The Harrowing of Arsonoth

The Harrowing of Arsonoth Nexis Pas (nexispas22.blogspot.com) Copyright 2010 by the author

Special Agent Arsonoth, the number-one Earthly operative of the Lust Bureau, Seven Deadly Sins Division, had just spent two hours lighting a fire in Henry Purslane. Lighting the fire was not the problem. Even when Henry was soundly asleep and dreaming, as he was at the moment, his still virginal loins were always close to spontaneous combustion. Perhaps even more so when he was asleep, with Arsonoth hovering over him inserting images into his dreams. The (may I be damned to eternal salvation for writing the word) crux for Arsonoth lay in directing the blaze towards soul-corrupting ends. Henry remained staunchly loyal to the object of his love, one Nigel Lovage. Arsonoth had kindled a firestorm of desire in Henry that would not have shamed the souls of the Second Circle and was channelling it towards the infernal ends of His Satanic Majesty. Henry's dream Nigel had morphed into a scantily clad voluptuous muscleman smiling lasciviously at Henry. The engorged tongue of the dream god gleamed wetly from between his lips, and his head lolled back in ecstasy as he raked his thumbnails over his nipples. 'Hen Hen, Henry,' he moaned, 'Oh Henry. Oh Oh OH!'

Arsonoth changed Henry's pyjamas from flannel to silk and made them shrink until they closed about Henry's now-throbbing member and balls, caressing them with a cool smoothness that only inflamed Henry further. 'Oh, oh, ummmmmmmmm,' groaned Henry, as he contorted his body so that he could lick the mammoth pecs with his . . .

Arsonoth's phone played the opening phrase from 'The Mephisto Waltz,' the signal for an incoming call from Hindquarters. It was not an opportune moment. Henry was only a moment away from the slippery path that leads men to Hell.

'Blessing,' cursed Arsonoth. His concentration faltered for the fraction of a second needed for Henry to escape the temptations Arsonoth was offering. The well-endowed stallion with the Mount Blanc pectorals faded and disappeared from Henry's dreams, to be replaced by Henry's favourite night-time recreation of running towards Nigel through a meadow filled with lavender in bloom. Arsonoth almost choked on his disgust as the air shimmered with virtue (even in his agitated state, he could not bring himself to the utter the blasphemy 'love'). He flipped the phone open and growled into the speaker, 'Special Agent Arsonoth here. Bless you--you'd better have an evil reason for interrupting me. I was in the middle of something important.'

'Bad Day to you too, Agent Arsonoth. This is Archfiend Leahcim. Hindquarters is well aware of your current activities. We have been monitoring them.'

'Then you know that I was a few seconds away from success. You cherubim-worshipping Hindquarters desk demons are all alike. What in the name of all that is unholy do you mean by interrupting me in the middle of a temptation? You think it's easy to corrupt a young man away from virtue? You should try it some time. These human males are incorrigibly prone towards good. It might make you think twice before you barge in on a field agent again.'

'There is no need to swear, Agent Arsonoth.' The archfiend's lips curled in prissy distaste.

'Virtue, Goodness, Blessings, Heaven, Love. I'll swear as much as like.'

'You filial fatherlover. You know His Satanic Majesty's attitude on the use of such words. I won't report your language to our inferiors--this time. But I'm jotting a note for your file. This won't look evil on your annual evaluation.'

Discretion overcame Arsonoth's rage. A good evaluation might mean promotion to the Traffic Division, and he had worked too many millennia to risk his current demotion to Lust. Only one more step down the ladder, and he would be in the Pride Division, the source of all sin. Luckily Leachim could be swayed by flattery. 'Sod you, you effing bum bandit. May you have nothing to eat but martyrs' turds for all of perdition. I spoke in the cold of the moment. I apologise, Your Maleficent Archfiendship. Please damn me. I should have realised that you would not have called without a bad reason.'

