Azazel’s bronze feathers rippled as his wings carried him down from the mists above, his form surrounded in white flames.

In the village down below, the mortals scurried about and cried out, “Malakhim! An angel is coming!”

His feet touched down in the middle of the town square, and the village children looked up at him in awe. The adults averted their eyes from the bright, burning messenger before them. Azazel closed his eyes and the fire which surrounded him started to dissipate. The fading flames uncovered golden hair draped in locks over his shoulders and the left half of his face. The hair shone all the more brightly against his umber skin. Azazel stood at least a head taller than any of their parents, and pewter-colored armor, accentuated by that silver glow from its adonium lining, bedecked his torso and thighs.

Azazel closed his wings on his back, but when he moved to do so he felt his flight feathers knock over some of the smaller children who’d drawn near.

Klutz! He cursed himself inwardly.

At his hip rested a sword in its sheath, its copper hilt gleaming in the sun’s light. The village boys stared at the weapon with captivated eyes and jealous fingers.

Azazel smiled at them and gave a friendly nod. “Boys, if you heed the words of your parents, you may one day wield a blade just like this. As grown men, you could make fine crusaders.”

The boys exchanged animated glances with one another, until their grandparents ushered them away. “Leave the angel alone, dear!”

Then came the children’s parents, bringing with them the best from among their livestock. One offered up a goat with long, curled horns. Another a sheep, with perfectly white fleece. Then came chickens, the largest of fish, and one black heifer.

The villagers all formed a circle around the bronze-winged angel, and from among the villagers stepped forward a man with a long, white beard, a crooked nose. His hands were covered in red canyons and callouses gave the appearance of a barren wasteland. The old man held in his hand a staff with a hook on the end.

When the elder addressed Azazel, his staff waved around, and the villagers looked upon it as if the rod, not the elder himself, were speaking. “Agent of the gods, I am called Farmane. On behalf of our village, I welcome you and present these animals as offering.” The elder gestured his hand to the heifer, and the villagers brought it closer. “We would invite you to stay the night in our village and offer to make a feast of this cow to celebrate the day you graced our home.”

Daviel’s tip was spot on, it seems. Azazel knew the real reason they wanted him to stay the night: demons. These people had been having trouble with the unholy beasts lately. They either wanted Azazel to stay the night in case the demons returned, or they merely wished to voice their concerns about the horrors in the area so he could return to his superiors with the news.

But first, and more importantly, Azazel would feast among these mortals who so revered him. Nowhere else would he find the adoration he saw in their eyes.

“Yes,” said Azazel. He nodded his head to the elder. “Slaughter the heifer, and I will spend the night among you and return to my home tomorrow morning.”

. . .

As the villagers prepared for the feast, Azazel gathered the offerings.

He sprawled out his fingers over the ground and turned the dial on the back of the gauntlet until the runes were arranged in the correct order. A breeze swirled around Azazel, and white flames formed a circle on the ground in front of him. In the middle of that ring, a hole opened in the ground, and through that hole, he could see the golden streets of Loka, the angelic city in the clouds above.

One by one, he led the animals through the hole. First the goat, then the sheep, and he simply dropped the chicken inside and closed the portal behind them.

When Azazel returned his attention to the villagers, he saw that they’d already finished slaughtering and were in the process of roasting the heifer. Men from the village rearranged the furniture within the temple to make a suitable dining hall.

Musicians plucked at their instruments, warming up for their imminent performance before their heavenly guest.

The aroma of the roasted heifer filled Azazel’s nostrils, and his lips pulled back in a smile.

But a pit dropped in Azazel’s stomach, and ice-cold fingers crept across his shoulders. A hook gripped Azazel’s heart and tugged him away from the village, and he turned to face whatever had so filled his soul with such dread.

Off to the east was a thick forest, where the trees blacked out the sun’s rays. Shadows moved within the darkness beyond those trunks. Red eyes stared at him from the darkness. A blink and they were gone.

