Neil Davies
Artwork by Bob Veon

Liquid fire dripped from the walls of the inner sanctum in viscous drops that rolled and spread but did not burn the black flooring. Tongues of flame flicked at the ceiling but no smoke billowed from the conflagration. A smokeless, eternal fire that lined the way to the throne room, that boiled the blood of those who stepped too close, but did not scorch the flesh.

Satan sat on the ornate throne, his foot tapping impatiently, his fingers drumming on the carved head of a demon. He scratched at the small horns that broke the skin of his forehead.

Hargot, one of his many advisors, was approaching between the walls of fire.

“Well?” Satan did not wait until the advisor had stopped walking.

Hargot hesitated, knowing his master would not like the news.

“They would not listen, Lord Satan.”

Satan closed his eyes and sighed. This was not meant to happen to him. Trusted with one of the most important realities of the metaphysical universe he was meant to be feared, reviled and, most importantly, obeyed!

Hargot cleared his throat, waited for a moment for his master to respond and then, seeing Satan close his eyes, continued.

“If their demands are not met in full, as of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell will be on strike.”

…

Baphomet gazed across the gathered assembly of demons, astrals and entities. Most were significantly less human than he was in form and manner. He, indeed, had been human once, long ago, although he had been called a name he could no longer remember. His face was grim, determined, but there was a smile behind his dark, mesmeric eyes. These creatures before him, the Stokers of Hell, were his! The power they represented was his!

Even the Lord Satan would have to bow before their combined might.

“What news, Brother Baphomet?”

He searched out the caller, a particularly slimy, blue-headed demon whose name was unknown to him. Nevertheless he nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement as if they were the best of friends.

“Nothing yet Brother. The slave Hargot has been given our ultimatum and ordered to take it to Lord Satan himself. Now we wait.”

“But what if the Legions are sent against us?”

The speaker this time was a small, feeble looking astral, barely managing to maintain a solid form in its nervousness.

“Not even Satan would dare that. It would lead to civil war in Hell!”

There was grumbling among the crowd. He knew there were many who feared a violent response. Even he feared the Legions. Only a fool didn’t. But he truly believed that Satan would have to acquiesce eventually, without violence, without forcing the workforce back to the boilers. They were strong, they were powerful. They just needed to believe in themselves.

He was still composing a rallying cry when he saw Hargot approaching, striding between the boilers, unconcerned as steam that would strip the skin off a living human swirled around his limbs, his face. Hargot had worked the boilers for three centuries before his current promotion. Neither they, nor the Stokers who ran them, held any fear for him.

But Baphomet made him uneasy. Baphomet had been in Hell for less than three centuries and yet had somehow raised himself above the others, had proclaimed himself their leader. He was not the first to try, but he was the first to succeed.

“Welcome slave Hargot. What news?”

The ‘slave’ reference pissed him off, as did the grand, archaic way of speaking. He struggled to retain his composure as he faced this… human!

“Our Lord Satan demands your presence immediately, Baphomet.”

He stood at least three feet taller than the human before him, yet he could not shake the impression that he was looking up at the other.

Baphomet smiled, wiped a film of sweat from his shaven head and stepped towards the advisor.

“With pleasure.”

…

Satan waited impatiently. Hargot and the human troublemaker Baphomet were approaching.

Satan had deliberately moved the walls closer together, giving even less of a path between the running, dripping flames. It now irritated him to see Baphomet showing no more discomfort than Hargot. He had expected some sign of pain, of burning, from this troublesome human.

He had to admit to a slight and annoying respect for this display of physical and mental control.

Nevertheless, he fashioned his best frown and his most ferocious grin, allowing his sharp incisors to pierce his bottom lip and dribble blood down his chin. It was a bit theatrical, but he felt this man would appreciate it. It seemed his style.

“Lord Satan.” Hargot was the first to speak as they arrived before the throne. “This is the man Baphomet. The leader of the unrest among the Stokers.”

Baphomet nodded his head in the briefest of bows. Arrogance all but shone from his being. If he was nervous, he showed no sign of it.

“Lord Satan, I trust your slave here has passed on our demands? I’m sure you’ll agree they are reasonable.”

Satan saw Hargot stiffen at the word ‘slave’. He had to admit to a growing liking for this human. He reminded him of himself as a young demon. Nevertheless, he had a job to do and a reality to run.

“I do not agree that they are reasonable! Your request for shorter shifts I could maybe give some thought to, but the increase in pay… do you have any idea how difficult it is to find virgins these days? The demand is increasing while the supply has fallen drastically.”

He leaned forward, fixing the human’s eyes with his most intense, malevolent stare.

“I suggest you and your followers return to work immediately, or suffer the consequences.”

If there was a moment of fear, of doubt, in Baphomet he did not show it. He simply smiled and shook his head almost sadly.

“I regret, Lord Satan, that the only consequence of this meeting will be the rapid cooling and eventual dying of the boilers. As of tomorrow morning the Stokers of Hell are on strike!”

…

The walls no longer dripped with flame. Patches burnt sporadically, fizzed into existence and then died. A bleak and sharply chilled atmosphere had settled over the throne room in the two months since the Stokers’ strike had begun.

Satan sat on his throne, angry, unsure, perhaps even a little confused. He had tried everything, short of capitulation, to bring this strike to a close. True, he had not actually sent the Legions against the strikers, but he had threatened it. He had threatened everything he could think of and yet Baphomet and his followers remained unmoved.

Baphomet!

It didn’t matter how long you kept them here, or what you called them, humans were trouble. He would much rather deal with demons any day.

He sat back and drummed his fingers on the carved demon head. He had run out of ideas, other than to give in. He didn’t know whether he could bring himself to perform that particular humiliation.

Deep in the bowels of Hell the boilers were cold, the fires of Hell flickering out all over the reality. And far above, on the surface of the planet Earth, the next great ice age advanced on humanity.