“Silenus,” Azzie said. “Record these three to my account and take them away. They are self-damned.”
Silenus nodded, waved his hand, and the three brothers vanished. A moment later, Silenus vanished.
As Azzie remarked later to Frike, it was the easiest three souls he had ever helped damn themselves, and with practically no urging on his part.
Chapter 3
Oh, master, it’s so good to be home!” Frike said, throwing back the bolt of the front door of the big mansion in Augsburg.
“It is nice,” Azzie said. “Brr.” He rubbed his claws together. “It’s chilly in here! You must build a fire as soon as you put away the body parts.”
Demons, despite or because of their long association with hellfire, enjoy a roaring hearth.
“Yes, master. Where do they go?”
“In the cellar laboratory, of course.”
Frike hurried out and unloaded the cart. On it, wrapped in various ichor-soaked cloths, were a number of body parts; enough, if Azzie’s calculations proved correct, to make up two entire bodies, one male, the other female, to be known thereafter as Prince Charming and Princess Scarlet.
They began working on the bodies the next day. Frike proved to have a useful hand with needle and thread. He put Charming together as neatly as a tailor makes a suit. There were seams and stitch marks, of course, but Azzie told him not to worry about them. Once the bodies were reanimated, they would lose these stigmata of their rebirth.
Those were pleasant domestic evenings. Azzie would settle into a corner of the lab with his copy of King Solomon’s Secrets, which he had always meant to read but never found the time for. Now it was very pleasant to sit in the lab with its smells of fusel oil, kerosene, sulfur, ammonia, and permeating it all, the rich, complex odors of scorched and putrid flesh; to sit there with his book open on his knee glancing up every now and again to watch old Frike, his hunchbacked shadow thrown monstrously against a wall by a low-set light, bent over his work with a tiny steel needle.
The needle had been hammered out for him by the Ruud, smallest and most cunning of the dwarves of central Europe. The thread was the finest silk from Taprobane, so gossamer and transparent that it seemed as if the lips of the gaping wound separating an arm from shoulder were adhering to each other by some sort of physical magnetism, or by magic. But the onl0y magic in this case was Frike’s tiny needle, making its neat little holes and forming, bit by bit, a whole man from the pile of body parts stacked neatly at his left side on a bed of glacial ice.
Frike was a careful workman, but he did bear watching. More than once he put feet where arms should be, either because of dim-sightedness or some perverted sense of humor. But when he joined the Princess’ midsection to Charming’s head, Azzie decided that this was too much. “Stop that nonsense,” he told Frike, “or I’ll put you in a Pit where you can fuse gravel into rock for a few centuries to teach you seriousness.”
“Sorry, master,” Frike said, and worked with exactitude and propriety thereafter.
And so the bodies took shape. Apart from the pending matter of appropriate eyes, the only real problem was Princess Scarlet’s mismatched hands. It was not so important that they were of different sizes. But one was yellow and the other white, and this could not be permitted. Azzie discarded the yellow one and made a quick expedition to the Schnachtsburg Doctoring Center. There, in a shop dedicated to necrophilious memorabilia, he was fortunate enough to find a pickpocket’s hand for Princess Scarlet.
Soon after his return, Azzie received word from Supply that his castle was ready for delivery to his coordinates in Transylvania. Azzie departed immediately, flying across the Alps to the plain of Hungary. The land stretched ahead of him, lushly green, tree-scattered. He found the exact spot he had picked, which he remembered from the grove of tall purple trees that bloomed there, the only ones of their kind in the world, trees whose existence ended before modern science could declare them anomalous. Merioneth was there waiting for him, a thin, ill-favored demon from Supply who wore pince-nez and carried a scroll attached by brass studs to a well-smoothed piece of wood-the progenitor of the clipboard.