Of all the realms and planes of existence, only one is so foul that even its creators dare not speak of it. The true name of that place has long since been lost to the mysteries of time. Even so, rumors have percolated through the black corners of the abyss. In hushed tones, the denizens of the lower planes hiss and spit in shadows another name, The Prison at the Edge of Everything!

Below the depths of the lowest plane of the infinite abyss, further than the rime glaciers of hell, and out where the waters of the river Styx wash away into nothingness lies a cold iron chain that hangs out above the void at the end of the world. Tethered off against the nothing floats a barren rock. Upon this rock lies a tangled web of steel-forged chains hammered by dark dwarves in mines of the hellish Gehenna.

Delicate Atlantean runes carved in the lifeblood of some dead titian line the shackles, leading toward the center where the sole prisoner sits, weighted down under so many chains that his countenance is almost invisible. We say almost, dear reader, because but one part of the inmate is clear to see, even from a distance. Shining with an unholy hatred are his eyes, black holes that speckle with pinpoints of light.

This, located on the edge of the universe, is The Prison at the Edge of Everything, resting place of Thorm Athow. The spell that sunk Atlantis banished Athow’s soul to this desolate prison, far beyond the reach of the meanest creature in all creation. Lurking on the edge of this void, beyond that which comes from the Greatest God, are beings of the eldritch planes of which we know naught. These Lovecraftian entities judged Athow by strange means and determined his fate.

His soul was to sit with them for eternity, locked out of the afterlife at the barrier between the realms of our universe and theirs. But magic travels on strange currents, dear reader, and a tiny chip in one of the runes made by an inattentive dwarf shaman created a gap in the spell weave that bound Athow. Over eons, that gap grew until Athow found a means to pry it loose.

Of course, the Outer Gods deal in unknowable and incomprehensible mysteries, dear reader, and it is possible they intended such a defect. However, the spells they designed did not allow Athow to go free. Instead, he merely gained the ability to cast out his magic, using it as a crutch to replace his lost mobility. So it was that many a black petitioner, replete with nigromantic texts and horrid spells of lost origins made the long and arduous pilgrimage to The Prison at the Edge of Everything hoping to bargain with the imprisoned wizard. Perhaps it was the intent of The Outer Gods all along, dear reader, that they should dangle Athow like some candied bait just beneath the water of our dimension, for many a petitioner went out to the gaol and never returned.

Regardless, Athow treated those that did attend him and grew in both knowledge and power, finally gaining the ability to project his form to the other planes with some effort. It was through these efforts that he first heard rumors of the return of his beloved Belinda and a twisted desire to possess her once more grew in his loathsome chest. But such a tale is for another time, dear reader, for we do not travel on the arcane lines of the incomprehensible gods and so have no way of seeing into Athow’s wizened heart. Indeed, even this limited peek we now dare carries great risk. While our perspective flits about the mortal and immortal worlds, this journey to the edge of everything tests that limit. We dare not attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible, lest we stumble upon some secret congress of those eldritch horrors.

It is a testament, then, to the might of the creature that stands before Athow now that it does not run away gibbering in fear and madness. Instead, the thing appears calmly before the wizard’s stocks. Unperturbed by the yawning space behind him, the figure of a man wearing and all-white robe with a pointed hood stands before Athow. His voice carries a faint German accent as it speaks with a zealot’s tone.

“Why have you trafficked in my time Wizard?”

Athow’s bony face does not move, nor does it answer. When he replies, his voice seems to emanate from the misty void behind, beneath, and above the prison all at once. “Soneillon, prince of Thrones, bow before me.”

Unmoved, the demon answers, “I am not some weak thing like the imp you sent after Belinda. I am a Named Demon and a prince of Hell. I bow before nothing.”

Reality seems to distort and twist in upon itself as the cold pinpricks of light in Athow’s black eyes gleam bright. Soneillon hisses underneath his hood as the contest grows between the two. Impossibly, the chains begin to rattle as if a faint wind were pushing them about behind the dark. To the observer, it would appear as if the air began to bubble and boil, various pieces of reality dripping down and falling like globs of simmering fat into the maw beneath the prison. As the first droplet of existence falls sideways and out of sight, the faint whine of accursed flutes trickles in between the combatants.

Instantly the pair drops all enmity and freeze, their mortal combat forgotten. Both demon and wizard know that their little contest came close to attracting the attention of something thankfully beyond their ken.

“Wizard,” begins Soneillon, “you have nothing to offer me.”

“The summons was never completed,” replies Athow.

Waving his gloves hand, Soneillon says, “Immaterial. It is gaining in power, soon it will be strong enough for me to pierce the firmament and enter the mortal realm.”

“Soon to an immortal is not soon to a mortal.”

“Your point?” Soneillon asks in a bored voice.

Athow’s eyes flash hungrily. “You will need to wait until the girl dies. It could be years, decades or more before she succumbs. My magic can hasten the process, empowering the summoning and allowing you purchase upon the land of the living much sooner.”

Leaning forward, Soneillon says, “How much sooner?”

“Mere hours,” hisses Athow.

Rocking back on his heels, Soneillon contemplates the offer. Then, he speaks. “You want something only I can offer Wizard. You have some mission you need accomplished on the other side.”

The soft clink of the chains is the only indication of Athow’s subtle nod to the devil. “Indeed. I have a task for you.”

“Your offer is too low, Athow.”

“Too low? Too LOW?”