Leahcim paused before answering to let Arsonoth know that he was thinking about his response. 'Your damnation is a matter for His Satanic Majesty, Agent Arsonoth. A crisis has arisen, and your presence is required at Hindquarters immediately. Do not keep us waiting.' Leahcim rang off before Arsonoth had a chance to reply.

'May you be bathed in holy water,' snarled Arsonoth into the phone.

The text message 'I heard that--L' formed in letters of fire in the display window of Arsonoth's phone. Arsonoth uttered a silent wish that Leahcim be unmasked as a habitual browser of sacred pictures on religious websites. He briefly invaded Henry's dream to see if there was some quick way of damning Henry's soul and salvaging it for Hell. Henry and Nigel were still running in slow motion towards each other across that blessed field of flowers, arms outstretched to embrace when they at long last met. Arsonoth stripped Henry of his clothes. Nigel halted and looked with horror at the naked body of his affianced sweetheart. It was the first time he had seen Henry without his usual business suit, waistcoat, and tie. Nigel broke into laughter, pointing at Henry's midsection and rolling on the ground, his arms wrapped around his torso in a futile attempt to contain his amusement. Henry clapped his hands over his groin. The quick-witted Arsonoth (not for naught had he twice won the Tempter of the Malennium Award) had the presence of mind to arrange for a particularly well-endowed nettle to spring up in Henry's path at just the right height. Henry's scream of pain as his hands crushed the nettle against his tender bits brought a sneer of pleasure to Arsonoth's lips as he sped back to Hindquarters.

'Violentdemons, we have a crisis. It makes me feel good to say that I have the best sort of news for you. Hold onto your tails, demons. This isn't going to be evil.' Icy beads of sweat rolled down Archfiend Leachim's forehead. Soap bubbles foamed at the corners of his mouth. He shut his eyes in horror at what he was about to say. 'Demons, someone is corrupting the lads of Brighton and turning them to the light. In the past month alone, we've lost over 500 souls to the opposition.'

A shocked gasp ran through the auditorium as the Archfiend emphasized his point by scratching a fingernail against the descending line on the fire-blackened board that marked the straying of souls to the other side. Arsonoth felt as if the clouds of brimstone had parted and a ray of sunlight had penetrated the gloom of hell. He shivered as if touched by the warm fingers of salvation. Brighton had long been a bastion of solid support for HSM's Forces. It was considered such a safe assignment that it was used to train novice tempters. If even Brighton were being taken over the opposition, what district was next? Blackpool?

'Lads, I don't need to tell you that HSM is concerned,' Leachim continued. 'He's assigned this problem to the Seven Deadly Sins Division. You can imagine what awaits us if we fail to resolve this crisis satisfactorily.'

The thought of HSM's wrath shocked the assembled forces of Hell into decorum. Even the damned whose burning souls illumined the hall ceased lamenting their eternal perdition at the spectre of HSM on a rampage.

'I've decided to send one of our least qualified agents undercover to Brighton to investigate the matter.' The burning coals that were the Archfiend's eyes seemed to search the hall. Was it only Arsonoth's imagination or did Leachim's gaze linger on him? 'For this assignment, he'll be changed into a human male, the better to blend in.' Two rows ahead of Arsonoth a weak-winged demon blanched at the thought of being forced to assume human guise, his tail shrinking into a flaccid appendage dangling from his rear.

'The worst demon for this job,' Leachim paused to let the tension build. Every demon present quailed at the thought he might be chosen. 'The worst demon for this job is Special Agent Arsonoth.'

The hall erupted with hoots of laughter and derision as a wave of relief swept every other demon at the realisation that he would not be the agent chosen. The clatter of thousands of pairs of dry wings clapping was louder than the shrieks of billions of damned souls. The demon standing next to Arsonoth punched him on the back. 'Congrats, Arsey. You're just the demon for the job.' The demon leered at Arsonoth and licked his lips in anticipation of the snack that Arsonoth's failure would provide. 'I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I say that I hope you don't suffer the fate of Polg when he was sent undercover to clean up that den of goodness in Bournemouth. I hear that HSM took three years to eat him.'

