Chapter 2

Emerging from the dungeon and into the pounding rain, Cae did not receive her first uninterrupted vista of the Realm of Ruin, home to one of the Lords of Hell – the sheeting, grayish rain was too thick, too fierce, too uninterrupted to provide more than a few lumpy hints of building and hill and landscape that sprawled out beyond her. However, she was shown the courtesy of a demon, when Baron Citri clapped his hands twice and one of the guardsdemons that flanked them held aloft a small shaft of metal which unfurled with a creaking thump into a kind of mobile covering, which kept the rain at bay. Citri, looking rather pathetically relieved, stepped close to Cae, his shoulder brushing against hers – his lava bright skin feeling shocking and distractingly warm. Cae’s cheeks blushed silver and she stepped a bit to the side, freeing herself from the contact ... and now, soaking her other shoulder and her wing in the rain. Behind her, Baron Ruti, still rubbing his belly, seemed as unconcerned by the rain as the other guardsdemons.

“Sorry about the weather,” Citri said, his lips quirked up ever so slightly, his red-on-black eyes glittering. It was as if he knew that his touch had ... felt so...

Intense.

Cae frowned at him. “Isn’t this realm your Lord’s? On Heaven, it never rains lest the Hosts will it. No droplet falls where it isn’t wished.”

“Ah, of course it would, in Heaven,” Citri said, his eyes actually rolling, as if they sought to escape the absurdity of his fellow traveler. The sight of it made Cae quite forget the warmth between her thighs and the tingling on her shoulders and replace it with anger. Her frown transmuted into a scowl – even as a shape loomed in the rains ahead of them. They were walking across damp, brownish grass that squelched unpleasantly between her toes, and ahead, Cae couldn’t tell if she was approaching a hovel or a home or a small mountain. The rain allowed through only shapes and the faint glitter of hellish lanterns.

“Because we run our realms properly,” Cae said.

“Yes, with whips and chains,” Citri said.

“Ah, chains, of course,” Cae said, making quite a show of rubbing her golden wrists, the darkening bruises of her only recently released shackles still quite visible. “I’m sure you know nothing of that in Hell.”

Citri, to her annoyance, shot her a little smile – as if he was pleased – and they came close enough for the shape to resolve into an awning, a double set of doors, and a pair of lanterns at the very least. There were two wings sweeping to either side of this entrance, the wings of a vast manor house, but the rain and darkness left the door feeling queerly disconnected from the whole. Giving it a look, Cae found that Ruin’s tastes were decidedly old fashioned by the general standards of the Realms. The doorway was narrow and high, the door ending in an elegant arch, with the wood itself craven with geometric reliefs and designs that evoked a strange sense of oblique sadness – the patterns at the top unraveling as they reached the bottom, as if the entire door was running down. The only decorations that had true form were the knockers: A pair of great iron rings grasped in the claws of somber gargoyles the size of her fist, set into the wood and left to wait. Citri did not knock, nor did he wait. He simply snapped his fingers and the doors swung open with a ponderous groan, revealing a foyer with a crackling fireplace at the end, red carpet on the wood paneling, and archways that led off to the wings. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and hell light glimmered on each candle: Red and brooding.

Leaning against the wall near one of the fireplaces was a cloaked figure that stood two, three heads taller than Cae or her companions. A towering darkness that made her entire heart still for a moment. She could see nothing save for the cloak, the high collar, midnight black hair, and the spreading of horns above his head like a thicket. They were not the horns of a ram or goat, but the horns of a mighty stag.

Next to him, slim and taut, was creature at once finely dressed and slovenly put together. His tunic was black, his jerkin and hose impeccably matched in hues of red and dark gold, but everything seemed to have been thrown on. None had been pressed or laundered in some time – while he was not stained, he had the lived in look of a mortal who had been on campaign for weeks, not a demon in the height of his finery. The man within the clothing looked midway between a human being and a scuttling thing from the darkness. His skin was chalk pale, and his eyes were faceted orbs that glittered in eyes that never seemed to blink. Curled antenna jutted from his brows, and his whole body seemed to move in starts and jitters, like any number of verminous insects.

