Demon. Or devil. Hopefully not a yugoloth, those were always my least favorite fiends in Dungeons & Dragons. We should really ask about this setting’s naming convention.

The curling ram’s horns, cloven hooves, and barbed tail all make it pretty clear that this man is fiendish in nature. His skin belies the big red devil trope for a more normal light brown, but his eyes are a delightfully unnatural combination of black sclera and lilac irises. His hair is dark like mine but shorter and neater, and his facial features are strong in that “conventionally attractive” way. The only article of clothing he’s wearing is a pair of shiny leather pants, or maybe faux leather.

My overall impression of the fiend would be one of handsomeness if he didn’t look so malnourished: skin stretched tight, bulging veins, and sunken stomach. There are bags under his eyes, and though he’s put on a charming grin he can’t hide the strain at the edges of his mouth like it’s costing him just to smile.

He’s looking me over as I examine him, and for a moment I see something I can’t decipher wash over his face before he masters himself and the grin returns. He catches my eye and gives me a wink, then spreads his hands.

“A warm welcome, my new friend.” His voice is honeyed and deep but not too perfect, not unnatural like the choral voice of the monster that nearly killed me. There is something altogether human about his voice, something comforting and friendly that puts me on edge. “I heard the commotion of your scrap with my warden and I was expecting someone wearing power armor and carrying a halberd. That you managed to defeat the sin eater with merely your wits and a dagger speaks volumes of your ability,” he flatters me.

I’m taken aback at the role reversal–and at the mention of “power armor,” did I mishear?–but manage to keep my smirk fixed to my face. Didn’t you hear me crying and screaming? I sounded pathetic. Then I put the pieces together. Right, duh. Fiend bound in a ritual circle, first face he’s seen in however long, and he needs to play nice with me to get out of his prison. We’re both lying in the hopes of getting something.

Well, let’s run with it. “It was in my way,” I reply in a light tone. “I had to put it down so it wouldn’t interrupt our conversation.”

“Oh? Did you come all this way just for me? I’m flattered, truly.” He makes a half-bow but doesn’t break eye contact. “What can this humble imp offer you?”

Imp, got it. I step further into the room and try to match his casual energy. Or maybe he’s matching mine, after my dismissal of the monster? Sin eater, he called it. “You can offer your name, for a start. Call me Malice.”

Another crack in the mask, a brief twitch of facial expression, but it is quickly mastered and put away before I can figure out what it means. He rises from the bow and puts on a face of consternation. “Ah, you have my deepest apologies for failing to introduce myself properly. I am Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming, a masterless incubus. It is a pleasure to meet you, Malice.”

It’s almost unfair, the way Bashekehi says my name so respectfully. He says “Malice” like my name is the best name he’s ever heard, like he can’t even conceive of a worthier name. It hurts to hear, especially after Eirdryd’s mockery. I swallow and force myself to answer, though my voice is nowhere near as smooth and controlled as his. “Likewise, Bashekehi. You have an admirable way with words.”

He smiles again, seeming prideful and sincere, but I recognize that he’s probably a much better manipulator than I am and could be faking even this. “My thanks, Malice. I am glad to hear that my speech has not rusted in the years I have been trapped within this cage.”

Years? I guess that tracks with how spoiled the food was. “How long have you been trapped here, Bashekehi? Do you know?”

The incubus shrugs. “At least two years, possibly longer. I kept count for some time, but incubi are not suited to stillness and so my attention waned. But if you came to find me, perhaps my stillness is over at last. Please, Malice, tell me: what desire brought you to an imp of temptation and excess?”

Hmm. How do I respond to that? What do I want out of him? Wait, what if he asked me that to make me think about it so he could read my thoughts or something? Slowly, putting on not-entirely-faked airs of curiosity, I ask, “Can’t you tell? I always imagined a being like yourself would be able to sense those things.”