'You'd better hope I succeed, Leirbag. HSM won't stop at the agent who fails. He will eat the entire Lust Bureau, you included.' Arsonoth had a particularly nasty laugh he reserved for such occasions. 'He might even eat the Archfiend in charge of the division.'

Up on the dais, Leachim thumped this tail for silence. 'Enough, Violentdemons. Enough. Arsonoth, report to Transformations. I'm told that the conversion to human form is not totally pleasurable.' Laughter erupted again throughout the hall. Leachim let it continue for several minutes before calling again for silence. 'I'll see you in my office after the alterations are complete.'

'Stop squirming, Special Agent, I may cut you in the wrong place unless you sit still. I assure you, we can reconnect your tail after you complete your assignment. Now tell me, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most pleasant, how does this feel?' The demon surgeon raised the dull axe and attempted to sever Arsonoth's tail for the seventh time. This time he was successful. His assistant picked up the tail and cauterized the severed end with a flambeau of gluttons.

Arsonoth felt giddy with the pleasure that had engulfed his body when he had been freed of the burden of his tail, but he refused to give the doctor the satisfaction of knowing that. 'Didn't feel a thing,' he snarled. 'Just get on with it.'

The doctor smirked and raised a chain saw. He revved it several times. The whirring chain was a gleaming red line in the fires of Hell, 'Your wings are next. Do let me know if you need a pleasurekiller. Perhaps the chemist on Circle 18 has some in stock.'

Archfiend Leichim was supervising the unpacking of a shipment of lost souls. He nearly dropped the carton of red tape he was holding when his secretary shrieked in terror. The door to his inner sanctum exploded in a shower of nitre. 'Special Agent Arsonoth reporting for duty, You Bastard.'

'The Devil curse me, aren't you the handsome lad!' The Archfiend's tongue snaked out and he screamed with pain. 'Just the type I used to snack on when I was a field agent. The bad doctor outdid himself this time. I must remember to insult him. He's earned a very large fine for this effort. He's made one heaven of human male out of you. You're just what they call "sexy" topside.'

The sneer of delight on the Archfiend's face was honey to Arsonoth's soul. He felt so blessed. He would never be able to hold his rear up at office parties again. He could anticipate an eternity of japes and jokes at his expense. He blenched pale with shame. The doctor had depilated his leathery skin, leaving him only the thin coating of flesh humans wore. The clothing the wardrobe department had supplied (Brighton Cruising Ensemble no. 3) did nothing to stave off the cold fires of Hell seeping into his body. For the first time in his existence, he shivered. His fangs had been ground down into human shape, and his new 'teeth' chattered.

'Just remember, Arsey, it's all in a bad cause. Put an end to this plague in Brighton, and HSM will damn you forever. Fail, and it's . . . well, let's just say none of us wants that to happen. I mean that insincerely, Arsey. We're all booing for you. It's all on your shoulders now. Your new ones look broad enough for the task'

The Archfiend permitted himself one final scream of pain at Arsonoth's expense. 'Now, to business. Sit down, Arsey. That chair's the worst one.' The Archfiend pointed to a medieval iron boy glowing red with heat. A large spike protruded upward from the centre of the seat. Arsonoth lowered himself onto it with relief. The pain was exquisite.

'Don't make yourself too uncomfortable, Arsey. Remember your assignment. That will bring pleasure to your soul, if you have one left.' The Archfiend pulled a file from his desk. It shone with a bright white light that hurt Arsonoth's eyes. 'This is all that Central Security Division has been able to learn about the source of the problem.' The Archfiend removed a photograph from the file and slid it across the desk. 'Our spies have determined the infection is based at a pub called St George. They keep hearing the name Lewis. We think this Lewis is the angel.'

