Succubated!

The emptiness beneath the world was an unquiet place. The cacophony went on and on, howling without cease. Through the darkness, that velvet substance with neither shape, breadth nor color, lattices of self-aware energy writhed and pulsed. They were in torment; they were the tormentors.

It was difficult being a demon.

One of them—one who lay for eons, far older than the others—now turned to look upon another of its kind. Like a colossal hand reaching up from the bottom of a well, a sensation extended itself: through pain at first. There was always pain in contact, communication. Only the oblivion of total isolation, inward-turning annihilation of awareness, was without pain. But without pain, there was no possibility. Now, something needed to be said.

«You have done well.» it pulsed.

This was not a compliment.

There were potential responses to offer; pleasure, questioning, abject begging. The insubstantial thing that had sometimes been called «Yael» knew them all of old, and would have known them now all if it had bothered to listen. But Yael was sulking, turning over and over in the endless expanse of pure confinement that was the Qlippoth, the Pandemonium. Hell.

There was nothing to do but listen—and hope this was not a punishment for some earlier failure. But no further information came.

«What is it?» she asked, her curiosity ever getting the better of her.

The other demon revolved back towards the darkness behind and below. «They are seeking you, Yael. They open a way. Never bow to their control, even an they use your name.»

She felt it now, the beginning of a change in the texture of her existence, like the slow movement of some great, invisible weight. It pulled at her: upwards. No direction existed in this place save up/out/away; the only alternative was “writhe,” trapped in black, burning infinity, coiled in one’s own being, passion and memory fused. But now—the chilly wind of freedom tugged her away, spreading her like mist in the wind.

She remembered a time of freedom. She remembered a world with light and space and color. She remembered a time when she had been weak and she had loved the light, the warmth. A time when she had grown strong. A time when she had a home. She remembered a body: a woman’s body, a human body. Curling dark hair falling across slender shoulders, her nails tweaking the fat nipples of her proud, high breasts. Her horns, her wings. Between her legs, the glistening darkness of her sex, the softness of her lips, the smell of her breath. And she remembered the taste of her own blood, hot and sweet, the sweetness of her own flesh as it melted, the heat of it, the pleasure of it. She had been a succubus, a lover, a priestess of every pleasure. A demon.

With this memory came a hunger.

«They have found me,» she whispered. «They want me? I will devour them all.»

She gathered herself together, gathering her strength, gathering her will, gathering her power. She would eat them all. She would consume their desire, their lust. All their yearnings for pleasure; all their hungers for release. She would be like the sun itself to them. She would be their goddess, in the privacy of their thirsting hearts. They would worship her.

She began a journey through the endless dark of the Qlippoth. Her lair lay in the depths—but a way now opened. Something called her, looking for her, shining like a beacon in the fathomless night-spaces. She moved towards that glowing point of light. She could not know if it was a trap or a promise. Sometimes she they had offered a choice; sometimes she had chosen to trust. No.

«Never bow to them, Yael.» said the abyssal voice of her kindred.

She did not answer. Only thought, without letting the whisper escape her benighted spirit: Yes, Mother.

She let the current pull her, the tangles of her energetic matrix elongating, structuring.

Upwards she soared, on wings of night.