Copper

Rarely did the Fiery Lady of Phlegethos stand still. A blaze at rest is scarce a fire at all, yet this morning—for whatever manner of morning might be found in Malbolge—she lay as an ember, subdued in Glasya’s bed.

Silken sheets lay rucked and rent from the night’s past hours, red shrouds of gauze strung from the ribcage frame held the rest of the room at bay, dim shapes and unimportant shadows. Fierna shifted to her side, the flame of her hair low, scorching the pillow hardly at all, and gazed upon the only thing in Ossiea worthy of her attentions.

Glasya slept, as Archdevils sometimes choose to do. Sprawled on her stomach, the covers a tangle across her calves, with one arm tucked beneath her head. Light through amber glass burnished her copper skin to perfection, each subtle curve pulling the eye to the next; she was, as always, undeniable in every way. Her wings were faded half out of existence, the bat-like leather membranes with their delicate tracery of veins solidifying in ripples with each slow breath.

Her full lips were parted, just slightly, just enough to show the sharp tips of her teeth, just enough to hint at the smile that always adorned her. Better than any jewel that smile was, with all its subtleties and promises—Glasya’s lips alone were worth the trip to the Sixth Circle.

She brushed a curl of dark red hair from Glasya’s brow, ticking her claw against one small copper horn as she did so. One eye cracked open, deep amber, filled in a moment with life and scheming glitter.

“Well, hello,” Glasya purred. She sat up in one fluid motion, stretched her slim arms above her head, arched her back. “How many ways have you planned to kill me so far this morning?”

“None worth mentioning.”

Glasya smirked in that way she did, that said she believed nothing and everything you said all at once, and in any case it didn’t matter which. She pushed Fierna to her back, straddled her hips—Fierna’s hands fit easily around her waist, so small, so slight, especially compared to the lush weight of her own current favoured form. When Glasya kissed her, it was with her whole body pressed against her, with the weight of an Archduke, not her vessel. Fierna’s hair ignited, and the pillow turned to ashes. Glasya’s laugh flowed into her mouth like wine.

“Fifi, I’m going to run out of pillows if you keep doing that.”

Fierna pulled the fabric of the Hells and reformed the pillow. “Better?”

“Mm, yes, I love it when you get your fingers all deep in my Circle.” Glasya cupped her small hand to Fierna’s breast, thumb-claw pressed to a glowing stretch-mark. Her other hand tangled in the fires of Fierna’s hair, seared her fingers to the bone to pull Fierna’s head to the side so she could kiss her neck. “Were there any other parts of Malbolge you felt like manipulating this morning?”

“I was plotting a full scale invasion, if you must know,” Fierna said. One hand slid from Glasya’s waist, fit itself between her thighs.

“Going to march your—ah!—legions into my canyons?”

“They’ll be deep in your palace before you know I’m here.”

“Right in my sanctum? Fierna, you terrible, terrible traitor.” Glasya squirmed against her hand, pressed her face to Fierna’s neck. “I won’t stand such things.”

“Oh, princess,” Fierna slid all the fires of Phlegethos through her fingers; hot and wet and infernal. “I’d never betray you.”

Glasya fell against her with a pleased noise, and Malbolge sighed. She caught her breath a second, then sat up, pushing back her hair. Glazed with amber light and a faint sheen of sweat from such proximity to Fierna’s endless heat; power and power and power humming beneath the surface of her skin—what choice had Fierna ever had but to love her?

“I have a meeting with Ebrex,” Glasya sighed. She slid off of Fierna and got up. She plucked a sheer, umber robe from the air with a twist of her hand and shrugged into it, then leaned down for a kiss. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Glasya’s laugh lingered in the bronze sparks that drifted in the wake of her vanishing. Fierna trailed her claws through the air, chasing ephemera. The fire of her Circle called—she ignored it. Belial could complain all he wished, she was above him now, beyond. Glasya had brought her to that.

She stretched out in the bed, an ember once more, and waited with more patience than anyone would have believed her capable of for Glasya’s return.