“My lord,” Citri said, looking past the ill-dressed demon.

The cloaked figure sighed. He turned, slowly, to face Cae.

Cae’s throat went dry and her heart lumped in her chest.

Arral, the Lord of Ruin, was a figure cut from obsidian and smoke in equal measures – his features shrouded in a glittering cloud that promised darkness and quiet and peace all in equal measures. His jaw was chiseled, while his nose slightly too hooked and broad for what some might consider classical beauty – his lips thin lines of black-on-black flesh more meant for frowns and stern pursing than for smiles or laughter. His eyes were lined with worry despite his immortal age ... and were of the most arresting deep hue of pale silver on charcoal black. It was like looking into the pools in the deepest parts of Heaven’s libraries, seeing the holy water gleam in carved hexagons of stone, waiting to be tapped for battle or sacred duty. Beneath his cloak ... well, he could look like anything. Cae found her mind catching on stray thoughts, like a finger tugging on a splinter in the wall.

Is he muscled like his Baron of Fire? Or scrawny and emaciated like his Baron of Rot?

She pushed the thoughts away, trying to instead focus on the here, the now.

“Ruti! Citri! What have you done!?” The faceted-eyed man, who by process of elimination could only be Degi, the Baron of Despair snapped.

“Don’t yell at me,” Citri said, holding up two hands in a warding gesture. “Glower at our little Ru!”

“I-I ... I just...” Ruti stammered.

“You let her go!?” Degi exploded. “She could flee right now – she could plunge her hand into the Lord’s heart and rip it out. She-”

Arral lifted one hand from his robes – his fingers large and firm. Calloused, even, Cae noticed. His Barons silenced, all of them looking at him as he regarded Cae. Then he bowed his head. “Do you want a room, General Silverhawk?” he asked, his voice a deep, bassy rumble that made Cae’s bones buzz. Her eyes widened – but then she nodded, curtly.

“And my clothing. Armor. Weapon.”

Arral nodded. “Those can be provided,” he said.

Cae narrowed her eyes fractionally, suspicion dripping from her words as if they had been freshly envenomed. “Will they now? Without my parole?”

Arral’s chuckle was as deep as ever other part of him. His sheer size seemed that his every word, no matter how softly murmured would quake the world around him. “I believe, as Dee’s worry has already been proven false and you have not immediately smote me with Heaven’s fury, that we can take a risk on you not choosing to go against every legion of Hell with a single sword and suit of plate armor. By now, I think you’ve already seen why it would be ... a waste of your talents, hmm?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. Cae considered all she had seen, and felt as if she were being tested. The very idea offended her – these demons had captured her to use her to defend themselves, and this overgrown brute thought she needed yet more harrowing, yet more examinations? And that his parlor questing could be anything next to the holy flames and the chastising whips of her mentors and elders? Hah!

She sneered up at him, her wings mantling. “Hell is as divided as their thoughts – your Houses plot against one another. If I slew you, Destruction and Pestilence would both swoop in and claim these areas. It would be as if you had never existed. And...” Her sneer faltered for a moment as the logic of what she was saying caught up with her confidence – she had been more focused on how fractious Hell was, she had missed the fact that...

Well.

If there were enough Lords of Hell that any single Lord could be lost...

Compare that to Heaven. If the highest of the high, the Council of Eleven, were to lose a member, how many centuries would it be before Heaven could select a new?

The hesitation had been slight. But it had been enough. Arral’s lips quirked in the closest thing that she thought a Lord of Ruin could put into a smile. Cae’s anger flashed bright in her, but not bright enough to cover for her shame at being so hoodwinked. He started to open his mouth to speak, but then his eyes fell upon something – and at once, the smile was snuffed away, transformed into a fierce scowl, a scowl that showed terribly sharp fangs. Before Cae could move, his hand had rushed forward and snatched hold of her wing. The feeling of those blazing hot fingers against her damp sinew and muscle made her tense and gasp in shock – even his other hand swept along her feathers. Then, in a voice of pure murder, he snarled. “Who clipped her wings?”