“Yes.”

Athow does not say anything, letting time stretch out between the two. Here, beyond the confines of mere reality, time becomes a plaything, reacting to the whims of the least of the abominations lurking in the beyond. So, dear reader, we cannot know how long the two stood considering one another. All we can say is that to any who stood at the edge of everything and gazed out upon the meeting, it would appear as if that self-same distortion in reality that disturbed the Eternal Slumberer returned in between eye-blinks.

Then, Athow spoke.

“It is a simple thing, what I want, oh prince of demons.”

“But it is not a simple thing for you to do Athow, and a devil’s bargain always favors the devil.”

“I am no Faustian fool,” warns Athow, “you will find me a far worse foe.”

“And yet here you are making deals with the devil.”

“Perhaps it is you who stand poised to bargain with something you do not truly understand, Soneillon.”

The demon cocks his head to the side. Then, in a whirl, he transforms into a blond-haired blue-eyed officer in a Nazi uniform. “I hold no illusions, Athow,” he says. “I am the simplest of sins; for all that I am not among the deadly seven. Hate springs eternal in men’s hearts, lured there by urges far more enticing than I could ever be.”

“Then I will be direct,” replies Athow. “I can empower the ritual far beyond that which the girl was capable of doing. I can provide you with enough mystic power to stay on Earth for as long as you like, indulging in whatever you wish.”

Soneillon flicks away an invisible piece of lint from the edge of his SS uniform. “I have experienced such things before. But would you like to know a secret?”

Athow nods slightly, moving subtly within the confines of the great manacles.

“I was not present for this,” Soneillon gestures to his uniform. “A traveling occultist banished me for sixty six thousand six hundred and six moons after that business in France. I was barely able to catch the downfall of the Khmer Rouge when I returned. It wasn’t until Rwanda that I was able to truly let loose, and all the while all I could think about was how bittersweet it was to have missed the melodic sounds of Jews sizzling in crematorium pyres, the delightful agony of the Chinese women in Nanking, and the delicious terror of the gulags.”

Athow’s skeleton face contorts into a rictus grin. “If you wish for the chance to prove you can outdo-”

“No,” interrupts Soneillon. “What the mortals do to themselves is far more entertaining that anything I can do to them. I am tired of plying my trade for the chance to destroy them.” Shifting again, Soneillon takes the form Roman senator. “They have made an industry of suffering and an art of hate. I want to watch the rise of the next Pol Pot, Hitler, Robespierre, Stalin, Bin Laden, or… or…” Soneillon lets his hand roll and waves helplessly. “Or… whoever comes next.” There is a wistful note of longing in his voice as he speaks.

“I can give you that,” promises Athow. “I can promise you purchase upon the mortal world until the engines of hate grind the humans to dust.”

Excited, Soneillon’s form shimmers and takes on the appearance of a bearded, swarthy faced man in a turban and robes. “You can grant me forever?”

“So long as you are not banished.”

Soneillon strokes his beard, considering the offer. Murmuring to himself, he says, “Allahu Akbar. Deus Vult. Two sides of the same bloody coin.”

“Explain.” demands Athow.

Soneillon lifts his gaze and meets the shining black orbs of the wizard. “The words mean, 'God wills it.' Each the rallying cry of a crusade, each the target of one another, each utterly convinced it is God himself who blesses their endless hate. The message is immaterial, what matters is that there are words at all. Meaning is something for the seekers to manufacture. Soneillon pauses, considering his words. "For you, they might mean good news if that is what you want to find.”

“And what do you imagine I want to find?”

The demon spreads his hands wide. “Hate drives men Athow. Even now, hate and love drive you forth. I think I would enjoy spitting in the face of," he glances upward, "Him in this fashion once more." Then a grin splits his face as he adds, "Besides, they are my people now. What kind of God would I be if I ignored their prayers?”

“And you reward those prayers?”

Nodding, Soneillon answers, “Oh yes. I grant them nothing but more hate, more blood, and more death. But the wheel of humanity turns, and their descendants forget the lessons their father's learned at my whip. When they do, they come crawling back to my teat each time. I find myself nostalgic for those halyclon days of gore and agony.”

With cold intensity, Athow says, “You want to plunge them back into the abyss?”

Shaking his head, the devil laughs. “No Athow, you misunderstand. I want humanity to reach the edge of the abyss, stare down and recognize my hand in their failures and promise themselves not to succumb to hate. They make such lovely promises, and it makes their fall all the sweeter each time.” The demon turns a contemplative look at the skeletal wizard as he adds, "And it would seem talking about it has made me itch with anticipation. I am overeager to let them fall once again. But then, you knew I would be. I assume this is why you let me ramble on like some old Screwtape, you knew I would wax nostalgic."

If the skeletal figure could smile any wider, it would. In a pleased voice, Athow intones, “Then you will find it easy to do as I ask,” declares Athow. "For what I want is but a trifle compared to the glorious destruction you desire."

“What would you ask of me?”

Athow's rictus grin gleams, his bony expression conveying inhuman malice. “I need you to kill certain females for me.”

We wish dear reader, that we might impart to you more of what these two spoke. But we cannot linger long on the tattered edge of everything, not without attracting the attention of some Thing that Lurks on the Threshold. So it is that we depart, grateful that we did not brush to close to those gibbering mists moving past the edge. Mercifully, our attentions return to the much safer reality next week in… “Queen's Gambit!”