Wielding a Red Sword (29 page)

“I
hate
you! You are a creature of Evil!”

“Well, then, you can hate me,” she agreed, stroking
her own torso suggestively. “Summon me to your bed and revile me freely while you—”

“Get out of here!” he cried, clenching his fist.

“Make me, Mym,” she suggested, striking another seductive pose.

He paused. He knew that if he took hold of her, she would twine against him, trying to seduce him. If he cut her up, she would reconstitute, in due course. She was a demoness, not subject to the ordinary limitations of mortals. So he avoided those alternatives and confined himself to words. “How can you intrude here, against my will?”

“
Is
it against your will, Mym?” she inquired, taking a step toward him.

“Of course it is!”

“Do I not tempt you with my flesh and my willingness?”

“No!”

She shook her head. “Every lie you tell brings you closer to Hell, Mym. Then you will be mine indeed.”

“This is my castle! You have no right to intrude!”

“This is not your castle, Mym. This is an intermediate ground, where mortals, immortals, and the damned may meet.”

“This is the garden annex to the Castle of War!”

“This is an extension of your garden annex. You are no longer on your own turf, Mars. Otherwise you would not be able to speak without stuttering.”

That gave him pause. It was true that only in this region could he speak normally, avoiding both singsong and stuttering. That was one of the things that attracted him to it. But such speech was a gift of Satan, and he should not allow himself to be affected by it.

This reminded him of another aspect of the region. “Rapture was able to eat, here. How was this possible, if this is merely a compromise aspect of Purgatory?”

“It extends to overlap the mortal realm,” Lila explained. “The table of viands is actually at one of our mortal locations, topologically convoluted to appear local.”

“So she wasn’t really remaining here!” he exclaimed.

“That depends on your definition of ‘here,’ Mym. Reality is as one perceives it.”

“Or so Satan would like to have others believe—that lies are reality, because he is the master of lies.”

“Master of Illusions,” she said, as if clarifying a carelessly employed term. “Once one believes an illusion, it becomes reality. If you were to accept me as a real woman—”

“I know you are not!”

“But I could make it easy to forget. For example, if I assumed another form—” she shimmered and became the likeness of Rapture.

“Get out of that form!” Mym shouted.

“Why—doesn’t it appeal to you?”

“I don’t want you in that form!” he could only say, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of inciting his further anger. It was evident that demons did not have human emotions, but only emulated them.

“Then I shall offer you another form.” She shimmered again and assumed the likeness of Orb.

“No!” Mym cried, half in anguish.

The Orb-image shook her lovely head. “You are a challenge to please, Mym. Do you crave slightly less licit delight?” And she became the likeness of Luna.

“I don’t want
any
likeness!” Mym said, appalled.

“I am sure you have noticed how attractive Thanatos’ woman is,” the Luna-likeness said. The insidious thing was that she also sounded exactly like Luna and had whatever mannerisms he had noted in her. “Now you can have her, without stirring up trouble with another Incarnation. You can relish her most private parts—”

“How can I be rid of you?” he demanded.

The Lila form reappeared. “Well, there are several ways, but I think two are most feasible for your situation. One is to retire to your Castle of War, where I can not intrude without your express invitation, and live alone, never emerging to this garden. I dare say that would enhance your prowess as Mars, for you would get pretty violent after a while.”

She spoke truly. That was one of the things that annoyed him most. Lila always spoke the truth—the truth he did not want to hear. “And the other?”

“You could find yourself another woman. Once I see that you are fully satisfied, I will leave you alone, for there will be no hope for me.”

“Demons have hope? Isn’t that a mortal feeling?”

“A mortal illusion,” she said, again correcting him. “But also an immortal one. There is no mortal hope like that of a damned soul who dreams of eventual release to Heaven.”

“But you are not a damned soul; you are a demoness.”

“True. I spoke figuratively. I exist only to corrupt you, in any form I can.” She wavered again and became Lilith.

“You—are she?” Mym asked, appalled again.