Azazel could feel their wickedness radiating out, a murky aura which gave his flesh thousands of tiny pin-pricks. He guessed that these were the demons the villagers were so afraid of, and his hand lingered over the hilt of his sword.

How many? Three? Maybe four?

Azazel wasn’t certain he could fight more than three of them on his own. He could only hope that if these vile beasts decided to attack, the villagers would fight by his side, and they would be strong enough to make up the difference.

Yet, as he stared out at the forest the dread of their malicious presence lifted from his heart. Certain that they were gone, he rested his hands at his sides.

“What troubles you?” spoke a soft voice from behind him.

“Nothing, anymore.” Azazel sighed, shook his head, and then turned to face the speaker.

Upon laying eyes on her he drew in a sharp breath. She had raven hair, which fell down in silky locks over her pearly shoulders. Her eyes were golden, and her long eyelashes enticed him in to her alluring gaze. Her lips were as red as ripened cherries. Were she perfectly still, Azazel would have thought such a perfect face could only be shaped by the best of sculptors.

Or, perhaps, the gods themselves.

By the knowing and triumphant look in her eye, it was clear this young woman knew Azazel was admiring her beauty. “My name is Madison,” she said with a bow of her head. “Thank you so much for agreeing to stay the night here.”

Azazel’s cheeks and ears burned, and he stammered over his words. “Uh… of course! Your village… umm… showed me… has shown me… hop-sittle… hospital… hospitality.”

The young angel cursed himself for his own foolishness. Messengers of the gods were supposed to appear flawless in the eyes of mortals, but he had made it clear that an attractive woman could start him babbling.

Madison giggled. “The elder sent me to let you know the celebration can begin whenever you are ready.”

So, the elder sent her…

Azazel thought back to his lessons with Daviel, in the days long before he’d even met humans. Daviel told him, “Sometimes small villages will demand that the most beautiful of their young women remain unmarried. Her chastity is then guarded more preciously than any treasure the village holds, because it is their hope that she will either marry or bear the child of an angel, thus forever binding that angel to their village.”

Azazel looked down at Madison’s hands and confirmed for himself that she wore no wedding band.

As if in response to his gaze, Madison reached out her left hand to Azazel. “I can lead the way, if you would like.”

Azazel looked up, just past her, to the temple. Certainly, she didn’t think he’d lose his way when the sanctuary was in sight. No, she was offering her hand to him simply so that she could hold his.

“But, remember this,” Daviel had instructed him, “As an angel of Seth you are bound to serve justice, and justice demands that if you are to take a woman to bed, especially a human woman, you are first to take her as wife. If you choose to take a human woman as your wife, know that you are bound to her for the rest of her life, but that span is only the tiniest blink of the eye compared to how long you will live. Even if you take her to dwell in a heavenly city with you, she will be gone long before you are ready to let her go, and you will spend centuries, even millennia, without her.”

Azazel looked down at her hand. He longed to hold her soft fingers, but he felt as if the instant he did they would turn bony and cold to his touch. That raven hair would turn gray and whither, and her surpassing beauty would fade.

Her lips drew back in a smile. “Why so shy? Come on, let’s get you to the feast.”

That lovely voice…

Azazel clasped her fingers in his own. Her hand was warm and soft to his touch, and his heart beat as rolling thunder. This may end in tragedy, but so many of my mentors spoke of the glorious joy of being in love. I will endure any tragedy for that. Madison led the way, a warm and gentle tug to bring him to the feasting hall prepared for them.

Entering through the temple’s double-doors, Azazel saw every villager seated upon wooden stools around the great dining table. The sun’s light shone through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the room in shades of red, blue, and green. At the opposite end of the room stood a sculpture of a pair of scales; an altar to the god of justice. When Azazel entered, the villagers stood from their stools, bowed their heads, and gestured to a large, wooden chair covered in animal pelts at the head of the table.

Azazel hid his laughter at the seat offered to him. To the humans of this village, that chair was one of their greatest luxuries, reserved for privileged guests. In the heavenly cities, however, such a poorly-made piece of furniture would never be used for anything other than… well, it simply wouldn’t be used.