He chuckles. “Indeed. To my discerning eyes, shallow wants come easy and even deeper yearnings take only a bit of focused peering. But your soul is…difficult to read.” The incubus quickly adds, “Take that as a compliment, please. I’ve never met someone who could foil my sight so effortlessly.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “I’m flattered. Well then, allow me to answer your question with another: what can you offer me? I know stories of incubi, tales of what they want and what they’re capable of, but I am uncertain of the veracity of those fables.” I tilt my head curiously. “Enlighten me.”

I notice his barbed tail twitch in two directions as if about to swish back and forth, but then it stills again. “I can offer a great many things. Indulgence is my purview, the domain of lust, excess, and want. I have made princes of paupers and ruined casinos with a subtle touch; if you desire riches, they will be yours. I can show you every mortal delight under the sun, pleasures that would make the finest of courtesans green with envy. I can extend your lifespan, make you faster than a competitive runner, and reshape your appearance to your heart’s desire.”

He’s watching me like I’m watching him, each of us searching for signals. I’m sure I’m giving a great deal away; though I try to control my expression and keep up that mask of curious detachment, his speech is undeniably tantalizing. Not the riches or the pleasures, of course; what draws me in is the promise of longevity. Eternal life.

There is a flicker in his eyes, a light that I can only take to be triumph. Bashekehi takes a step toward me and presses one hand against an invisible wall, the boundary line of the salt circle. He smiles at me and says, “Ten years, a hundred, even a thousand could be possible. Only a whisper of mana to rejuvenate this tired form and I can make that dream a reality. If you make a contract with me, I will strive with all my being to repay your generosity. I will–”

I sweep my shoe across the salt and break the circle.

There is a rush of stale air as the barrier is shattered, and then the imp is free. Bashekehi stares at me, false charm replaced by pure, raw confusion. Tentatively, as if fearing a trick, he passes his hand over the salt line. I revel in his bafflement, exulting in the sight of a genuine incubus rendered speechless.

He steps over the line with one hoof, then the other, and he’s free. Bashekehi glances at the broken circle, then back to me. He gapes at me, fish-mouthed, still incapable of mustering words. It takes him maybe a full minute to finally say, “You…you broke the circle. You let me out.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“Without making a contract first.”

“Also yes.” Even if we get nothing out of this, I’m calling it a win just for that dumbstruck face.

The incubus keeps staring at me. “You could have had anything. You could have demanded the world of me and I would have had no choice but to exhaust myself trying to give it to you. Why didn’t you make a contract? Why would you free an imp without making even the most basic of bargains? No one is that altruistic, so why?” A bit of frustration seeps into his tone, or perhaps anger, and mixes with the lingering confusion.

“Narrative consequences,” I reply unhelpfully. I can’t help it, I’m finding it so fun to wind him up.

“The fuck what?”

“Narrative consequences,” I repeat. “See, if I forced you into a lopsided bargain under threat of continued isolation–a leonine contract, if you want to call it by its trope–then that would give you the narrative backing to betray me at a later date and get away with it. Plus, you’d probably resent me and want to betray me for having forced you into servitude under duress. But if I free you without asking for anything, you’ll be more positively predisposed toward me and will have the narrative against you if you betray me later. This way is easily ten times safer, trust me.”

Bashekehi stares at me for another long moment before shouting, “THAT is your reason!? I’m not a wyldfae, and you’re definitely not any kind of spiritbound, so why the fuck would you think those rules apply to either of us?”

Huh. Well, that’s definitely not the reaction I was expecting. So, does this setting actually have narrative laws as a mechanic? And it only applies to some people?

The incubus puts his face in his hands and mutters, “I’ve been rescued by a girl who thinks like a damned faerie. Unbelievable.”

Bashekehi takes a step toward the door and stumbles, so I rush to catch him and hold him up. He’s light, too light, and as I prop him up I pretend to be concerned and ask, “Hey, are you okay? I mean, obviously you’re not, you’ve been alone in a boring room for literal years, but are you okay?”