“The distinction is meaningless, Mym. I am the demoness assigned to torment you into doing my Master’s will. There is no individuality among demons, and form is but a convenience.”

“So when Satan sent Lilith away and brought you in her place—”

“I only exchanged forms,” she agreed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But she was represented as an ancient succubus, the companion of evil men since time began, while you were represented as a virgin!”

“Representations are but another form of illusion. For you, I would have been a virgin.”

“But that was a lie! I thought you always told the truth!”

“Truth is meaningless to a demon,” she reminded him. “It is only a tool to be used as convenient. But this was not a lie, for there can be neither virginity nor nonvirginity in a demoness. She has no mortal flesh. The only distinction is in your perception—as is the case with mortals, too. Virginity has always been a figment of mortal male imagination.”

What bothered him most was that she was making sense. Perhaps what he deserved was a creature like her, who could meet both his physical and intellectual needs, for she was beautiful and intelligent. But that was the nature of Satan’s trap.

“Then I will find myself a woman!” he said, and stomped away.

“Find Ligeia,” she called after him.

He paused, then turned back. “Why do you advise me like this? Isn’t this to your disadvantage?”

She was Lila again. “Mym, you are an honest man and a good man. I am only a creature of Hell. But while I am with you, I am shaped by your expectations, and I become what you would have me be, for that is the way I serve. Thus I help you in whatever way you ask.”

“But I detest you! I only want to be rid of you!”

“No. You only want to be rid of the demon aspect of me. You deceive yourself when you say otherwise, and because I serve in the way you wish, I become your conscience and correct you on that. Eventually, you will accept me, as you have molded me to be.”

Mym shook his head. “Woman, you are dangerous!”

“I am dangerous,” she agreed. “Because once you accept me, I will subvert you, and you will serve Satan, though you deny it.”

“And you claim you have no emotion?” he asked. “You do not care at all for me, you only labor to subvert me?”

“True.”

“I think you are lying, Lila.”

She averted her gaze, not answering. He looked closely at her and saw a tear at one eye.

He started to speak, but stopped. He reached out to her, but stopped.
Her human emotion—this was the true lie!

And it had almost worked.

He turned away and hurried on down the garden.

The farther reaches of the garden became rougher, as he passed beyond the presentation section. Instead of trimmed hedges, there were unruly bushes, and the animated statues were replaced by irregular pylons of stone. The original pathway deteriorated into a rut, and the flowers that had bounded it now were weeds. Even the weather changed, losing its balmy glow and becoming cold and gloomy.

Mym realized that he should turn back, for this was no place for a man to be. But his cloak protected him from environmental extremes, so he suffered no physical discomfort
and, of course, he didn’t have to walk if he didn’t want to. He could simply use the Red Sword to travel—

Or summon his good steed.

“Werre!” he called.

Immediately he heard the sound of hoofbeats. There was the horse, galloping in from the side. “How glad I am to see you!” Mym cried, hugging Werre about the neck as the animal drew up. Then he mounted. “Take me to Ligeia,” he said, uncertain whether the horse would be able to respond to such a directive.

Werre took off, galloping across the wilderness landscape. Evidently he did know where it was. Soon they reached a barren plateau, a kind of snowy tundra, as desolate as Mym’s romantic prospects. Werre galloped across, and ahead there came into view a sparkling palace, as pretty in its symmetry as the plain was dull.

But the palace came no nearer, though the horse was moving at a velocity no mortal steed could match. Perplexed, Mym sighted carefully at it and discovered that it was like a mirage, keeping a constant distance from them. “Whoa, Werre,” he said, using the occidental term the horse preferred. “I think we have here a special effect.”

He dismounted and walked toward the palace. Now he made progress; it was closer. He called to the horse, but as Werre approached him, the palace receded.

“Now that’s curious,” Mym said. “It is keeping its distance from you, not from me. Well, you have brought me close enough; I’ll use the Sword to take me in the rest of the way. Return to the castle, Werre, and I will rejoin you later.”