Arsonoth stood by himself against the back wall of the St George. On the journey by underground from Hell, he had reread All You Need to Know About the Human Male But Were Too Disgusted to Ask, Fully Illustrated and with Practical Exercises You Can Do at Home. The guide's chapter on how to behave in a gay pub was filled with useful advice. As far as Arsonoth could tell, he blended in. At least two-thirds of those present were wearing clothes similar to his. It appeared to be some sort of uniform, but why anyone would want to wear such body-hugging clothes mystified Arsonoth. The pants and trousers were especially tight around the hips and groin. What possessed humans to wear clothing? Surely they would be much more comfortable letting everything swing free.

He took a sip of the liquid the bartender had handed him when he asked for a 'pint of your best bitter'. It had sounded like the most promising of the drinks listed in the guidebook. He had thought it would taste like wormwood and gall, but instead it was a rich, full-bodied brew. He tried not to grimace. Why would anyone drink such a flavourful brew? He must try to find something more tasteless. Perhaps one of those 'vodka tonics' that the person ahead of him in the queue had ordered. That had certainly looked insipid. He would have to consult the guide again when he was alone.

The crowd in the pub were exceptionally friendly. Elvis the bartender had winked at him when he ordered his drink. Several of the patrons had already patted his rear or let their hands brush against other parts of his anatomy. One person had even pressed a small portion of his arse forcefully between two of his fingers. The sensations this had caused in his body were not unpainful, he decided. He returned the gesture, but apparently not correctly. The man had turned around and said, 'Oooh, I'm so not into the rough stuff, man," and sidled away quickly, rubbing his rear.

Arsonoth made a mental note to check the guide later for the correct amount of pressure to be applied when performing this action. He would also have to look up 'rough stuff'; perhaps the guide would explain why humans, or at least some humans, found this undesirable. If time permitted, he resolved to investigate the sensations caused in the human body by contact. Hell knew, of course, that physical sensation was a chief avenue of human temptation, but since the infernal brotherhood had never experienced such sensory inputs, data gained first-hand would prove invaluable to HSM's Forces. An informative report might also earn him demerits.

Arsonoth sipped at his drink as he examined the surroundings. The pub was dark, a situation he quite approved. The noise level approached that of some of the more Inquisitorial levels of Hell. The only discordant note was a large painting of St George slaying the dragon. The clouds of smoke encircling the two central figures did nothing to hide the fact that both the saint and the dragon were quite muscular. Arsonoth had no firsthand experience of saints and he could not tell how realistic the artist's depiction of St George was. The representation of the dragon was accurate, however. Veins corded the surface of the dragon's body. Every strand of muscle strained to escape from the saint's grasp. Eight-inch fangs and ten-inch claws raked the air as the dragon tried to grip the saint and draw him closer to its tail. The tail ended in a thick blunt point, poised to impale the saint. Given the artist's attention to detail, Arsonoth suspected that his depiction of St George was equally realistic. The long sword the saint held upright in his hand gleamed in the fire blasting from the dragon's maw. Arsonoth hadn't realised that a human sword could reach such impressive lengths. The saint was certainly well endowed for the struggle. No wonder he had won that particular battle.

Arsonoth shuddered. No one had ever denied that the other side had formidable weapons in its arsenal. He had known that the assignment would not be easy. He would be tested, and he would triumph. He had to find this Lewis and neutralise him. The real coup, of course, would be to entrap him into eternal damnation. It had been millennia since the last angel had been successfully tempted. The fires of hell had burned brightly that century. That temptation was still studied by every novice demon as part of their Z levels curriculum.

A commotion at the door drew his attention. A whisper spread from the door to the rear wall where Arsonoth stood. 'Lewis, it's Lewis,' a hundred voices spoke at once. One young man standing beside Arsonoth let out a short scream and then swooned. A friend caught him in time and deposited his limp body into a chair. Another man whipped off his T-shirt and tenderly fanned the unfortunate's face. 'He does this every time,' the friend explained to Arsonoth. 'He had a date with Lewis once. Poor lad's never been the same since.'

