The Red Scrolls of Magic

The living flames that were Asmodeus’s eyes went dark for a moment.

“Thank you for collecting these followers for me,” he hissed at last. “Be sure I will put them to good use.”

Sweat poured down Magnus’s face. Once again he fought to speak, and once more he failed.

Asmodeus flashed his rows of sharp teeth.

“As for you, like any erring child, your insolence must be punished. Nor will you remember what you have done, or learn aught from it, for the memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot.”

The words were from the Bible; demons quoted Holy Scripture often, especially those with pretensions to royalty.

No, Magnus almost begged. Let me remember, but Asmodeus had palmed Magnus’s forehead with his bony, clawlike hand. The world washed blindingly white, and then blindingly dark.

Magnus came back to himself, in the present day, kneeling before the members of his own cult, the memories his father had taken from him restored.

He was on his knees. Shinyun was standing over him, leaning down so her face was very close to his.

“You see?” she demanded. “You see what you have done? You see what you could have had?”

The first emotion Magnus felt was relief. In the back of his mind, he had always worried about what he was truly capable of. He knew what he was: a demon’s child, the son of Hell’s royalty, always afraid of his own capabilities. He’d been so afraid he might have set up this cult with evil intentions, used them for horrific purposes, perhaps erased his own memories so he would never have to face what he had done.

But no. He had been a fool, but he had not been evil.

“I do see,” Magnus replied softly.

The second feeling that came to him was shame.

He struggled to his feet. He turned and beheld the crowd, this horde of mundanes that he had accidentally brought together and turned into cultists with an ill-conceived joke, this band of dupes who were probably only searching for something greater than themselves, for some assurance their lives had meaning, that they were not alone in the world. Magnus remembered feeling so much pain that he forgot other people mattered. He’d made a joke of their lives. He was ashamed of it, and he wouldn’t want Alec to know the person who had done it.

He’d been trying to be someone different for a very long time. And, he realized, he didn’t feel that savage driving pain he’d felt in that long-ago time drinking with Ragnor anymore. Especially not since he met Alec.

Magnus raised his head and spoke in a clear voice. “I’m sorry.” He was met with stunned silence. “A long time ago, I thought it would be fun to start a cult. Get a group of mundanes together to pull some pranks and play some games. I tried to make life less serious than it is. The joke went wrong. Centuries later, all of you are paying the price for my folly. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Shinyun demanded behind him.

“It’s not too late,” Magnus shouted. “You can all turn away from this, from demons who are not gods and the folly of immortals. Go live your lives.”

“Shut up!” Shinyun shouted over him. “These are your worshippers! My worshippers! Their lives are ours to do with as we choose! My father is right. You are the greatest of fools, the prince of fools, and you will speak folly until someone cuts your throat. I will do it myself. I will do it for my father.”

She stepped out in front of Magnus and faced the crowd.

“Now is the time of destiny. Now is the time when you, my brothers and sisters, will be elevated above all others, above even the angels, answerable to none save the greatest of demons and warlocks. You will sit at the base of my father’s throne!”

She paused and waited expectantly, as if for a cheer of agreement. It didn’t come. At the top of the stone stairs to the rear of the amphitheater, Magnus saw chaos breaking out. Cultists converged at the top of the steps and then were violently pushed back, several of them tumbling down the seats and stairs.

Shinyun faltered. She motioned for the guards near the stage.

The disturbance was spreading and growing louder. Magnus couldn’t see what was happening—it looked like a knot of fighting, with cultists being tossed down the stairs and onto one another with abandon. The more well-armed guards near the stage were having trouble pushing through the crowd to get up to the disturbance.

Magnus felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps some of the cultists had thought better of their stupid, dangerous plan. Perhaps they would fall on each other—cultists often did—and forget about him, and about Asmodeus. Perhaps—

“Apparently,” said Shinyun, a blaze of orange fire gathering in her fist, “I have to do everything myself.”

She walked to the edge of the stage. But just as she reached the perimeter, she struck an invisible barrier and was thrown violently off her feet. The circle of salt and the moonflowers began to glow with pale fire.

Magnus stiffened with realization: the moonflowers lining the edge of the stage weren’t merely decorative. His eyes followed the crisscrossing lines of flowers that ran underneath the platform. Together they formed a giant pentagram. A much larger, and stronger, pentagram. But who had made this one? Not Shinyun—she seemed shocked to find she was trapped within it.

Shinyun picked herself up and stared at the moonflowers. She tried to leave again, only to be repelled even more forcibly the second time. She groaned and staggered to her feet.