Obediently, the horse galloped away. Mym regretted losing him, but if this were the only way to approach this equine-shy domicile, then so be it. He touched the Sword, and in a moment he was standing at the outer wall of the palace.

The structure was larger and prettier than it had seemed from a distance. The wall was of glistening ice and towered up some ten meters before giving way to the first embrasure. Mym tried to climb it, but the ice was tractionless and he could make no headway.

He touched the Sword. “Up,” he murmured.

The Sword lifted him up along the wall to the embrasure. But when he got there he discovered it was halfway illusory; invisibly transparent ice covered it, so that there was no entrance. The turrets were the same; the ice sealed everything in. This castle was tight, iced all over.

He returned to the ground and considered. Though the ice seemed transparent, diffraction increased with depth, so that the interior became opaque. But he was sure this was the right place, because Lila had described it as a castle of frozen mist, and this was that, albeit somewhat more solid than anticipated. Also, Werre had been headed here. He needed to get in, to rescue the damsel in distress.

Mym drew the Sword. “I hate to do it,” he murmured to himself. “But I’ll have to cut my way into the beautiful structure.”

He braced himself and swung at the wall, knowing that the Red Sword could cut through any substance, and could be damaged by none.

And almost fell on his face as the blade passed through the wall without resistance. It was mist indeed!

He recovered his balance and touched the ice again. It was absolutely solid. He knocked at it with a knuckle, and it was hard.

But then how had the Sword—?

He lifted the Sword and poked the point slowly at the wall. It sank in without contact. He moved the blade about, and it swept through the wall without affecting it. What
was
this?

He set his left hand against the cold wall, then passed the blade slowly down through it until the edge touched his hand. The Sword did not cut him, of course; the magic of his office protected him from his own weaponry. The edge nudged him and stopped.

His hand was firm against the wall, while the Sword felt nothing except his hand. To his hand, the wall was solid ice; to the Sword, it was mere mist.

How could he carve an entrance out of mist?

Mym remembered how this palace had been unapproachable by the horse. Now it was untouchable by the Sword.

He retreated a few paces, then unstrapped the harness and set the Sword and scabbard on the snow. He had no concern about losing the weapon; it would come at his beck, and no other person, mortal or immortal, could use it without his leave. It was not physical contact that bound the Sword to him, but the office.

He located a hefty stone, picked it up, and carried it to the wall. The stone weighed about four kilograms and had a ragged point at one side; it would do as a sledgehammer.

He smashed the stone into the wall. The ice cracked, sending radiating lines out in all directions. He struck again, and a chip of ice flaked off. Several more blows gouged out a small crater, then a larger one. Continuing effort broke a hole in it. He bashed away at the edges, until he was able to step through the opening and stand within the palace.

It was as lovely inside as out. There were halls and chambers and stairs, all silent and clean. Light emanated from the ceiling, resembling the Northern Lights. Carpets of ice hung on the walls, with snowflake patterns within that formed pictures of snowscapes.

He walked along those eerie halls, studying it all. Though this palace was cold and would be horrible for a normal person, he found it pleasant. But why had it been constructed? Solely to punish an errant soul? That seemed to be an awful amount of design and effort for a soul that could be made miserable by far simpler means. Yet it did seem to be the case.

He found the central chamber. There, on a kind of pedestal, was a box, formed of transparent ice, and in the box was a bed, and in the bed was a lovely young woman, protected by a coverlet of puffy white snow.

Something about this situation nagged at Mym’s memory. He paused to search it out, and had it: the occidental children’s story of the Slumbering Lovely. She had been enchanted to sleep for a century or so, until a prince of a later generation rescued her.

Apparently it had been a mechanism for merging two lines of royalty when one was not eligible at the appropriate time.

Well, he was, or had been a prince, and the demoness
had called this one the Princess Ligeia. It seemed appropriate to rescue her. Certainly she was beautiful, and seemed to be about his own age, though of course there was no telling how long she had been here; she might be of his grandmother’s generation. Did that matter? Not really; not if she had slept unaware for the intervening time, so remained young in outlook.