Arsonoth stretched his neck and strained to catch sight of Lewis, but a scrum of enthusiastic well-wishers had engulfed the foe. Many in the crowd were groaning. Their apparent pleasure in this activity piqued Arsonoth's curiosity. Why did all this rubbing of random flesh cause them to moan in this fashion? Arsonoth pushed himself forward, elbowing aside several people in his path. He was mystified by the apparent protest in their cries of 'Hey, watch it, man.' Watching Lewis was precisely what he intended to do. Perhaps it was just a form of polite encouragement, rather like the 'chow time' the demon hordes shouted to encourage the lions.

The crowd around his target parted at his approach, revealing the being called Lewis. A bright light was emanating from his head. Arsonoth had heard of the aura that surrounded the angels but he had never before seen it in person. Every eyewitness mentioned the pain associated with seeing the aura, but to his surprise he felt only delight. Perhaps it was due to his human eyes and his human form, but the light was causing waves of pleasure to surge through his body. He knew immediately that Lewis was the angel. Surely no human could be this handsome. Only one of the perfected orders could have a body like this.

And then the creature spoke. His voice--how deep and resonant it was. It seemed to echo within Arsonoth's head. His nether regions began to stir and throb. If an angel's voice alone can do this, thought Arsonoth, what can his touch do?

'Well, speak of the devil.' Lewis smiled broadly, revealing even teeth of a white so dazzling that it almost blinded Arsonoth.

Arsonoth snapped out of his reverie. He had been recognised by the enemy. It was like a pail of burning lava had been thrown over his head to recall him to his mission. 'Hmm, speak of an angel.' That didn't come out quite as Arsonoth planned. There seemed to be a lump in throat preventing speech. And surely his voice was higher than that of most human males he had encountered. He tried again, lowering his voice this time. 'Hmm, speak of an angel.'

The angel held out his hand. 'My name's Lewis. What's yours, stranger?'

Arsonoth remembered the guide's instructions on 'shaking hands'. He grasped Lewis's outstretched hand, firmly but not so strongly as to cause pain (however enticing that prospect was), pumped decisively up and down three times before releasing his grip, and said, 'Pleased to meet you, Lewis. My name is Lee Gin.' He gave the code name the Central Security Division had picked for him. He tried to follow the guide's instructions and smile 'pleasantly', but he couldn't seem to control the muscles about his lips. The guide had not mentioned the fact that Lewis's hand might feel so cool and smooth. Why was he so reluctant to let it go? And what were these sensations spreading up his arm and making him feel so lightheaded?

'Well, Lee, let me buy you a drink and we can discuss how to spend the rest of this evening.' Lewis smiled at him again and began leading him by the hand up to the bar. 'What are you drinking?'

'I'd like to dry a vodka tonic,' said Arsonoth.

'I'm sure Elvis can produce a vodka tonic for you to dry,' grinned Lewis. "He's a real angel. Two vodka tonics, Elvis.'

Lewis's smile made Arsonoth's thighs shake. 'My mission,' he thought, 'I've got to remember my mission. This is the enemy. I have to kiss him--no, not kiss, not kiss. I didn't mean that. Destroy. I have to destroy him. I have to destroy him--but only after I kiss him. Just once. I want to kiss him just once, to feel those firm, masculine lips on mine, to feel my lips part, and his strong, smooth tongue slip between my lips and into my mouth, inflaming me with desire for more. No, no, what am I saying? It must be this human body that's leading me astray. It must be hardwired to respond to people like Lewis. I must be strong. I must make, oh Satan,' Arsonoth shuddered at the thought, 'I was about to say "make love" to Lewis.' He realised with horror that was precisely what he was wanted to do. Make love to Lewis.

Elvis slid the two vodka tonics across the bar to Lewis and Arsonoth. Arsonoth grabbed his glass and downed the drink in one gulp and held it out to Elvis for a refill.

'Be careful, Lewis,' chuckled Elvis. 'If he keeps drinking like this, he's not going to have any inhibitions later.'

'Easy, stud,' said Lewis as he placed a hand on Arsonoth's stomach. 'Uninhibited is fine. Drunk is not.'