The Barons exchanged a glance, and Degi stepped forward. “I-I did, my Lor-”

“We shall deal with you,” Arral snarled, releasing her. “Citri, you will see to it that her wings are repaired posthaste. Degi, your punishment...” He sighed. “I will consider what it shall be. Dismissed.”

Degi opened his mouth to speak, then ducked his head, his antenna curling in on themselves. “Yes, my lord,” he said, woodenly.

He started to stalk away, a shadow vanishing into the archway to the western wing. Cae noticed, faintly, that the kindest of the Barons she had met so far, Ruti, had already vanished as well, leaving her alone with Citri and Arral. While the idea of being with the two alone in nothing but a shift and short leggings was ... strangely appealing in a way that Cae couldn’t explain, she was more focused on Arral’s order that her wings were fixed: “How can you fix anything?” She asked, frowning intently. “You’re the Lord of Ruin.”

Arral shook his head. “Take her to her chambers, I will send the servants. I ... must discipline my Barons.” He turned and started to leave as well, the heavy sounds of his footfalls ringing against the wood – his feet were cloven, she could tell. Cae brushed her wings against her back, drawing them in tight while Citri ambled to her side, his hands slipped deep into his pockets. His voice was soft. “Sorry you had to see that,” he said, quietly. “Dee and Arral often butt heads – but they make it up in the end.”

“Why would you even have such a creature?” Cae asked. “Fire can smelt, you say. What can despair do?”

Citri was silent for a time, considering. “Have you ever wept and been seen?” he asked, curiously. Cae shot a look at him – her brow furrowing. Her eyes flashed and she scowled at him, her wings tightening as her shoulders tensed.

“Angels have no need to weep,” she said, quietly.

“Hm. Well. Come,” Citri said, starting away from her, his hands still within his pockets as he headed for the rear of the foyer. There, a pair of staircases swept up to the second level, and he began to take them two at a time.

Cae shook her head and let out a soft ‘tsch!’ It seemed that these demons would be perpetually throwing absurdities and lies at her, until she couldn’t know up from down, good from evil. She would stand steadfast against them – and, as she started to walk up the stairs, she affirmed her resolution. She would learn all she could. There would be a weakness of Hell that she would find here. If she could save the House of Ruin, then doom the forces of the Destroyer? Well, then. Maybe it would be all worth it, no matter how shameful and degrading it was.

She took the steps one at a time.

The home of Arral, the Lord of Ruin, did not constrain itself. It sprawled over the hillside it was built upon, with two wings which themselves covered more space than Cae thought possible – but rather than being like the vast splendor of Heaven, nor the endless teeming masses she had expected of Hell ... nor, even the mortal extravagance of some of the Realms, this place felt as if it had been lived in. Once. Long ago. The rooms that she walked past were full of dust and cobwebs, and a sense that life could be breathed into them again, were conditions right. Cae paused at one such door, looking in at a sitting room with a writing desk, a small stool, a window looking out into the gray streaks of rain that swept along the window. For some reason, she felt like crying – a deep sadness welling up within her breast. She pushed it aside and frowned. She needed to think more like a general.

Each Lord held reign over a part of the amorphous mass that was Hell – the worrying part, the part that made it so frightening for Heaven and her Hosts, was that Hell did not simply remain as the Creator had made it. It grew, and it shrank. It shucked off realms that had been corrupted but were now subsumed back into the vastness of the World – some remained corrupted, some seemed as pristine as the day they had been spoken into existence. Always churning. Always changing. What place did this old, static monolith have in that chaos? Was this idea, Ruin, a splinter in Hell’s perpetual change, something as against the grain as...

An angel that wants to be a general?

She squashed that thought, deep within herself. She didn’t want to be a general. She simply had always had the aptitude for it. She wanted to fulfill her place in Heaven’s plan. There was no ego in this, no grandiose visions that her mentors had warned her of – nothing that might draw her from the path of righteousness.