The imp winces and steadies himself. He forces himself to stand ramrod straight, but he doesn’t back away after I let go. His hands are held like claws at his sides, straining, and the look on his face is bleak. Within his eyes I see desperation and hunger.

“Starving,” he murmurs. “I am starved. It’s been years since I last fed, and I’m surviving on the very dregs of my essence.”

I chew my lip. He’s not much use to me if he dies of malnutrition. Hmm, maybe we could kill a flock of birds with one stone. “Hey, you’re an incubus, right? I don’t know what that means for you, but the stories I’ve read all say that incubi feed on sex. That true?”

A bit of mirth bleeds back into his face. “To a point. We feed on excess, of which sex is one of the more pleasurable forms for most. My preference leans closer to the excess found in casinos and gambling dens, but I’m not one to say no to a spot of carnal feeding.” He glances me over, his gaze searching, and frustration passes over his face before being wiped away. He’s trying to peer into my soul, maybe, and coming away stymied. Assuming he was telling the truth about that. “Why do you ask, Malice?”

I gesture at my body and ask, “Could you feed on me, then?” I try to keep my tone light and curious.

His gaze sharpens and his presence looms larger in the room. “If you’re offering. But I should warn you that in my current state, I might not be gentle once I’ve gotten a taste of my food.” He says the line like one of those “I’m dangerous and that’s sexy” characters from a bodice-ripper, all dark and brooding.

“Will it kill me?” Probably should have asked that first, honestly, or some variation of it.

He shakes his head emphatically. “No, not a chance. It would make us rather poor partners if imps of Indulgence killed with every sexual encounter.”

I shrug. “Then go ahead and feed. I don’t mind.” Wait. That might sound too passive. I add, “By which I mean: I give my full and enthusiastic consent to whatever weird incubus things you are about to do to me.”

His answering laugh is deep and rich, and then he’s close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my neck. One hand trails along my outer thigh while the other traces circles on the arm not attached to a dagger. I note it all clinically and start rehearsing lines in my head; I want to give a good performance. He’s a little shorter than me, maybe just an inch, so I adjust my posture so it’s easier for him to loom over me if he feels so inclined.

Bashekehi’s lips lean down toward my neck, but he pauses before actually touching my throat. “You… are not attracted to me. Not in the slightest.”

“You’re very handsome,” I reassure him.

Bashekehi draws back and gives me a reprimanding look. “I am an incubus. Sensing that kind of desire is my specialty, and even if I can’t discern your deeper motives I can still read some of your surfacemost desires, and your body language. This isn’t arousing for you, and you don’t expect it to be.”

“True,” I admit. “If I were the straight lead in a romance novel I’m sure this would be exhilarating, but since I’m a lesbian it mostly interests me in the abstract.” I tilt my head curiously. “Is my enjoyment a requirement for you to feed?” I’m surprised at the idea that it might be. I may have to put aside a lot of my assumptions about incubi.

The imp pulls back further. “What kind of question is that? No, really, what kind of question is that? You’re talking about–” He breaks off, looking disturbed now. “Why would you think like that?”

I shrug. “I assumed the physical component would suffice. The body can respond to certain stimuli with certain somatic responses, regardless of how the mind feels about the source of those stimuli. That’s sometimes true of even the worst kind of sexual interaction.”

That look on his face worsens. “That’s not how I feed. Whatever else I may be, however hungry I may get, that will never be the kind of person that I am. Never.”

Oh, we may have phrased that poorly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything about you or make you uncomfortable.” It’s a shame, I was hoping to have that source of leverage. Still, we might be able to use this in other ways.

Bashekehi rubs his forehead and leans against the nearest wall, tail swishing in agitation. “Why would you do something like that? Why would you offer your body to me when you are gay? Wouldn’t that be deeply unpleasant for you?”

I smirk at him. “I’m willing to do all manner of unpleasant things if they get me closer to my goals, and a bit of incompatible sex is far from the worst thing on that list.” I snort and add, “If you think that’s bad, listen to this: a couple of hours ago I sold my name to a faerie from the Wild Hunt.”

