This chapter's even squickier than the last one, so consider yourself warned. (I swear this is going somewhere artsy, but it might take a while to get there.)
*
Picture, if you will, two men standing at the foot of a sand dune, facing each other as they argued. The one wearing a sport coat and tie had the appearance of middle age, complete with a balding head, a slight paunch, and--at the moment--a look of displeasure. "Why aren't we killing something?"
His compatriot was taller and leaner, somewhat handsome in a muscular way. He didn't seem to mind or notice that he was naked to the cold. "Don't blame me for this, Belial. Judith's finding a replacement for the tempter who died in the last raid. You know how long she takes to decide on these things."
"So she leaves us behind here, with nothing to drink and nothing to fight? I hate the cold, I hate the sand, and I hate the boredom! You both owe me for this, Marlowe!"
"We've been over this before." As always, Marlowe's voice was neutral. "All three of us are pretty low on the totem pole, as far as greater demons are concerned. There are two reasons we've been assigned to cause havoc in America. The one we were given was that if we wreck enough shit, and cause a big enough distraction, we'll keep the U.S. army from going overseas and wrecking
our
shit in the African offensive. The one we weren't given was that they want the army to catch us, and they want us to find out the hard way whether your sword spiders can survive getting hit with tank shells. I'm not leaving this dimension without Judith on backup, and you're not leaving without me."
"So why'd you let Judith go on her own, huh? Huh?"
"Judith's fucking nuts, that's why. I couldn't stop her if I tried."
Their respective squadrons stood silent and unoccupied, sword spiders and devourers alike pacing and fidgeting. At that moment, the sword spider who will be most important to this story could have been thinking about how Belial and Marlowe's names perfectly symbolized the sort of people they were. Belial was the eighth demon to be known by his name, having killed the seventh to claim it. Marlowe had possessed a vaguely infernal name when human, and had decided to keep it in demonhood out of sheer practicality. The sword spider could have thought that their names implied everything from their emotional affinities to their battle strategies.
He could have. But instead, he was thinking of a sword spider named Grace, and of how much he wanted to get laid.
Not that Randall
could
get laid, in the traditional sense of the word--he had no genitals left to him, not even in the form of the blades at the ends of his tongue and his eight limbs. But his passions remained, even without their normal vent, and he'd buttered Grace up until she'd let him play with her body. Together, they'd done things with their blades that once would have appalled him, reveling in the pain that was the closest they could come to pleasure . . .
"Randall!" Belial bellowed.
Randall's memories were few and precious, but among them was a name that never failed to make Belial flush red.