“I suppose there can’t be a ruin if there was no past for it to be tumble from,” she said, softly, more to affix the idea in her head than to make conversation with Citri. He paused at the doorway that was flush with the far end of this long, long corridor. He turned and placed his hand on the knob, smiling slightly as thin wisps of smoke rose from his orange fingers.

“Very astute,” he said. “Might I ask what inspired this realization?”

Cae quirked her lips back at him. “You may ask.”

Silence stretched between them.

Citri laughed. His smile was broad. “I can see why Ruti wanted to free you,” he said. “You’re not what we thought an angel would be like.”

Cae cocked her head. “What did you expect an angel to be like?”

Citri shrugged, then leaned against the door. His shoulders slumped and he took on a posture of exaggerated relaxation as he let his head loll to the side. This posture made Cae think, most unusually, of a moment in her first campaign where she had first seen what mortals referred to as a ‘cat.’ The absurd creature had tried to beg food off her by placing its paws upon her gold-clad shin, then when she had looked down upon it, quizzical and confused, the creature had seemed to slough its bones to some otherspace and become a puddle of black fur sprawled on its back, paws in the air, eyes glittering like golden pools. Those eyes had said: Feed me! Pet me! Care for me!

Quite ridiculous. Citri had that mien right now.

“Oh, stuffier,” he said.

Cae arched a silver eyebrow.

“Stuffier,” she said, her voice as stern and stentorian as she could make it – aping her mentor of the swordswoman’s art, the Lady Fireblade.

“They say that not a raindrop falls in Heaven without the High Council knowing of it- that everything is measured and cut well before it comes time. That when an angel dies off schedule, they will crawl from the grave to report in once more,” Citri said, dryly. “But you? You have a fire in you like a demon. You want things.”

Cae bit back her immediate response. Angels want things, you absurd creature. Instead, she let that enigmatic smile dust her lips again. “And you have the spine of an angel somewhere in there.”

As if becoming aware of his absurd slouch, Citri stood a bit taller, frowning. He didn’t ask a question with his voice, but he did furrow his brows at her. She took mercy, her wings mantling and then settling for a moment.

“You obviously have plans beyond what you’ve told me,” Cae said, dryly. “Some angels think demons can’t plan. But clearly, you can. Now, is that plan going to be to try and woo me to your side? To corrupt me into a demon as well?” She stepped closer to him. “The first step on that would be to seem kindly and gentle to me – and what better way than to have your right hand clap me in irons, then your left release me?”

“For a general, you love giving intelligence to your enemies,” Citri said, standing to his full height, his lips pursed in irritation.

“Just scouting the ground, Baron,” Cae said. “Now, you are going to have my clipped wings healed – another example, by the way, of fixing what you broke. That is not a deception.”

Citri sighed – and his breath came with sparks. “There truly is a disunity in the House of Ruin. Lord Arral does not know himself. His plan is flying to pieces.”

“Oh?” Cae asked, already guarding herself against whatever falsehood that Citri would drop in her ear – poisoned honey, she was sure. Citri rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then gripped the door and opened it, revealing that the chamber he had led her towards was a large stone room that had been set aside for bathing, dominating the entirety of the west wing’s endpoint. The place was warm and moist, humid even, and the floor was warm enough that Cae was sure that furnaces were built in the level below, worked by who knew what servile demon or magic deviltry. She took a step in as Citri took a firm grip upon the door’s knob behind her.

“He thought you were a homely man before we got the armor off,” he said, then closed the door behind her.

Cae started, then spun to face the door, wings flaring. “What in Heaven does that mean!?” She exclaimed – but she could already hear Citri’s footsteps – fierce, clomping, angry footsteps. She scowled fiercely. It was no great loss for her to play her hand on the matter of recognizing the obvious subterfuge – after all, had she been a slow angel, they wouldn’t have wanted to capture her in the first place. And it had revealed something ... but what? What ground could her body have to do with Lord Arral’s plans? Surely, he was not some mortal, who could imagine that the subtle distinctions between man, woman, or anything in-between would have any grounds on a battlefield that was won more in the mind and the boardroom than it ever was fought out on the surface of a Realm. So, what was it?