'Just one time, that's all I ask for,' thought Arsonoth. 'Just once. Purely in the interests of research. Just one evening with Lewis.' The warmth he had felt earlier when Lewis had touched him for the first time was growing in intensity. But it was not like the fires of Hell, which chilled the hotter they burned. This was more like a flame growing in his body. There was a roaring in his ears. Spots flickered in and out of existence before his eyes. His hands were shaking. 'I won't drink any more,' he said aloud. Now he was opting for sobriety. What was Lewis doing to him? A few minutes with this angel and he desperately wanted to be virtuous. Is this why the angelic armies were so feared among the legions of the damned? Was their very presence enough to promote goodness and light?

'Perhaps we could go somewhere else to talk,' he stammered.

'I'd like that,' said the Lewis creature. How easy, he thought. 'Follow me. I live nearby.'

'Poor devil,' said Elvis to himself as he watched Arsonoth leave the bar. 'He doesn't know what hit him. I hope Lewis is gentle with him.'

Four hours later, the only part of Arsonoth's mind that remained capable of rational thought concluded that the author of All You Need to Know About the Human Male But Were Too Disgusted to Ask, Fully Illustrated and with Practical Exercises You Can Do at Home was a complete ignoramus. He had no idea of what the human body could do, or at least what Lewis could do with, to, above, below, and within the human body.

There was the matter of kissing, for example. Lewis had begun by running the tip of his tongue over Arsonoth's lips. This had been followed by the gradual insertion of his tongue further and further into Arsonoth's mouth, provoking Arsonoth to suck greedily on Lewis's tongue and draw it even further into his mouth. The warmth and smoothness of Lewis's mouth when he had duplicated Lewis's actions with his own tongue had shocked him. The little murmur of pleasure Lewis had made had brought a stirring of satisfaction to his chest.

Arsonoth had been so intent on enjoying the pleasures of kissing that he had not realised that Lewis had unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and inserted his hand through the opening. He only gradually became aware that his body was experiencing a new source of pleasure in addition to the kissing. Lewis had begun stroking his nipples. At first Lewis's fingertips merely grazed the tip of the nipple. It was the lightest of touches, but Arsonoth could feel the nipple tightening and growing hard in response. Was that possible? And then Lewis rubbed them a little bit more vigorously. Arsonoth moaned.

'Oh good, you have sensitive nipples,' Lewis said. He quickly unbuttoned Arsonoth's shirt further, exposing Arsonoth's pecs. 'Mmmm, lovely,' he said before diving in. Lewis's repertoire of techniques was astonishing: kissing, licking, teasing, pinching, nibbling, even for one divine instant, biting. It was a symphony of orchestrated pleasure.

Arsonoth couldn't decide which part of his body he liked Lewis to touch and kiss most. That spot on his neck beneath the ear--he thought he was going to faint when Lewis began licking that. And it definitely felt wonderful when Lewis had stroked his arse. That had caused his body to shimmer with delight.

But he thought his favourite was Lewis's stroking and kissing of the insides of his thighs. It had been so arousing to have them stroked, Lewis's strong hands gently murmuring sweet nothings over his flesh, his legs spreading apart automatically so that Lewis could reach every inch of his thighs. Then Lewis had slid down and begun licking the insides of his thighs, beginning at the knees and slowly moving up and then down to the knees again, but moving a little bit further up each time, his warm moist tongue derailing conscious thought.

And then Lewis had reached the ballsack. Arsonoth had not known he could moan so loudly. Lewis's tongue had flicked up and down, gliding over the area beneath the sack and then for one electric moment the tip of the tongue darted between Arsonoth's arse and found some spot. Arsonoth didn't know where, but all resistance fled from his body and mind at that moment.

Arsonoth tried to move. He wanted to kiss Lewis and touch his body as Lewis was kissing and touching his, but he couldn't seem to control his arms. He tried to stroke the back of Lewis's head, but his hand flopped about and slid off.

