Demons are a pain in the ash. Careful conversation. The burden of lies. A simple task. No arson. Another headache.

Dergle Driptongue was an ash demon that Sal had summoned from the Abyssmuck, and then kept him shackled to him by force of will. Demons weren’t immortal, as such, but if no one actively destroyed them, they could live forever, getting more and more evil as they went.

While there were souls in the Abyssmuck—Sal was an example of that—Dergle seemed to be one of the primal creatures that had been birthed there by some hideous means. Little was known about the specifics of the demon realm. Some thought all demons had once been people, while others claimed that the devils were a unique species. Most who studied demons died in the attempt. It was the riskiest of scholarly pursuits.

Dergle’s skin was the gray color of ash, and he left behind the dust of his ashes basically wherever he went. He had the broad face of a frog, a humanish body, though it was squat and flabby and wrinkled, and his arms and legs were stick thin compared to the swell of his belly. He had ridiculously small, scaly wings, emerging from his back. They didn’t need to be big because Dergle could summon winds, and then turn his body to ash to he could ride those winds. That wasn’t all. He could disappear into fire without being scorched, and he could hide in the shadows without being seen. His skin could go from ash gray to inky black in a matter of seconds. His eyes gleamed an evil ruby red.

He wore a stained tunic that smelled terrible. Because he was a demon, he didn’t wash his clothes, ever, and his body gave off that stink of brimstone and fingernails.

Dergle appeared above him, sticking unnaturally to the crumbling brick of the building next to Sal’s. He spoke in a thick, deep voice, that was wet and phlegmy. He continually had to clear his throat or blow his nose or both. Driptongue was a good last name for him.

“Emperor, my dark ruler, the source of my pain and joy, I am here, Salvanguish, to do your evil bidding forever. Or maybe just until Tuesday. What day is it?” The demon then slurped up the spit from his chin, which had mixed with the ash on his skin, to create mud, which he coughed out.

“Greeting, my dark minion.” Sal found that the words came easily, too easily. Was he being tempted by his Mysterious Benefactor? Maybe. Or maybe he’d been given a gift. If Dergle had been there the night before, he would’ve eviscerated Jaxon, Snickers, Drew, and Hugh. “As for the day, I believe it is Sunday afternoon. I was just about to leave for a very important appointment.”

Dergle grinned and slurped up spit. “Sire, yes, an appointment for murder? Or is there torture involved. I freakin’ love torture.”

“No. Neither torture nor murder.” Sal figured the pigs would probably disagree. He didn’t speak that out loud, though. He didn’t want to give his Mysterious Benefactor any ideas. “Where have you been, Dergle?”

The ash demon grinned, and spit leaked out of his mouth to sizzle on the stones below. His saliva was superheated, and the tiny flickering flames soon burned themselves out. “I have been waiting patiently for your return. I knew that the chains of death could not hold you.”

That was such a lie. Sal hadn’t dealt with demons and liars in the weeks and weeks he’d been back alive. He’d forgotten how exhausting it all was. He couldn’t trust Dergle, not what he said, and not what he’d do.

Also, Sal had to be extremely careful with his words. If he said that the Pontra Genetrix was his enemy, Dergle would immediately wait for her to leave the sanctuary of her church before ripping her in two with his claws. And then eating her because not only did he have the teeth for it, but he had the taste for it. Dergle liked eating people, plain and simple. Sal had the idea that the only reason the demon showed him any loyalty was because his armies gave him a grisly banquet table after every battle.

“Verily, you are a good servant,” Sal said. “I find it very gratifying that you had such faith in me. And your patience! It has an epic quality to it.”

“Well, sire, it is the truth.” Dergle grinned, then licked his face with his long tongue, clearing it off ash for a second, before more ash bubbled up from his pores.

“How did you know I was back, my faithful demon?”

“Violence and punches” the demon slurped. “Punches and violence. You inflicted pain. I felt the infliction. I came here, forthwith. But master, the master of my fate, the master of my happiness, the master of all that is me, might I ask what your scheme is? Why are you not in a manor house of your own? Why are you dallying with priests? Why do you keep the company of mouses.”

“Mice,” Sal said absently.

Dergle sometimes didn’t have the best grammar.

It was clear, the demon didn’t come right to him, but stayed in the shadows, watching him. Spying on him. Of course, Dergle would want to see why the Dark Lord was back after being dead for so long.

Where had the demon been? Most likely, he’d been haunting villages and picking off people for his meals, grabbing drunks as they stumbled from bars, or invading prisons and eating prisoners. As an ash demon, Dergle could turn into ash, and sift his way into any number of places, before taking a more substantial form again.

Dergle only laughed a little. “Mices it is, sire. Tell me your schemes. Tell me your plans of unending conquest.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“So many schemes.” Sal’s mind raced. What were the ethics of lying to a demon? That shouldn’t count because, after all, the thing was lying to him. Did two lies make a truth?

No, they didn’t.

Sal couldn’t lie directly. He’d have to figure something else out.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Theovanni was in his room with Sparky, and Shivaun was probably in the kitchen, if she was there at all. Betty had gone off, and so it was only Sal. That was good.

Trying to explain the presence of his former demon would be hard to explain.

Sal briefly considered trying to free Dergle, but he couldn’t, no, because once freed, Dergle would try and eat him. Or he’d go after his friends. If the former Dark Lord still had his powers, he could’ve sent Dergle back to the Abyssmuck. Since he couldn’t, and since Dergle was still his servant, Sal found himself with an evil tool he’d have to wield carefully, oh so carefully. In the end, he was responsible for Dergle’s actions— the Killword scroll was proof.

