Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  Then it ended, as it had to. He was surely as regretful as she. Almost, he could believe what he was telling her.

  She stood. "I will see you again," she said.

  "Certainly." He watched her walk back toward the big fish.

  The first vision had played out almost perfectly. Parry was elated. He had taken a giant step toward winning her.

  He conjured himself to Hell. Soon he would organize for the second vision. But first he wanted to rest.

  Nefertiti showed up. "I fear you are lonely, now that Lilah is gone," she said.

  Parry did not have the heart to tell her that his interest in both demonesses and damned souls had diminished. "I thank you for the thought, but you have earned your vacation and I want you to enjoy it to the full."

  "Oh. Thank you. Lord Satan," she said, not entirely pleased at this dismissal.

  When he closed his eyes. Orb was there, her honey hair flowing down about her shoulders, a half-smile on her face and that quaint small harp beside her.

  He sprang the second vision on them when Jonah was swimming over the Pacific at night. The big fish could not handle water, but there was plenty of air above the ocean and the weather was clear, so it was all right. Jonah would give any bad weather a wide berth.

  The vision played upon the party's awareness that a storm would be trouble for Jonah, because he could not escape it by swimming underground. Not while he was far from land. The vision included the human members of the party, but excluded the fish and the succubus, because demons were not subject to dreams and would know it for what it was. In reality, Jonah continued an uneventful swim through the air, but in the vision he encountered an expanding storm that encircled and trapped him.

  The script had the fish sinking down to the surface of the sea, resting on it, unable to enter it. Jonah was helped to adapt by the singing of the group, as they essayed an imperfect rendition of the Song of Awakening.

  Then the heavier element came. Skeletons danced across the surface of the water, approaching the fish. The fish, in the vision, was afraid of them, and tried to paddle away, but was surrounded. One of the dancing skeletons touched a fluke, and that part of the tail of the fish lost its flesh and became skeletal.

  Horrified, perceiving the way of it. Orb did her best to halt the skeletons by singing. This was not enough.

  Then Jezebel, who was not the real one but one of Hell's minions masquerading as her, introduced them to the key: the skeletons were dancing a jig called "The Drunken Sailor's Hornpipe." They did not seem to be distracted when Jezebel tried it, but then Orb tried a dance, the tanana, and danced with the nearest skeleton until it fell apart. She had found a way!

  Parry, watching, was amazed. That dance was the most suggestive thing he had ever seen! How had a nice girl like her learned that? Then he remembered her association with the Gypsies. That was the sort of thing the Gypsies would have taught her. He was glad he had saved them from the holocaust.

  But it was not enough. The script tightened about them. There were too many skeletons, pressing too closely. If Orb responded appropriately . . .

  She did. "Natasha!" she called in desperation.

  Parry made his grand entrance, singing. The skeletons paused, hearing. He joined the party, while the skeletons hesitated, afraid of the power of his song. He was rather proud of the manner he had crafted the bones to evince living emotions.

  Orb was obviously glad to see him. "Can you stop them?"

  "With the Song of Power," he said. "You may know it as the Song of Day." He sang it, and it was another aspect of the Llano, whose sheer power shook the night vision. The melody banished the storm cloud and brought the light of day. The skeletons tried to flee, but the sound caught them and shattered them. The threat had been abated.

  Orb flung her arms around him and kissed him. "You rescued me again!" she cried.

  "It was my pleasure." It certainly was! But the vision was only half done.

  Two figures intercepted Orb the moment she reentered the fish, alone. One was an emulation of Thanatos, and the other of Chronos. They warned her that Natasha could be a demon in disguise, and should be tested. The real Natasha, they explained, was a good man, but if a demon assumed his form . . .

  Orb, concerned, took their warning at face value. She insisted on testing Natasha for demonic origin. He touched a cross and sang a hymn, proving that he was no demon. Of course the proof was a lie, because this was all a vision in which anything could happen, but Orb did not know that. She was chagrined that she had doubted him.

  Natasha walked out in righteous disgust.

  The script had been honored perfectly. Now Orb was convinced of Natasha's validity, and on the defensive because of her prior doubt. She was crying when he left her.

  He had made another giant step. But he hated himself, too. It had required a heroic effort not to stop, to comfort her, to tell her too much. He wished he could have told her the truth, but that would have ruined everything.

  He took her on one more vision trip, an odyssey tour through the tearing pages of alternate realities that concluded at a mockup of the Castle of War, where she encountered animations of her former lover Mym, and of his rescued Princess Ligeia, and of the demoness Lila. Naturally they endorsed Natasha but warned her to beware of Satan's tricks. Then the vision staged another crisis that Natasha came to resolve. Parry, acting firmly on the side of Right, used his song to vanquish those in the Wrong. Then he sang her the Song of Evening, the romantic theme of the Llano, and she was his. He had won her love.

  But Orb had not yet assumed the office of the Incarnation of Nature. He had to wait until that was hers, because it was important that he marry not merely a mortal woman but the Incarnation. That was the liaison that would bring him the power he required to overcome God.

  Then she achieved it, and he asked her to marry him. But he would not let her answer immediately. First he had to tell her the truth. This was where it could all come apart.

