It's hard to imagine a place more unstable than Baator. Nowhere does space tear so frequently, birthing unnatural portals, as within its bounds.
The first rule for any adventurer: Stay away. Period. Otherwise, through your own recklessness, you might doom loved ones left "up top" to eternal torment, get acquainted with demonic claws and teeth, or find yourself trapped by succubi. But the true nightmare begins at the gates: physical and psychological abuse, soul-crushing bureaucracy, being devoured alive, torture, bestial cruelty, boiling blood, sundry diseases, and rotting flesh – these are the gifts the inhabitants of this place bestow. And heaven forbid you cross paths with the Lords of the Nine Circles.
The Archduke of the First Circle, Charon, might inspire dread with his appearance, but in reality, his danger to the multiverse's denizens lies only in his utter neutrality – expecting his help would be a terrible idea. Since time immemorial, he has ferried sinful souls across the River Styx, and he cares not a whit for your purpose in coming to Baator. A mission, a pointless impulse, or suicidal tendencies – it's all the same to him. He will simply ferry you across.
On the Second Circle, however, Asmodeus, the Lord of Lust, reigns supreme. He is notorious not only for his lascivious spawn but also for the abundance of poisons, potions, and aphrodisiacs that emerge from his personal laboratory. Striking a bargain with him is difficult under any circumstances, especially if you catch him mid-quarrel with Naamah – his self-proclaimed consort.
You'd be unlikely to catch a glimpse of Mammon, Archduke of the Third Circle, let alone his palace. Far more likely, you'd be met by a colossal three-headed hound and fangs of equally terrifying proportions. Rest assured – if it deems you a threat, or if Mammon so desires, nothing beyond the reach of those sharp teeth will remember you ever existed.
But if you were "lucky" enough to reach the Fourth Circle, under no circumstances ascend the obsidian mountain. Otherwise, you might find yourself in the very Coliseum of Fierna and her consort, Belial. You'd be tossed into the arena as target practice, given the faintest hope of leaving alive, and your struggles for freedom would merely amuse the Archdevils before your eyes closed forever.
As for the Fifth Circle? Don't be fooled by its apparent desolation. Abaddon won't hide if an uninvited guest trespasses on his domain. He might seem calm, even a bit drowsy, but fail to negotiate your passage, and you'll find yourself in the cesspit alongside the sinful souls before you could even blink.
The Sixth Circle, after all you've endured, might seem an oasis of calm – but you'd soon discover the capricious cruelty of its Lord, Mephistopheles. Devious and volatile, he's quite capable of toying with you, forcing you to wander endlessly through the city's labyrinthine streets and unravel countless riddles until you go mad, only to find yourself cornered in a dead end with infernal hounds snarling at your back.
Nor would you catch your breath on the Seventh Circle. Its Lord, Raphael, Mephistopheles' own son, wouldn't waste words before deciding to study you and your mind, conduct a few experiments, or even surgeries – and that's the best outcome, if he finds you interesting. If not, his consort, Flauros, would take charge, turning your predicament into a full-blown hunt.
The Eighth Circle, however, offers some seclusion. Provided, of course, you haven't come with ill intent. Otherwise, Lady Zariel wouldn't bat an eye before shredding you to pieces with her steam-powered machines.
Of course, everything written above pertains only to the Lords. But remember, an encounter with Baator's inhabitants, or even the harsh realities of the Circles themselves, would be no less unpleasant.
But those are mortal problems. Beings of a higher order see this plane quite differently. To some, it's a source of valuable allies; to others, a troublesome hindrance on the edge of creation; and some forget its very existence until necessity forces them to remember.
Shifting from talk of "mortal problems," let's turn to Corellon Larethian, stepping casually between the Circles. The God of War, and also the Progenitor of all elves, had descended here for one purpose only: to seek aid from an old acquaintance. Unfortunately for all, it's impossible to travel directly to the desired Circle – one must pass through each in sequence, and even gods cannot circumvent this rule. While it might seem like a defense against visitors from other planes, in truth, it protects the Lords from each other. Their endless wars forced them to agree that the ability to appear with entire legions on a rival's Circle only fueled more conflict – over power, territory, or simply out of boredom.