Maybe Citri was trying to mislead her into thinking that his master’s house was divided – so she might trust Ruti more? But could she imagine that pathetic creature truly carrying off a deception? Or-
“Oh, you’re here!”

The warm, female voice caused her to turn back around and see that she was not alone in this bath. She had not expected to be alone. What she had not expected was to see a succubus here, in the House of Ruin.

The demon was clearly a succubus, one of the many thousands kinds of demons that Hell had cataloged and sorted and named and given classification. The only reason Cae tended to simply think of demons as demons rather than, say, an abakuthi or a lerandor or a druge, was that the actual specific distinctions mattered less than one might think while in a battle. While yes, there were taxonomic and arcane differences between the turgarghes and the guldors, both did fly, and both were violent, and thus, you could dismiss the needless complexity of their distinction and focus on what mattered on the battlefield. Outside of a battlefield...

Succubi were tempters. Corruptors. Sinful purveyors of what the Creator had suffered such pain to bring to mortalkind – the pleasure of the flesh, turned into a weapon. The Creator had not made flesh to feel joy so that it could spark jealousy, fuel envy, or tarnish love into base lust.

The Creator had made it so that mortals would be fruitful and multiply, and thus, fulfill Her design!

Thus, the succubi were, to the base nature, the utter perversion of all that was good for a mortal at home: They were utterly incapable of having children. This particular one showed all the signs of being a member of the House of Ruin: Her hair was flickering, glittering flames. Her skin was brilliant orange, lined with tattoo like patterns of pale white. Her long and sinous tail ended not in the more nominal spade tip that other succubi had, but rather, a flickering candleflame that winked and sparked as her tail twitched from side to side. Her body was curvy and tempting to a mortal male, but seemed rather unimpressive to Cae, who was looking more for the signs of battle training and the muscles of a swordswoman.

Or ... weapons, for that matter. She was dressed in little save a shift, her feet bare and steaming on the moist floor.

“ ... oh!” the succubus said, her eyes widening. “I can see, now, why the House is in such an uproar.” She rubbed her chin, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh poor Arral! Poor Ruti!” She laughed even more loudly now, unable to contain her mirth. Cae crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her, wings mantling up.

“You are to heal my wings?” she asked.

“Ahem!” The succubus coughed. “Yes, my, uh, General.” She bowed her head. “I am Laeushale.”

“A succubus healer?” Cae asked, dryly.

“ ... I beg pardon?” Laeushale asked, cocking her head.

“I just thought that of all the demons in the pits of Hell, a succubus would be least suited to healing – well, among the least suited. Your kind only seems eager to sow pain.” She walked over towards the succubus, pleased that she was a bit taller than her. Definitely broader shoulders too – she was fairly sure, should this moment turn to violence, that she could handle Laeushale.

“What’s a succubus?” Laeushale sounded baffled, her tail twitching to a stillness behind her. Her brow furrowed and she bit her lower lip, clearly befuddled.

“Y-You are!” Cae said, scoffing.

“I am?” she asked, looking down at herself. “Well, wait, who says I am this succubus?”

“I ... the ... we in Heaven have taken great strides to learn the names of demons, to give some categories to your absurdities,” Cae said, frowning. “You’re a temptress. A demoness who seeks to mislead humans with lustful thoughts.”

Laeushale crossed her arms over her chest, scowling now. “Well, that’s a very fine thing to say to your healer.”

“W-Well, I...” Cae stammered, somewhat thrown.

“I’m a spirit of fire,” Laeushale said. “Serving under Baron Citri. I’m a creature of growth and breath, and you call me ... a ... temptress!?” She huffed. “I haven’t even seen a mortal in my whole life.”

Cae’s wings shifted and she blushed, feeling almost exactly like she had when, as a young angel, she had once said that the Creator hadn’t created demons – it had been a trick question that many young angels were forced to grapple with in class, but rarely did an angel state their wrong ideas so loudly in front of so many. She could still remember the teacher dryly dissecting her theological mistake before a thousand other attentive cadets, and could remember their snickering and laughter. She hated the feeling, it was like mud dripping down her scalp.

