Grabbing Quilloro's Wand with his right hand, he magically snuffed the life of three peasants as if they had been but flickering candles. The demon lodged in his sleeve seized their essence in a small vial that he held at his belt, then mechanically adjusted the appendage of glass on his nose.
"If you devour the souls of all the peasants here, I fear you can hardly get more than twenty years, thirty if you do not keep any slaves.”
“What?” shouted the mage with an irritated gesture. “This is theft! A scandal! Since when do you not steal the remaining years of life from your victims? My magic cannot have gotten weaker!”
"Oh, no, quite the opposite," the devil recited monotonously, staring at the crying silhouettes waiting to meet their fate. “It's your body, your physical envelope that faults you. If you do not discover the secret of immortality within a few centuries, you will have to eat several souls a day if you do not want your very own bones to turn to dust. Of course, you can always choose to look for the method of vampirism, or to create a phylactery that will..."
“No, no, no and no! I will discover this damn elixir of immortality and abandoning my body is out of the question. What would I do with the dumb brain of a miserable beggar who has nothing to offer but his muscles? I keep my skin, as wrinkled as it is!"
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The tiny devil did not answer and plunged back into the wizard's sleeve without saying goodbye. Zamioculcas did not pay attention, already lost in his thoughts. They could last for days if he did not pay attention. He had already spent far too long looking through grimoires in a shabby attic; from now on, he would lead his own army. He imagined the plans for his future home, the organization of the library, the size of the bed, and by the time he felt satisfied with his designs the sun was already close to setting.
Abandoning his reverie, the dark wizard killed most of the inhabitants of the village before heading to the city hall, awakening all the corpses he found on his way. He hoped to find a better chair, maybe even a decent bed - you had to be comfortable to be properly thinking.
The chair of the mayor - whose soul had been particularly tasty - was too soft to be truly comfortable, but the dark wizard decided that it would be appropriate as a temporary throne. Once seated, he found an oaken desk which took four skeletons to be carried to the cellar. The room smelled a little stale, but Zamioculcas felt more comfortable here. He never liked light that much.
For a day or two – he wasn’t sure - he scanned his grimoires, laboriously translating the ancient languages, their complex grammar and uncanny alphabets he hoped would open the way to the desired elixir. When he closed the heavy volume hours later, he felt satisfied: he was progressing, without a doubt. Within a decade, he would probably have an experimental formula that would help him last long enough to reach his goal.