Lewis just laughed, 'Later. You'll have your turn later. For now, just lie back and relax. I'll take care of you.'

Just when Arsonoth thought he couldn't take anymore without exploding, Lewis had begun sucking his cock. Arsonoth's moans faded into whimpers. He couldn't think. He was nothing but the cock that Lewis's tongue was licking, nothing but the ballsack that Lewis was stoking and sucking, nothing but the hot area beneath his cock that Lewis was licking, nothing but the tight hole that the tip of Lewis's tongue was probing.

And then Lewis stroked the head of his own cock against Arsonoth. Arsonoth raised his legs and rested his ankles on Lewis's shoulders. Lewis's cock pressed against him and then into him. Slowly at first and then, as he relaxed, surging swiftly into him. Lewis let it rest so that Arsonoth could grow accustomed to it.

It wasn't like being invaded, thought Arsonoth. More like being joined, a pressure within his body. He gently squeezed his arse muscles to test the sensation. Lewis grunted and then began to move. The range of motions and positions and the different feelings they caused surprised Arsonoth. The slow wave of pleasure moving from his groin upward with the unhurried strokes. The overwhelming mindless exhaustion the furious thrusting brought. And then a star went supernova behind his eyelids.

In the morning, Arsonoth woke to find his chest and stomach pressed closely against Lewis's back. His arms encircled Lewis's body and held it tightly. His cock lay in the crack between Lewis's arse cheeks. It was almost as incredibly hard as Lewis's glutes. He raised his head and looked at the sleeping Lewis. The angel lay defenceless in his arms. He could do what he wanted. Victory was nigh. His eyes fell on Lewis's neck. Such lovely flesh, so taut, so firm, so smooth. So tempting. Surely one kiss wouldn't hurt. One kiss and then he would fulfil his mission. Where was it on his neck that Lewis had kissed him last night that had caused his body to quiver? Arsonoth picked out what he thought was the corresponding spot on Lewis's neck and kissed it. Lewis stirred in his arms, and his sigh of contentment made Arsonoth's flesh come alive. Perhaps just one more kiss, or two. He could risk two. He had plenty of time to finish his mission later, and purely for educational purposes he ought to investigate the potential of the male body a bit further. He would put his findings in his report.

Arsonoth reproduced Lewis's movements from the night before to the best of his abilities. Lewis seemed to like what he was doing. A few innovations and variations occurred to Arsonoth, and he tried those out. Lewis seemed to like those as well. Later, when Arsonoth thought through his experiences, he decided that making love to Lewis had given him as much pleasure as had Lewis making love to him. Those little gasps that Lewis made, the sharp intakes of breath, the moans that came from deep inside his chest, the way that Lewis's body had spasmed when they both came together--knowing that Lewis was enjoying what he was doing had been like a reward that increased his own pleasure. That was a new phenomenon. He would have to investigate this further. Obviously there was more to this sex thing than Hell understood. And Lewis seemed very willing to help him with his researches.

Lewis hadn't even complained when he came so quickly. 'I couldn't hold back any longer,' he apologized. 'It just felt so stupendous.' (Even wanting to apologize sincerely was a new sensation for him. He found that he liked it, especially since Lewis had smiled so nicely at him.)

Lewis just laughed. 'Don't worry. I can teach you some delaying techniques.'

Lewis spent the next several days demonstrating those techniques. To Arsonoth's delight, Lewis was quite ecstatic about the results of his tutelage.

The Arsonoth who breezed into the St George shortly after noon bore so little resemblance to the person who had left with Lewis a week earlier that Elvis didn't recognise him immediately. He was frayed about the edges and he looked as if it had been several days since he had last slept well, but overall he was happier and more satisfied, Elvis decided. Lewis must have worked his usual magic.

'Another vodka tonic?' Elvis asked.

Arsonoth laughed. 'Not now. Lewis is meeting me here shortly for lunch. I'll wait until he arrives.' He sat down at one of the tables, all of his attention focused expectantly on the door.