He took his seat at the head of the table, and his wings rose up to lock behind the chair’s headrest. Madison sat on the stool at his left, and Elder Farmane on the stool at his right.

All eyes waited on Azazel, until the angel picked up the knife on the table and cut the meat before him. The moment the tender morsel touched his tongue, the minstrels began their music, and the villagers began the feast.

Azazel turned to Madison, “That stool looks uncomfortable… don’t we have a more suitable seat for you?”

Madison shrugged. “I’m content here, don’t worry about me. Unless, of course…” she winked at him and raised her eyebrows, “you’d like me to sit in your lap?”

Azazel’s face burned even hotter than before, and he did his best to slow his breathing. His body squirmed, and he stammered, “Y-yes… I th-think I would… umm… p-prefer that.”

Oh, Ashtoreth, goddess of love, thank you!

Madison set down her knife and climbed up into the chair with Azazel. Her supple body slipped onto his thighs, and his mind screamed with a thousand temptations. The craving only grew louder every time she moved, or when he caught the scent of whatever ointment she wore in her hair.

“Honorable Azazel.” Elder Farmane leaned in closer to the angel. “How are you enjoying your meal?”

Azazel nodded his head. “Truly, there are few things in life as enjoyable as a fine feast in fine company. You have my gratitude.” The angel raised his goblet to his lips, only to fill his mouth not with the wine he’d been expecting, but with coarse water.

“I am glad to hear it,” said the elder. “Because what you are eating today is our last cow. We have no more heifers, bulls, or calves, so we wanted to make the most of this one.”

Azazel raised an eyebrow. The elder was prompting Azazel to inquire as to what happened to the rest of the herd. The young angel wished Farmane would speak more plainly, but it was often a human custom not to impose one’s problems upon strangers until they asked.

“That’s too bad,” said Azazel. He pushed another piece of beef into his mouth and savored the juices as he chewed. His jaw tightened as his mouth watered, and his tongue soaked in the flavors of the meat.

The fruit of the heavens was sweeter than anything mere mortals could raise or grow. But as much as any mortal man would sell his left hand for a taste of that fruit, Azazel had grown exhausted of sweetness on his tongue. Savory, salty, smoky meat was paradise to him.

After he swallowed, he finally said, “When I was on the outskirts of your village I felt an evil presence coming from the woods to the east. Is that what has taken your livestock?”

“We believe so.” Elder Farmane nodded. His fists clenched on the table, and he held his knife tightly in one hand. “Those damned creatures! They come in the middle of the night, slay our cattle, and carry off their carcasses!”

“How many demons come?” asked Azazel. “And what do they look like?”

Madison shifted in Azazel’s lap, and turned her face to him. Their noses were less than an inch apart, and he felt her hot breath on his lips when she spoke. “No one’s seen them. Most of the time we don’t hear them either, we just hear the sound of an animal crying out in the night.”

The elder continued, “Typically, we’re far too frightened to even investigate, but on one night Mirthsky, our hunter, went out with his musket in hand.” Farmane gestured to a young man with a bushy beard and big, round eyes. He wore a deer’s pelt over his shoulders, and a tunic made of rabbits’ fur. “Mirthsky, tell him what you saw.”

The young man spoke in a voice which seemed far too scratchy and deep for his age. “By tha time I got m’self out there, all that was left o’ Darkdane’s fattened calf were its head in a pool o’ blood.”

“The demons left the head behind?” Azazel asked. “Do they typically do that?”

“No,” said Mirthsky. “Maybe they ‘eard me comin’ and decided they needed to leave wit’ whatever they could take.” Mirthsky ran his fingers through the curls of his beard. “So, anyway, I double-checked ma musket ta make sure it was loaded. Boots and Chip over there,” he pointed to two burly men further down the table, “they took up their axes and came wit’ me when I followed the demons’ tracks.”

“Were you able to count the number of footprints?” asked Azazel.