“W-Well, the, what do I call you, then, if, ah, if you’re no succubus?” Cae asked.

Laeushale managed, despite being a demon, a female, and several centuries younger, to exactly match her old teacher’s prune-faced expression. “I don’t know. My name?”

Cae bowed her head. “My apologies, madame Laeushale. I would like my wings healed. They do not hurt but ... I would enjoy flying again.”

Laeushale sighed. “Very well! Very well.” She smiled, slightly. “First, take your clothing off.”

Cae nodded, then reached down and tugged her shift up and over her head. It got tangled in her wings for a moment, so she had to wriggle and squirm, then finally got it free. She folded it neatly, then placed it on her shoulder so she could skim her leggings down around her hips. Once she had stepped from them, she snatched the leggings up, folded them, then tucked both articles of clothing together and then turned to Laeushale, asking her: “Where should I place them?”

“I expected more hesitation,” Laeushale said, chuckling. “Isn’t Heaven meant to be more modest?”

“Well, yes, around men,” Cae said, shrugging slightly. “It’s not as if you are interested.”

Laeushale’s expression became quite hard to read. It was like she had just taken a drink of the finest wine that she had ever tasted – save that she was so shocked at the flavor that she had breathed some of it and was now trying to not choke to death. She coughed, wheezed, then finally said. “I ... I see!” She gestured with one hand to one of the corners of the bathhouse. It really was quite a large chamber, designed for many guests. It felt terribly empty and forlorn, and Cae could see that several of the baths had long been left to sit empty, their tile growing mold and mildew. The stone slab that Laeushale led her to, though, was situated beside a large brazier full of coals. When Cae touched the slab, she found it was surprisingly warm.

“Lay upon your belly,” Laeushale said, smiling slightly. “I’ll begin work on your left wing.”

Cae settled down. The stone was wide enough for her, and when she laid her arms before her and tucked her head to the side, she was remarkably comfortable. Laeushale reached out and picked up a long handled bronze dipper that had been recessed into the ornate brickwork of the wall. Pulling it free, she revealed that it was full of clear, pure water which she drizzled over the brazier. Blessedly warm steam cascaded outwards, leaving Cae’s body feeling as if she had been dumped directly into Heaven’s most blissful sauna’s. She closed her eyes to half lidded droops – but in secret, she kept herself at ready using her other senses, her ears twitched up, ready for the sound of any footsteps, any rasp of blade on leather, any scrape of claw on tile.

“Lets see what we have to work with,” Laeushale said. Her shockingly hot fingers felt their way along not Cae’s wing, but along her neck, to her shoulder, to the joining of wing muscle and shoulder blade. Her fingers probed her firmly, the tips softened by her long exposure to oils and rubbing lotions. When Cae flicked her eye up, she could see the succu- ... the spirit of flame was attentive, focused, her eyes narrowed, her tongue jutting from the side of her mouth as if she were a painter. She leaned forward and hummed. “You have a lot of tension in your back and neck. And your shoulders. And your whole body, how long has it been since you have taken time to yourself?”

“I have no time for myself,” Cae said, shrugging her shoulders. “All my time is the Creator’s.”

“She’s not here to collect, though,” Laeushale said, sighing. Her fingers and palms slipped up, moving along Cae’s wing, finding where her pinion feathers had been clipped. She felt out – with gentle, gentle fingertips – where the feathers pinned into the bone and flesh. She gently tugged on one feather, as if to feel how firmly seated it was. Cae let out a soft gasp – the sensation was shocking and prickly. She lifted her head up as Laeushale asked: “Does that hurt?”

“A small amount,” Cae said, slowly letting her head rest down once more.

“Hmm. Before we can coax your body’s natural healing into their full fury, we need you to relax. So we can let this energy move throughout your body – it’s currently tensed up as if you expect us to be attacked at any moment.” She clicked her tongue. “The guards might have been asleep at the switch for poor Ruti, but I assure you, they’ve been riled up. You are safe for the time being.”

“I am currently naked in a house of the Lord of Hell,” Cae said, her voice soft. “I will not be safe for a long time.”