Though the elf could have walked the stone road winding through the Second Circle, he had no desire to traverse the city of succubi, tenderly named Provance, nor to endure the searing heat near the path of fire tornadoes that twisted sinful souls within their vortexes with an ear-searing roar. So, the moment he crossed the boundary between the First and Second Circles, he willed himself to appear at the border between the Second and Third. A bright flash of light illuminated the surrounding sand for a mere second, vanishing as soon as space swallowed him, leaving the city behind. The man seemed entirely unfazed by the translocation, not even raising an eyebrow, and was about to step forward towards the invisible barrier between Circles.
"Ahem?"
An inquisitive cough sounded unexpectedly behind him. The elf lowered his slightly raised foot, but only to turn around. As he expected, Asmodeus himself was gazing at him with puzzlement, intrigued by the presence of the Elven Progenitor on his lands. Evidently, sensing his arrival on the Circle, the Lord of Lust had hastened personally to meet the uninvited visitor, not even bothering to change out of his "home attire." Only loose, semi-transparent trousers covered his hips, while satin ribbons, matching the color of the demon's red, twisted horns, cascaded down his perfectly sculpted form. Out of politeness, he had shrunk to a mere two meters, rather than his customary ten. It would be more convenient for conversing with the great god, who increasingly favored modest human dimensions.
"Good day, Asmodeus," the elf offered a polite smile that touched only the corners of his lips and gave a slight bow, awaiting a greeting in return.
"Good day," the Lord replied, his expression tightening slightly as he regarded the luminous figure before him with a touch of bewilderment. The demon lazily rested one palm on an invisible support, planting the other on his hip. "Might I ask to what I owe the pleasure?"
The elf sighed almost inaudibly and swiftly, elegantly raised a hand to shield his face as red sand, whipped up by an approaching fire tornado, swept towards them. Neither man flinched, despite the relatively short distance to the cataclysm and the suffocating, heat-hazed miasma boiling around it.
"I understand my presence might elicit… mixed feelings," the elven god inclined his head slightly, "but I assure you, I am merely hastening to a private meeting with Mephistopheles."
Asmodeus's finely arched eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. The last time these two had spoken, they'd parted not on hostile, but decidedly strained terms. Hearing such a calm statement about an impending meeting was simply unexpected. The elf's face, as ever, was difficult to read regarding his exact intent for this audience. Then again, Mephistopheles himself had said nothing of this arranged visit. Could this meeting be a surprise for Mephistopheles? Was he even expecting to be torn from his library's embrace when informed of an unexpected visitor's arrival?
"How intriguing," Asmodeus mused with a thoughtful snort, shaking his head. A few strands of snow-white hair escaped the rest and fell across his eyes. "In that case, I shan't detain you. I was merely surprised. Baator hasn't seen you in… several million years, I presume? Excluding wars, naturally."
The elf deliberately ignored the demon's ironic tone and bowed again, this time clearly signaling the end of their conversation. Yet, just as he began to straighten from the bow, he suddenly lifted his gaze to meet Asmodeus's.
"Though…" he murmured, his eyes thoughtfully lifting to the red sky, "I do have one small request for you as well."
The demon's expression didn't shift, but surprise flickered through his venom-green eyes. He was already opening his mouth to speak when the elven god continued:
"Are you acquainted with Margott?"
Asmodeus, who had been in reasonably good spirits moments before, instantly soured.
"I do."
Asmodeus visibly flinched. Margott… The first love of his Right Hand, Dispater. How could he forget that vampire who descended into Baator twice and managed to "sip the blood" of the Lord himself?
Margott was, and remained, the first love of Dispater, his secretary. A true vampire who, in his youth and ignorance, had descended into Baator and only made it as far as the Second Circle, searching for an exit. According to Dispater, he'd found him – lost and surrounded by intrigued succubi – right on Provance's central square. Dispater himself, burdened with scrolls, had been rushing precisely to the palace and, in his haste, assumed Margott had arrived for an audience. The truth surfaced a little later, but the vampire never denied that a mistake had occurred.
But the first and only love of Asmodeus was, and remained, Dispater himself. Hence the Lord of the Circle of Lust's face soured the instant he heard the name of his Right Hand's former lover. However, another question instantly piqued his interest: how did the elven god know anything about their… association with a vampire? Did the Supreme Pantheon even care about the passions stirring below?
But the elf answered the question himself.
"I don't know how swiftly news travels," the god began, unable to suppress a slightly broader smile than usual at his next words, while Asmodeus's eyebrows shot up once more, "but I shall say it nonetheless: I have taken a mortal wife." He paused. "And she has told me of the problems her father faces due to an… interest from days long past. He's been married for six hundred years, yet he still cannot descend to the Second Circle, despite the necessity of his 'duty'."