“It’s like you’re waging a war on common sense,” he marvels. “You’ve completely abandoned rational thinking.”

“I prefer to think of it as a high-risk high-reward approach,” I say with another shrug. “Playing it safe is for people who can afford to deal in small losses and small gains.”

“Do you really think you can afford to take large losses?” He rolls his black-and-lilac eyes and crosses his arms, tail swishing again. “You sell your name to a Rider, you free an imp without making a contract, and you try to offer your body to an incubus that you aren’t attracted to. Continue that pattern and you’ll be dead by year’s end.”

“Probably,” I admit. Alright, now for the hard sell. “Which is why I can’t keep going it alone.”

The imp does not seem surprised by my sudden pitch, and he just quirks an eyebrow in response.

“You asked me what I wanted, before I broke the circle. What I desired of you, Bashekehi. Well, here it is: I want a teacher. Someone to help me learn the things I don’t know, and to point it out when I make mistakes. Left to my own devices I’ll undoubtedly encounter some even worse monster and trade it my heart for a few good books, so I need someone like you, Bashekehi, to keep that from happening. I need a voice of reason.”

“What?” This time he sounds properly baffled.

“Travel with me, Bashekehi.” I hold out a hand. “Make a contract with me and become the devil on my shoulder. Follow me on the path I walk. Help me seek knowledge, help me gather power, and help me learn from my mistakes so that I can avoid making them again. When you see me about to do something reckless, warn me before I jump.”

“You’re asking a temptation imp to be your impulse control?” Disbelief drips from every word. “Do you understand how ridiculous that is? My whole purpose in life is to tempt people into indulging their desires, not to caution people against them!”

“And yet, when I offered myself to you, offered something you desperately wanted and needed, when the only objection was a petty moral objection, you balked. You chose to stay hungry rather than cross the line I was inviting you over. Are you really going to say that I can’t trust you after that?”

Shock, then open suspicion. “Did you…did you set that up to test me!?”

I make a so-so gesture with the hand not holding a dagger. “I rarely have just one reason for doing something. Learning more about you was one objective, but you wouldn’t have failed any test if you’d gone through with it. Both outcomes were deemed acceptable.”

“You…” The incubus trails off. He continues to stare me down, and I let him think. When he speaks again it is slower, careful. “If I said yes, what would you offer in return? If you expect to leverage gratitude alone you’ll find me unreceptive.”

I shake my head firmly. “Not at all; I believe that people are motivated primarily by selfish desires, so those are what I’ll appeal to. Consider this, Bashekehi: if you are the warden of my self-control and the arbiter of my impulses, then you get to decide when it’s okay for me to let loose and indulge those reckless desires. Your very role has its own reward baked in.”

His tone is skeptical. “You would sabotage the contract before it’s even been signed.”

“Not sabotaged, just given certain release valves. Believe me, I would hate to listen to reason all the time.”

“Do you have any idea what an insane statement that is?” he mutters. I politely ignore him.

“What’s more, I’m going to be getting into a lot of trouble in the days to come, and I expect there will be plenty of opportunities for a creature like you to feed on what results.” I tilt my head again. “Am I wrong?”

He looks at me, then at my outstretched hand. “You’re mad. Utterly mad. So how are you making that sound so tempting? You are, genuinely, a walking temptation.”

“I try,” I say proudly.

“I can tell.” He seems pensive, but he hasn’t agreed yet. I need to push a little further.

“This is a chance you’ll never get again, Bashekehi. The path I’m walking, the destiny in front of me, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. Azathoth as my witness, I swear: be my lancer, Bashekehi, and I will show you a feast like no other.”

The world shivers as the Dreamweaver bears witness to my promise. Bashekehi’s eyes widen as he glances once more between my face and my outstretched hand. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I am. Are you in?”

The imp pushes himself off the wall. He takes a step toward me, delicately takes my hand, and says, “No.”