oozing sex.
Some humanish like me. Others definitely alien, like the reptile lady with four boobs linked by a gold chain clamped to each nipple. Or the bird with a human face and a bared upper body with two very regular-looking tits, but a bottom half that of a chicken—the legendary harpy perhaps? A few I couldn’t tell their sex, given their amorphic shape, but one definitely gave off a fuck-me vibe, given the tingle that went through me when I walked by and got a sniff of their perfume.
Our destination proved easy to discern given the massive ornate doors at the far end of the last chamber we passed through. The guards dragging Astaroth didn’t knock or announce our arrival, and yet the portal swung open granting us entry. I followed along and stepped into a throne room, but of the kind never seen on Earth.
Here I could see where the legends of Hell originated. The room appeared carved into stone, at least three stories high and the width of at least a football field. Pools of bubbling lava made it hot, and sweat instantly sheened my body. Yet I remained cold, probably because of the torture happening. A spinning rack had someone slowly roasting over a bright orange pit. Another held someone getting flogged. Everywhere I looked, pain and suffering.
My breathing quickened as I began to grasp my fate. Maybe I could arrange to die quick. I could dash for a lava pit. If I dove in head-first it would only hurt for a second. Barring that, I could attempt to hurt Satan. That would probably get me a quick execution—or would that backfire into a slow torture?
As the prodding at my back kept me moving forward, I did my best to avoid looking at the throne we headed for and the figure slumped atop it. Astaroth had stopped screeching and fighting, choosing to walk unaided, head held high as if he’d not just been humiliated. I kept my eyes on the ground, having noticed cracks from which steam escaped. Burning my feet might seem small in the grand scheme, but avoiding it felt like I did something, at least.
As we paused at the bottom step, a rattle of chains drew my gaze and then a gasp of surprise. Suspended in a cage to the left of the throne, an angel with wings tucked tight in the confines of her prison, and a HALO glowing on her head. She wore a rag that might once have been a burlap sack, but its bulky shape couldn’t hide the boobs, making her the first female one I’d seen, and an anomaly since I’d been informed only the males had wings. She gripped the bars and eyed me without saying a word.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” The deep voice drew my attention to the throne and what sat upon it. The devil himself.
The images in the Bible hadn’t been far off, apparently. Skin a deep burgundy, big, muscled, thick, and tall, he lounged in his seat, smoke huffing from his nostrils, rising to curl around his impressively large horns. Massive leathery wings jutted over his shoulders. No hoofs, though. He wore big black boots up to under the knee, with leather pants tucked into the tops of them. His shirt, silky and dark, opened to show his chest. His eyes? Glowed like the molten pits in this room.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. I was in so much trouble.
Astaroth stepped away from his kneeling handlers and faced Satan, once more looking cocky. “At last I’ve returned to Hell where I belong, and with a present.”
Satan stared at him long and hard.
To his credit, Astaroth didn’t immediately fidget. When he couldn’t hold the gaze, he turned to me and swept a hand. “This is—”
“Kneel.” Just a single word.
The interrupted Astaroth blinked. “What?”
“When you come before me, you kneel.”
“I—” Once more he never finished, as Satan flicked a finger and the demon prince’s legs buckled.
Before the same happened to me, I hit the ground. Submitting? Fuck yeah. No point in pissing him off right away.
Astaroth didn’t take the rebuke well. His face turned red with embarrassment, or was it anger? A mix of both? He rose with his fists clenched. “I kneel for no one anymore. You’re not the only one with power.” And then the idiot lifted his hand and squeezed it as if he could telekinetically choke the devil.
A devil who looked at him with boredom.
Strain pulled at Astaroth’s features as he tried to force his magic to work.
It didn’t.
Satan leaned forward. “Did you really think you’d be stronger than me?”