Watching the Lord's stony face, the elf suddenly emerged from his beatific state and frowned slightly. He raised his right hand, emphasizing the importance of his next words.
"I am not asking you to ensure my newfound family encounters no problems should the need arise to appear within your Circle. However," his gaze sharpened, "I would ask for your word that your subordinates will not become an obstacle to this, Asmodeus."
The usually composed demon's expression twisted slightly. Though, truth be told, it was likely more from his inherent distaste for conditions set by third parties. Had it been Mephistopheles standing there, he'd have told him to fuck off ages ago and quietly fulfilled the request anyway. But with the Progenitor of Elves, there was no such camaraderie; fulfilling his whims felt almost a matter of principle to refuse. But that was just the first impulse. The second brought a spark of vindictive glee. Right here, right now, Asmodeus could shatter his secretary's fragile hope that six hundred years was but a blink compared to three thousand. Done. Point of no return. The Elven God had married a mortal who, by some unforeseen twist, turned out to be the daughter of his runaway vampire. Finita la commedia.
"You understand," Asmodeus finally retorted, opting for defense, flashing a brazen grin obviously meant to irritate the elf, "I have matters far more pressing than monitoring where my subordinates stick their noses during off-hours."
Unsurprisingly, the elf remained unruffled. He even smiled a little wider.
"Unnecessary, Asmodeus. You wouldn't want a conflict with the Supreme Pantheon over such a trifle."
And with that, the elven god stepped over the invisible barrier and vanished instantly into the dust of the Third Circle.
Left alone, Asmodeus couldn't suppress a smirk. A final thought chased after the elf: Let's hope your new little wife doesn't decide to overthrow you too, you sanctimonious long-eared bastard.
He stood there for several more minutes, leaning on the air itself, invisible and inaudible to all, disturbed only by the roar of approaching and receding tornadoes that posed no threat to the Lord of the Second Circle. He exhaled slowly.
You're an idiot, Asmodeus, he repeated to himself, a familiar mantra, raking a hand through his long, snow-white hair.
***
The Second Circle reigned with its own organic vibrancy. Scarlet facades, sun-drenched silks, azure fountains: everything blazed like a madman's palette. In this, Provance mirrored its Lord, though whispers among the Lords of the Nine suggested, "Asmodeus was denied taste at birth." Consider his notorious court attire: flamboyant pantaloons with puffy legs, a doublet padded at the shoulders and cinched with brocade at the waist. And, of course, the crown – richly adorned yet undeniably garish. Even Belial, who comported himself as if billions of years older than them all since his very appearance, sometimes couldn't stifle a snicker. This never troubled Asmodeus. On the contrary, he relished the palpable discomfort his presence evoked, even though everyone had long grown accustomed to him and his flamboyant antics.
And amidst all this opulence, right in the heart of Provance, rose Dispater's black Iron Tower. This structure stood unique on the entire Circle, second only to the Lord's own palace. And only the Tower's master was permitted such distinction.
In truth, it wasn't made of iron at all, but rather of cold, dark stone. Yet the people dubbed it the Iron Tower by simple logic: where else should the Iron Duke reside, if not in an Iron Tower? Dispater's title, after all, was also bestowed upon him by the people.
Using the tower's dome as his guide, Asmodeus thoughtfully navigated the narrow alleys of Provance. Here, he was met with either fawning bows or playful winks from his very own spawns of passion and lust.
"Master, surely you'll grace us with a visit?" purred a young succubus girl loudly, leaning out of a brothel window, resting her ample bosom on the sill as she awaited the Lord's answer.
"Good day, Master! Allow me to prove myself worthy of a place in your personal harem?" leered a wiry man by the wall, licking his lips, the golden ornaments on his twisted horns jingling.
The clamor rose from all sides, as always. Asmodeus merely smiled, occasionally bestowing a fleeting glance or touch upon someone, which only fueled the frenzy. Everyone craved even a crumb of attention from the Lord known for lavishing affection upon his Circle's inhabitants, and Asmodeus reveled in the adoration of his own creations.
Nevertheless, he had to leave his subjects behind when the road turned sharply towards the tower, hovering menacingly over the chasm. Everyone understood that lingering to pester the Lord of the Second Circle was equally unwise.