“Nah,” said Mirthsky. “They dragged the calf’s carcass behind ‘em, which hid their numbers good. Anyway, so we followed tha tracks ta tha edge o’ tha forest then… well, just as we was steelin’ our nerve to go into the dark, we heard whispers.”

Azazel gestured for Mirthsky to continue and slipped another piece of meat in his mouth. His free hand ran through Madison’s hair and rested on the exposed flesh between her shoulder blades.

“We didn’t understan’ a word of it,” said Mirthsky. The young hunter pulled his lower lip under his upper lip and chewed on his own beard. “It sounded all hisses an’ growls. So, we knew it was Evil-speak. It sounded like there was far too many for jus’ the three of us ta fight, so we ran… err… we made a ‘tactical retreat’ back to the village.”

Azazel smirked. “The whispers startled you and you fled, yes?”

Mirthsky twisted the end of his beard and mumbled, “Well… yeah… most men would have run…”

“We considered hiring a demon-slayer,” said the elder, “but we have no money. Not a single seleni coin among us.”

“No seleni coins at all?” Azazel repeated. “You truly are helpless against such vile creatures on your own!”

“Yes,” the elder shivered, “You don’t need to remind us. We thought maybe… well, our village has always been faithful to the gods, and whenever the angelic cities pass overhead, we always prepare an offering…”

Azazel nodded. “Even when you have little to feed yourselves, you still share the best with a heavenly guest.” In the absence of a cloth napkin at the table, the young angel let his next sip of water drip down his chin to clean his face. If his mentors could see him now, they’d gasp in disgust and call him uncouth. But he justified this as part of the culture of the village. So many of the villagers had patches all over their clothing. Out of everyone, only Madison was well-dressed, and Azazel guessed she’d never worn that gown before. Surely, they had no cloth to spare for something as non-essential as napkins, so they simply didn’t think of it.

Madison twisted at the waist and wrapped her arms around Azazel’s neck. “Will you help us? Please?” Those golden eyes portrayed a sad desperation the young angel hadn’t seen before. “With so many demons so brazenly taking our cattle, surely it’s only a matter of time before they come for us…”

Azazel nodded. “I will carry your woes back to my betters in the city above. They will send our strongest fravashi warriors to fight off the scum that infest your woods.”

Madison’s fingers slipped from their interlocked position behind Azazel’s head. The elder’s hopeful countenance fell, and small groans escaped the lips of several villagers.

“Oh…” said Madison, looking away from Azazel for a moment, but immediately snapping her eyes back to his. She forced a smile and interlocked her fingers behind his head again.

The elder cleared his throat and wrung his hands. “Pardon me for saying so… but we were rather hoping you might be able to do something about them… sooner? Before you leave?”

“I wouldn’t mind going with ya,” said Mirthsky.

“Us neither,” said both Boots and Chip in unison.

Mirthsky grasped his hands together and looked into Azazel’s eyes. “Demons are scary beasts, but wit’ an angel on our side? Well, I think we could be a mite braver this time.”

Such a strange thing to suggest. I’m not sure if this is cowardice or courage. They’re too afraid to wait for reinforcements, but they’re willing to fight for themselves as long as it’s tonight and I’m with them?

Azazel swallowed the lump in his throat. My mentors always told me never to try something like this on my own… I’ve never fought demons without other angels there to help…

The young angel looked into Madison’s beautiful, golden eyes, then to the expectant faces of the others at the table. But how can I let these people down after all this hospitality? All this love they’ve shown me?

Azazel drank more from his goblet, then slammed it down on the table. “Very well! Let every able-bodied man and woman of courage take up whatever arms they can tonight! Let’s put an end to this demonic threat ourselves!” The young messenger drew his saber around Madison and raised it over his head. His hand-guard brushed the rafters, which reminded him not to point the blade straight upwards, lest he pierce that low roof.

There was an uproar of applause from the villagers. Those with strong backs shouted and threw forth their fists. The frailer and softer members of the community merely clapped.