“I have been scheming, Mr. Driptongue,” Sal said finally. “I am endeavoring to open this diner and make it successful. However, I am being watched by the gods, and I have had to abandon my old evil ways lest I die again. And as my servant, Dergle, I am forbidding you to harm anyone, kill anyone, or eat anyone. Is that clear?”

Dergle got a hurt look in his toady eyes. His huge toady mouth curved into a frown. “Not even a smidgeon of slaughter, sire? Just this much?” He held his thumb a bit away from his finger.

“Not even a little,” Sal said firmly. “Or you will break your oath to me, and that will mean eternal torture in the Abyssmuck. Keep your oath, and Alikor will bless you.”

Alikor, as the Bad Dad, had come up with the idea of the Abyssmuck to punish himself, after he stole most of the Deux Coins from his family. This was eons ago, but the original demon lords rose from the muck, even after Alikor made his escape. It was still place where souls went for a little punishment, though there were any number of stories of souls escaping, or striking deals, or being given mercy and allowed to leave.

Alikor was unofficial king of the Abyssmuck, though the demon lords had created a kind of democracy down there. It worked out well for the most part.

Dergle sighed. “I do not need Alikor’s blessing, sire. I only need the love and kindness of my most interesting master. A game with the gods? No more evil? Does that mean you have to tell the truth, that you can’t murder your enemies, or enjoy the lamentations of widows and orphans.”

“To be honest, Mr. Driptongue, I never much enjoyed lamentations of any sort. So that part was easy to embrace. Dealing with the evil of others, staying my hand when others would strike me down, and telling the truth all the time is far harder. The truth is burdensome, yet, I have found, that lies are even more so. Fashioning reality out of whole cloth and remembering your own various fictions encumbers the mind. I suppose it is something akin to being a novelist. And that work is endless and unforgiving.”

Dergle listened all the while, grinning, his eyes searching Sal’s face.

The demon was looking for a way to honor his oath of loyalty while at the same time being able to kill and eat people. It wouldn’t be easy, but Dergle was ancient and terrible, and he’d find a way eventually.

But if Sal kept the demon busy on endless tasks, he might just be able to keep Dergle so busy that he didn’t have time to scheme his way out of his oath.

“Listen, Dergle, I have learned that opening a successful business is as difficult as running a vast empire or conquering new lands. I am going to need your help in this entrepreneurial endeavor.”

The ash demon’s red gleaming eyes narrowed. “You could free me, sire. Then I would leave you, perhaps go back to the Abyssmuck, and let you be sweet and kind in your café all you want. Are you sure it’s Sunday? It feels like a Thursday.”

“No,” Sal said. “It is Sunday. And you will forever be my servant. We are in this together.”

Dergle wrinkled his nose. “As long as you give me human meat to eat, we can come to an understanding.”

Sal wasn’t going to give the demon the bad news, not right away. If the demon liked his food enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to. For now, Sal was going to have to keep the thing busy and that wasn’t going to be easy. “I need a gnocchi recipe. I believe it might be a Scallia Capran dish. I need you to find one, and bring it back to me, the recipe, and not the actual chef. If you do that, I will see you are fed. But remember, you mustn’t harm anyone, no lies, no murder, on maiming, no kidnapping, no arson, and no larceny, grand or otherwise.”

Ash demons were very good arson. They could make their bodies burn like red hot coals, which made fighting them difficult if you didn’t have some kind of fire resistance magic.

“As you wish, sire, since serving you will forever be my most satisfying joy. But perhaps I could help you in some other fashion. You have an enemy that hates, you sire, and I know who it is.”

Sal wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. “And who is my enemy?”

Dergle pointed at the tall church rising above the buildings on the north side of Champion Plaza. “The Pontrafax Genetrix, I have seen her skulking, with her Sacra Templar, though their meat is aging right off the bone. That’s so sad. I could help them get the meat off so much quicker.”

Sal wondered if he could game the system. Perhaps he could collect enough Karma points that a little murder wouldn’t kill him. When Otto’s mage had used the Killword scroll, Sal had lost around fifty points. If Dergle murdered the Pontra a little, maybe he’d only lose that much. Then again, maybe not. Ordering an assassination would have to count more.

The former Dark Lord was feeling the red status of his Karmic Gauge keenly. No, he needed every Karma point he could get, but to really use them, he had to unlock his Diagraff. He thought briefly of asking Dergle for help with his magic, but that would be disastrous. Completely disastrous. He had to keep that secret from his demonic servant.

In the end, Sal had to make a trip to visit the Gorbins, but when?

Maybe next Sunday, after he secured his bacon.

“I will deal with the Pontra,” Sal said after a while. “You must make gnocchi your main concern.”

“As you wish, sire. My only solace in life, or death, is serving you until the bitter, the bitterest of ends.”

Why did that sound like a threat?

The demon created a wind, turned his body to ash, and then rode it away.

Sal closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

Why had his demonic minion found this particular time to return? It was such a headache, and he already had enough headaches to worry about. His Diagraff was locked, all the progress he’d made was gone, and he had the construction outside of his door to contend with.

Now, he had this ash demon around, dogging his every step.

He would have to tell Shivaun and Betty about Dergle, and that conversation wasn’t going to be easy.

Nor would his talk with the Pork Poet. After spending the coinage to buy back the magical sword, he was going to have to tell her that he simply didn’t have the money for the bacon he needed. He was going to need to ask for some credit, and if she were smart, the Braggadorio addicted to rhymes wouldn’t give him a single copper coin.