  "I am the Incarnation of Evil," he said.

  Appalled, she stared at him.

  He explained it all. Gradually she came to believe it.

  "Get away from me," she said dully.

  He left her. What would she decide?

  The issue was in doubt. Orb was no longer merely a woman, but was Gaea, perhaps the strongest of the Earthly Incarnations. in her rage at his deception she invoked the powers of the Llano, which she had learned with a rapidity and competence he could only envy. Her voice lent it force that he had never been able to evoke himself; that thing was dangerous! Now he truly appreciated how she had come to the office of Nature; she had enormous skill in the required music. But she was still new in office, and playing with a horrendously potent instrument. The mortal realm was rocked by savage affectations of weather-storm, flood, fire, freezing, earthquake-destroying everything. He was afraid she would finally invoke the most devastating aspect of all, and render the cosmos back into complete chaos. It was evident that the love she had developed for Natasha had been banished by her realization of his true nature. Her fury at her betrayal stemmed as much from embarrassment as from the scorning of her love-for he had not scorned it, only deceived it.

  He wished he had not. What had he accomplished except the destruction of the mortal realm and the alienation of the one he least desired to? The one who had the likeness of Jolie, and the voice of rapture.

  But she stopped just short of that, and repented her rage. She asked Chronos to reverse what she had done. He explained that he would have to have the agreement of all the major Incarnations before he acted so significantly.

  All agreed-except Parry. He knew that his victory hinged on this: that Gaea marry him and join her power to his. It was not necessary that she love him, or he her, only that she marry him. Now he had a lever that he would never be able to use again: the fate of the mortal realm hung in the balance. Denied her love, he could still have the victory he had sought. It might be a victory that tasted of ashes, but still could be g
enuine.

  "Will you marry Me?" he asked her again.

  Desperately she looked to her mother, Niobe. "What am I to do?"

  "You now know Satan for whom and what he is," Niobe replied grimly. "Do you love him?"

  Orb struggled with herself, but was helpless. "God help me," she whispered brokenly, "for I do love Satan."

  She what?

  Parry had a role to play, and he played it appropriately, gaining the acquiescence of all the Incarnations to the union. The victory was his!

  But so was Orb's love. It had survived the revelation! That shook him profoundly.

  Chronos raised his Hourglass, its sand turning blue.

  Then Parry was back in Hell, alone. All was undone. But he remembered, as he had when Chronos had changed the holocaust, because he was an Incarnation and a prime mover.

  She loved him.

  And he loved her. That realization smote him with peculiar force. He had never intended to; his profession of love as Natasha had been part of the construct of the lie. He had thought himself immune to true love, subject only to passing fascinations, after the loss of Jolie. He had been mistaken.

  It was, he knew, her voice that had done it. He had not anticipated anything like it; it reached into the secret essence of him, moving him as his own voice had so often moved others. Had the Angel Gabriel anticipated mat, too?

  He realized that his careful snare for possession of Gaea's power had reversed against him. He had promised Niobe never to harm Orb; now he knew that this had assumed more than technical force. He had fallen into the trap of loving a good woman-which meant he could no longer represent Evil. For the two were incompatible on any amicable basis. He would have to try to be worthy of Orb's love, as the true Satan could never be.

  There was only one way to do that.

  He would have to abdicate his Office.

  Chapter 16 TRYST

  Parry scripted the wedding ceremony as carefully as he had the three visions; it was to be a splendid occasion. He set it up in Hell's most elegant chamber, very like a cathedral. There were arches and stained glass, and seats for the major Incarnations, all of whom were invited.

  Having ascertained that Heaven had improved its operations somewhat in recent centuries, he orchestrated a mass release of souls: all those who had earned their salvation but had hesitated to depart the mock-Heaven annex. That should please Orb, and he wanted very much to please her. Those souls were organized into a massive choir; as they sang, they could come to him and be freed in glows of light.

  There was to be an audience, too: all the relatives and friends of the bride, from all her walks of life. These included those who were dead; he had made arrangements with Gabriel for their temporary release from Heaven. The Angel had of course cooperated, knowing what was to occur. The same was true of the other Incarnations, who had caught on. Only Orb herself was innocent, as perhaps was fitting.

  The key to the ceremony was to be two songs: Orb's and his own. The songs were to be the final keys to their love for each other. Orb did not realize how literally true that was to be.

  She sang the Song of Evening, which was also the Completion of Love. It was perhaps the most evocative rendition of such a melody ever performed by a mortal, for not only was she the finest female singer, enhanced by magic; she was truly in love. The entire assembly responded to that feeling, and so did he, reveling in the delight of the free recognition of her love for him, and his love for her. All present knew that there was no way that he could match this presentation.

  But he could. He was the finest male singer, and he had more than just love to express. He sang the one type of song that was forbidden to him: a hymn to God. Never mind that God was not listening, and perhaps was not worthy; the wedding party understood its significance. This was the supreme act of sacrifice: the one way Satan himself could prove himself worthy. As he sang, the choir of undamned souls joined him, and flocked to him, enhancing his music, and were released to Heaven.