Asmodeus, of course, knew the location of the invisible steps leading into the tower; more than that, he could see them. But why bother with the tedious climb? Dispater always planned several steps ahead and harbored a deep-seated fear of ambush. His home was a veritable labyrinth of corridors and halls, accessible only by memorizing the precise sequence of actions required to reach any single chamber. Just one! And there were dozens! Worse still, Dispater periodically updated the rituals and corridor configurations, rendering memorization utterly futile.
Only two rooms were freely accessible: Dispater's private study and the Grand Hall. Visitors weren't permitted to see more.
So, standing at the chasm's edge and collecting himself, Asmodeus snapped his fingers. In the next instant, invisible, he materialized precisely within the library where his secretary was working.
For now, from behind, Asmodeus could only observe the fall of Dispater's long black hair and his rigidly straight back. Despite his legendary wariness, the secretary didn't even sense his Lord's presence. Moving closer, Asmodeus simply stood over his secretary for a moment, quietly unraveling somewhere deep inside. His hands itched to smooth a few stray strands of hair on the other's head, while his face adopted an expression of profoundly flustered confusion.
Dispater worked, his trembling hands resting on his knees. Through sheer magical effort, he guided a quill across the pages of a massive folio, meticulously inscribing reports. This entire mountain would later crash onto Asmodeus's desk—a prospect far from pleasing to the Lord, but for now, he banished the thought, basking solely in the sight of his calmly working secretary.
Every so often, a snap of fingers sounded somewhere beneath the desk, and a wine glass levitated to Dispater's lips. Asmodeus even sidled sideways for a few moments, watching the sharp curve of lips part to meet the crimson liquid, and the subtle bob of an adam's apple.
Perhaps Dispater had felt his gaze, because he stopped working, glanced around sharply, and set the glass down—without his hands ever touching it.
The Lord gazed anew, this time at the way finely sculpted brows furrowed, how a tranquil gaze shifted into one of intense focus. With regret, Asmodeus knew it was time to reveal himself. Soundlessly returning behind his Right Hand, the demon shed his veil of invisibility and laid his palms on the other's sturdy shoulders.
"Guess who."
As was customary, Dispater instantly jerked forward away from the hands, flinching violently.
"Loghrd Asmodeus! Miloghrd! I begged you not to sneak up on me!" the secretary blurted out, indignant, swiveling on his iron stool to face the openly smirking Lord, his shoulders hunching defensively. "Not these pghranks again! In the name of the devil, I'll resign!"
"As if anyone would let you," Asmodeus smirked, taking a deliberate step back from Dispater. He circled him in an arc only to lean his hips against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Speaking of which, you'll never guess who graced our Circle today with a personal request."
The secretary had begun to roll his eyes heavenward, but as the Lord continued speaking, his entire posture instantly shifted to demonstrate rapt attention, even leaning forward slightly.
"None other than the Progenitor of Elves himself dropped by," Asmodeus continued, drawing out the words, savoring the moment, his gaze drifting over the small horns adorning his archduke's head, "just to inform us that he's taken the daughter of that Margott of yours as his wife. Consequently, he desires no conflict should you two ever cross paths."
If Dispater's skin hadn't already been near-alabaster, it now began to take on a distinctly ashen, greyish hue, even catching a faint, sickly reflection from the oil lamps spaced precisely every four meters along the walls.
"And… and what did you tell him, miloghrd?" the demon asked, a thread of hope in his voice as he futilely tried to adjust the leather gloves on his hands. "You surely told him it wasn't in your integhrests?"
Asmodeus's lips twisted as if he might snort, but he thought better of making any sound.
"Why ever not?" he raised one eyebrow and actually perched on the desk, nudging an inkwell aside before crossing his legs. "You see, that's precisely why the request was made to *me* personally: the Supreme Pantheon desires no conflict with us. I had to give it considerable thought before agreeing."
Somewhere, a sound like cracking bone seemed to echo.
Before Asmodeus could fully process it, his secretary had slid from his stool onto the floor and knelt before him.
"Miloghrd!" Dispater's voice rose, thick with desperation. "How could you?! I have served you faithfully for so long, and now you bar my only path to even a shred of happiness! I have served you since almost the veghry fall of Lucifer, and this is my reward?!"
Asmodeus tsked, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
"And I have always valued your service highly. Do you not receive your due compensation? Do you not live in comfort? Had you wished it, you could reside in the palace itself—"
"I am married!" Dispater roared, then instantly deflated, his brows shooting up in a plea. "You yourself arranged the maghrriage! Think of the optics!"