Laeushale sighed, quietly. “No, you are under the hands of a healer. Heaven or Hell, I think we share that commonality, don’t we?”

Cae lifted her head. She looked into Laeushale’s gray on white eyes, and tried to see any sign of deception there. But it was hopeless – there were records and stories of mortals, mortals, beings that had only been drawing breath for a scant handful of years, barely two decades, who had had the verve and the wit and the sheer steely iron will to bluff, lie and swindle their way into Heaven’s vaults. It was part of what made relying on mortal sorcerers so ... troublesome. Angels were simply not made to see lies ... at least, not lies on the face and the tongue. She sighed and laid her head down. She tried to relax, and found that despite her sternly ordering her muscles to unetnse, they balked.

Am I an angel, or a mortal levy? She thought in irritation, then scowled and focused.”Are you trying to relax?” Laeushale asked, picking up a small pot stashed underneath the stone slab. “You know that never works – it is as absurd as trying to order the sea to retreat from the beach, or a horse to charge a spear.” She chuckled. “Come. Let me help you get your legions under control, my Lady General.” Cae remained skeptical as Laeushale rubbed oil between her palms. She remained skeptical as the demon or spirit or whatever she was placed her palms upon her shoulders, tracing lines of golden muscle and sinew. She remained skeptical – and then the blazing heat of Laeushale’s touch flared from subtle to intense, throbbing through Cae’s muscles like reverberating shock-waves. She jerked her head up and her wings flared as she gasped quietly, her thighs pressing together as she clutched onto the stone slab with fingers that soon went silver at tip and knuckles. “C-Creator,” she whispered, huskily as the heat was joined by pressure, smooth, warm waves of pressure that swept up and down her shoulders. Thumbs pressed to the knots in her neck, easing them away with a strength that would have shattered the chains of a rampaging war demon. Cae’s eyelids quivered, then drooped, then closed as she groaned into her arms. Her hips worked in subtle sympathy with the gentle hands caressing her back and shoulders as she felt the heat flowing through her nerves, along her spine. Her whole body felt as if it was melting – just as gold would flow in a blacksmith’s fire, turning to pools of quivering bliss. Her groans came rhythmically, in time with Laeushale’s working down her back, along her spine, between her wings. Glistneing oil was spread along her muscles and soaked into her skin, adding to the decadence of it all. “C-Creator, this is Heavenly,” Cae murmured. “Mmm. But also, it’s ... mmm ... wrong...” “Oh?” Laeushale asked, her voice carefully even as she slipped around and moved onto the slab. Her thighs spread to either side of Cae’s thighs, and Cae could feel the blazing heat of her silk smooth skin, pressing to her hips. The demoness remained hunched over and on her knees – so the points of contact remained primarily those lovely, divine hands of hers as she worked along the small of Cae’s back, easing more and more tension. “Our bodies ... mmm ... angel’s bodies aren’t- ahhh – meant to feel this kind of oh lord – ah...” She panted. “Pleasure.” “Heh. Then why did your Creator make you able to feel at all?” Laeushale asked, her voice wry.”T-There’s a lot of debate about that.” Cae said, then blinked as she felt a curious slipping gasp – her buttocks and her inner thighs went untouched by Laeushale. She wouldn’t remark on it ... but her body seemed acutely aware of the lack of touch. Her skin felt as if it was starved by it. Her ... nethers ... most of all. Cae frowned, trying to place the strange heat and slipperiness between her thighs as Laeushale continued along her left leg – she slid off the slab to once more work on her own two feet. The sensation of her calves being gently palpated and stroked was enough to nearly distract her from both her feelings and her thoughts. Cae managed to carry on. “I believe it’s because we have many pleasures we should feel doesn’t mean that we should lack so we can avoid the few we should ... avoid.” She groaned again, then gasped as she felt her nipples grazing against the stone. They were hard.Achingly so.Cae’s cheeks flushed silver and a dawning, horrifying realization just smote her, as if she had been bashed in the back of the head by a large hammer. She was wet.She was hot.