  Orb stared at him, gradually realizing that her belief in his falsity was in error; that he truly did love her. He sang directly to her as he concluded. Now all the souls were gone, and his own body was being destroyed by the power he had invoked. He went out, literally, in flame.

  He had sung himself knowingly into his doom. He had given up his existence as an Incarnation, that she might know, at the end, that his love had been true. He would never possess her, and he had lost his challenge to God, but he had done what he had to do.

  He found himself in a kind of Limbo. It was not the outer circle of Hell, but some special region evidently reserved for fallen Incarnations. There were flames, but he was hardly aware of them, for none carried the intensity of the flame of his lost love.

  He was damned, of course; he would never be free of Hell. He had spent more than seven hundred years as the Incarnation of Evil. He had known at the outset that there would be no reprieve. Another person would assume the vacated Office, and perhaps in some future century would need assistance and would bring Parry out to serve. That was all he had to hope for. Yet he did not regret it.

  He had loved twice: once in life, and once as an Incarnation. His demise abolished neither of these loves. His second love had not replaced his first; it had merely joined it. His feeling for Jolie now returned as strongly as it had been in life, without conflicting with his feeling for Orb. He hoped that Jolie could be at last released to Heaven, and that Orb would come to accept his necessary desertion of her at the altar. He hoped, too, that somehow the mortal suffering he had sought to abbreviate would be brought to an end despite his defection. He had been the Master of Evil, and by definition what he had done was wrong; but it had also been right, because of God's dereliction. He felt no shame in being damned for that.

  He hovered indefinitely, alone. This was evidently to be the manner of his punishment: to be conscious and isolated, never to know how things progressed in the mortal and immortal realms. It was a terrible onus-but his love sustained him. No punishment could make him regret what he had done.

  Then someone came. His nebulous prison assumed the form of a cell, and he became a man in chains. Some other mind was shaping his situation.

  It was Orb. She came as the Incarnation of Nature, as Gaea, the Green Mother. Even Hell could not exclude her, when she chose. She was lovely in the fashion only she could be, and assured in a manner he had not observed when he courted her. Background melody surrounded her an aspect of the Llano he had not known of before, that evidently opened the way before her wherever she chose to go. She had come into the authority of her office.

  He was powerless to move or even to speak. This, too, it seemed, was part of his punishment. All he could do was gaze at her. That was enough.

  She approached him and took his hand, wordlessly. Her contact was like tender fire. She lifted his hand and touched the spot of blood on his wrist.

  Now he cried in sudden alarm. But he could neither voice it nor resist.

  Orb took the drop of blood from him and dropped his hand.

  His wrist was bare.

  She departed, and his cell dissolved into the formlessness of its natural state. Only one thing had changed: he no longer had Jolie.

  Why had Orb done it? She could not have harbored any jealousy toward his first love; Jolie was long dead, and he, too, was dead now. Yet perhaps this, too, was right. Jolie could not reside in Hell. Perhaps Orb had freed her for Heaven.

  Abruptly he was in a loud, bright chamber. He did not know how much time had passed; part of the Hell of Limbo was its timelessness. But he recognized this place: it was the main banquet hall, where occasional entertaining was performed. Hell had very little use for such facilities other than as a mechanism to tempt potential converts: mortals with evil inclinations but as yet insufficient evil actions. A little temptation could go a long way to evoke their latent evil and cause it to manifest in ways that clarified their status promptly. Evil had to be proven in a mortal; it could not simply be assumed. P
arry had developed reasonably sophisticated routines to prove it.

  He stood before a fat, middle-aged slob of a man, the refuse of whose repast lay strewn all around. But a subtle kind of grandeur suffused him, too, and Parry recognized it as the stigmatum of immortality. This was the new Incarnation of Evil.

  "Say, now, it worked!" the man exclaimed, wiping a smear of gravy from his mouth. "You're the has-been Satan!"

  Parry nodded. "I am he."

  "Listen, I need to know the spell for controlling demons," the man said. Parry did not answer.

  "Look, schnook, I know you know it! Out with it."

  "It is a thing you must discover for yourself," Parry said. "You had it pretty easy these last three weeks. I can put you in some real fires, really toast your toes, know what I mean? But I'll let you off easy if you tell me that spell."

  'No."

  "Dammit, that turd Ozzy what's-his-name don't pay any attention to what I tell him. What do you want for that spell?"

  "It is not for sale," Parry said.

  The man gazed appraisingly at him. "Let me 'splain something', mac. When you bugged out, the office fell on the most evil mortal in the world. I got it. I was on death row for the one they caught me on, five-year-old nymphet whose head I had to bash in 'fore she'd be quiet and let me finish, and then she didn't die quite soon enough and she fingered me. My bad luck. But I'm not choosy; I can make a grown man hurt as bad as a child. It's a real thrill in the crotch, makin' some freak scream that way. I've been catching on to the ropes here, makin' the damned souls scream. They hurt as bad as live folk, would you believe, and they can scream a lot longer before poopin' out. I really like it here! But your Lucifer won't give me the time of day, and neither will Mephis-what's-his-name, and that creature Nefer-titties spat in my face. I need that spell! What's your price?"