"So what do you propose?" Asmodeus steered the conversation back, his tone cool. "Let me rephrase: what do you want from me? I was merely asked to ensure you cause no trouble should that Margott descend into Baator. It might happen in a year, a decade, a millennium—or never. Even if it were tomorrow, what would you do? Kidnap him?"
Asmodeus watched Dispater, idly swinging one foot, observing how with each word his secretary sank deeper into a pit of panic, even tangling both hands violently in his own hair.
"B-but…" Dispater coughed nervously, "…you aren't obligated to hinder me, are you?"
Asmodeus frowned immediately.
"What precisely do you mean?"
Dispater perked up slightly, tugging at his hair near the roots to steady his trembling hands.
"You could ignite desire! Passion!" he surged forward with sudden hope, scrambling closer on his knees towards his Lord's bare feet. "I have waited so long, but if this is the way things stand, I will ascend from Baator myself! I am ceghrtain the feelings haven't cooled—a mere six hundghred years! All it needs is a little… nudge!"
Asmodeus listened, his face becoming an increasingly impenetrable mask. Only at a certain point did the Lord lean back slightly on the desk, deliberately planting both bare feet firmly on his secretary's shoulders. Dispater reacted instantly, without a second's hesitation, tilting his head sharply upwards to avoid his cheeks brushing the exposed skin.
His secretary bore a curse. Long ago, during a skirmish with an overconfident minor deity, Dispater had been ensnared in a trap. Now, any living being of lesser or intermediate order who touched him directly would be turned forever into an iron statue. Others would merely be encased in a layer of iron until they could shatter their prison—if they could. Asmodeus, for instance, could, but even so, Dispater was always meticulously careful never to accidentally touch his Lord, assuming that being fused to metal would be an unpleasant process. Hence, all clothing worn by the Archduke of the Second Circle covered him completely, ensuring no one could ever reach his skin.
Terrified of causing harm, Dispater even cupped Asmodeus's feet with his gloved hands, shielding him from any accidental contact.
"You're right. I'm not obligated to hinder you," Asmodeus conceded thoughtfully, though the words seemed to grate, pressing his heel down slightly on the other's collarbone through layers of black fabric, forcing the secretary's shoulder to dip. "I'll even help you, provided you furnish me with a detailed plan that precludes kidnapping."
Dispater blossomed into a smile, revealing sharp fangs. Asmodeus, gazing at the fangs that lifted the corners of the lips and the slightly hooked nose, felt a pang of tenderness so acute it was like dying. He sucked in a shaky breath, settled himself more comfortably, and pressed his foot against Dispater's hand, pushing it into the demon's own cheek. "But not for free."
"Of course, miloghrd!" Dispater agreed instantly, bowing his head slightly. His face radiated utter willingness, a sight that wrung a quiet sigh from Asmodeus. Still braced with both feet on the other's shoulders, the Lord leaned closer, clasping his hands between his stomach and his knees.
"Then you will visit the palace to provide the same services as your wife."
Silence hung heavy.
The light slowly drained from Dispater's black eyes.
"Miloghrd," the demon said softly, lowering his face only to then lift a gaze filled with genuine hurt. "I thought you were serious, yet you persist in jesting."
"What jest?" Asmodeus snorted, though the corners of his lips twitched. "You know perfectly well I cannot touch anyone," Dispater sniffed, tightening his grip slightly on the Lord's feet. "And what could you possibly want from me, a mere secretary?"
The Lord arched an eyebrow. "And you think I couldn't devise something?"
Dispater looked up, uncomprehending, shifting unconsciously on his knees. He pursed his lips, thinking briefly before replying, "Milord, do not mock me. It's cruel."
Asmodeus tsked and immediately rose, placing his feet back on the floor. "Well, as you wish. I could have helped you." The Lord of the Second Circle walked slowly towards the door, his steps measured like the ticking of unseen clocks, awaiting Dispater's final decision.
The Iron Duke remained seated on the floor, wrestling with the question: Was he serious? It seemed scarcely believable. Asmodeus often teased him, playing malicious tricks; there was no certainty this wasn't another. But what would he gain? The satisfaction of seeing his reaction when he declared it a joke?
"If… if you are serious, Loghrd Asmodeus," Dispater began uncertainly, turning towards the Lord, "then I agree. I am ready for anything. I shall present you with a complete plan soon."
Asmodeus twisted his face into something resembling a smile and nodded curtly. "I shall await it."
And he vanished.