Elvis reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle from the back. He poured the clear liquid into a small glass and carried it over to Arsonoth.

'What's this?' Arsonoth asked in surprise.

'It's water from the River Lethe. Drink it and you will forget your previous life. All you will remember is the cover story prepared for you.'

'What are you talking about?' Arsonoth stared at the glass. Could such a small amount of liquid really make him forget his former existence?

Elvis didn't answer. He merely smiled enigmatically and walked back to the bar.

Arsonoth tried to feign confusion about the meaning of the bartender's remarks. He tried not to stare at Elvis lest the demon within out himself. Did Elvis know his real identity? How had he found out? His angel was the only one who could have known about him, and Lewis had not once by a word or a look betrayed any awareness that Arsonoth was a demon. Never during the entire week had he said anything to reveal that he knew who Arsonoth was. Not even last night, during their walk on the beach, when they had opened up to each other.

Last night. That must be what Heaven was like. The two of them had walked along the beach, holding hands. They took their shoes and socks off and carried them as they strolled next to the water. It had felt so strange to Arsonoth at first. A wave would break against the beach and the water would foam up the sand and bubble around his feet, tickling his toes. And then it would drain back into the Channel as his feet sunk into the sand. They had laughed when the bottoms of their trousers became wet, and Lewis showed him how to roll the legs up. His calves and his feet became coated with sand. Other couples they passed smiled at them in recognition. The night was filled with good feeling. When they reached a deserted section of the beach, Lewis had tugged him over to a dry area and pulled Arsonoth down beside him. They were still holding hands, their bodies in contact from their shoulders to their feet.

Arsonoth turned towards Lewis to speak and saw the moon reflected in his eyes, miniature silver crescents. 'Lewis, I . . .' Arsonoth struggled to find a name to put to his feelings for Lewis.

Lewis smiled wisely. He lifted Arsonoth's hand to his lips and kissed it. 'I know. I feel the same way about you, Lee.'

'My angel.'

'You keep calling me that. I'm not an angel, you know. I've done lots of things I shouldn't have done. But all that's going to change now, now that you've come into my life.'

The two of them talked for several hours about themselves and their future, until it became too cold to sit on the beach. As they were walking back to Lewis's flat, Arsonoth felt better than he had ever felt in his many centuries of existence. He glowed inside.

'Oh, I see you started without me.' A hand clapped Lee on the shoulder. Lewis bent over and pressed his face against Lee's and then hugged him.

Lee stared at the empty glass. He couldn't recall drinking it. 'I was thirsty. Elvis gave me a glass of water.'

Lewis kissed him and then sat down opposite him. Their hands met over the centre of the table, and the two lovers leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching.

Elvis permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction at another mission accomplished as he watched the two of them out of the corner of his eyes. It was long since past time for Lewis to settle down. And the demon Arsonoth--well, he would have to be called Lee from now on--was a perfect mate for him. From time to time a bit of the old devil would surface to keep their love fresh and exciting.

It had been a stroke of luck that his name had been mangled by the operatives of Hell. But, then, they so seldom got things right. Reverse the first two letters, double the 'v' to form a 'w', 'Elvis' becomes 'Lewis', and a demon finds love. That switch had made his job so much easier. Lee had been primed to meet Lewis, and the rest was fate.

'Now, what am I going to do about Henry Purslane and Nigel Lovage?' he thought. Poor Nigel sat there day after day from opening until closing attempting to drown his sorrows in pint after pint of soda water. He moaned about Henry's sudden and to him inexplicable refusal to see him to anyone who would listen. What Nigel didn't understand, of course, was that Henry was convinced that he was underendowed and thought that Nigel would laugh at him should he ever see him naked. The silly boy. Elvis would have to convince Henry to break his rule about never looking at pornography. A half-hour visiting a few websites devoted to larger males would allow Henry to compare his own equipment to those supposedly well-endowed studs and realise that upon seeing Henry naked for the first time, Nigel's response would be not laughter but salivation.