Prexil the Demonolator

Prexil the Demonolator smiled as he walked along the path in the Great Da forest. His loose, clinging black clothes hid and revealed his androgynous form by turns as he took his leisurely pace. Though he considered himself male–as he truly was at one point–his body was hermaphroditic, a consequence of his many dalliances with demons. It was a thing he did not consider displeasing, considering its various advantages.

He maneuvered his wide-brimmed, witchy black hat to a jaunty angle, adjusted the long black feather which scintillated with eldritch colors, and began whistling an eerie tune which caused the surrounding wildlife to go silent and the wind to become still.

After few moments a sonorous voice inquired, “You called?”

Prexil, suddenly motionless, peered to the side, the smile remaining upon his face. With a soft voice at the same time melodious and threatening, he commanded, “Show yourself.”

From behind a tree stepped a large, muscular man with dull, black skin. Completely hairless and naked, he had shining, black eyes and a handsome face. His fangs glinted as he said, “As you wish.”

“No too close,” Prexil warned in a sing-song voice one might use with a child. The deodand’s smile was replaced by a look of fear, and it took a step back. “Of course, Master Prexil,” it said, “I would not dream of molesting you.”

“It is well that you do not because that dream would cause you great grief,” he continued as if singing. “My flesh is not yours to consume, and I fear you would find the effect of its ingestion most disagreeable. But, of course, I’d never let you get that close, as experience has taught you.”

The deodand grimaced, “It was… my mistake, for which I have long since repented. I find it wounding and unfair that you continue to mistrust my motives.”

“Your motive is to survive, and why should I begrudge you that? I do not. But I know that given the slightest chance, you would try to kill and eat me, though I have warned you against the results, which would be excruciating, unavoidable, and mortifying. But, that brain in your guts is more powerful than the brain in your head, I’m afraid. Or perhaps you simply disbelieve me, favoring the suspicion that I hope to deceive you to save my skin… which is a plausible notion. But it is nuncupatory, and I am not here to discuss the peculiarities of your appetites.”

The deodand shrugged, almost apologetically.

Prexil looked away into the air, thoughtful for a moment, and the deodand shifted its weight from leg to leg in uncertainty, making his monstrous form seem almost comical.

While still distracted, Prexil asked dreamily, “Have you done as I have instructed?” He then peered askance at the deodand.

“Indeed I have. And I trust that you will keep your end of the bargain?”

“You will find, friend monster, that there are two kinds of demonolators: those who are true to their words, and those who end eternally tormented in places of which it is best not to speak. As I am here speaking with you, you may be assured that I am of the former.”

“Just so, master,” replied the deodand. “The one you seek has cloistered himself in a ruined temple North of here in the Fer Aquila mountains. He is perverse. He ensares his brother and sister deodands by way of magic and forces them to play some kind of… game.”

Prexil raised one of his arched, thin black eyebrows, looked piercingly at the creature, and asked, “Game? A hunting game?”

“No, master. I said perverse. Hunting would be natural. It is a contrivance involving a board and small colored pieces. He makes them move the pieces about according to a set of rules which he may have himself fabricated. I do not know. By great stealth, I barely escaped being bewitched and captured. He chased me, master, for a long while, and it is only by my superior cunning that I eluded him.”

Prexil’s eyes became dreamy once more, and he muttered, “Interesting… a deodand using magic and playing games upon a board…”

The deodand began nervously shifting its weight from foot to foot again, and said, “Another thing, master, he has given himself a name.”

“Which is?”

“Tet Reygacs.”

Prexil continued to look into the air as his mouth moved, as if tasting the name.

“Master,” the deodand said, “I have done as you have asked. You said you would reward me.”

“Indeed,” answered Prexil with an easy smile and gesture, “I promised you freedom from all obligations, and you shall have it.”

Whispering a few syllables and a making a flowing, gracious gesture, Prexil fanned out his fingers, spraying forth from each rays of scintillating colors, which burned through the deodand as it screamed and widened its eyes at the betrayal.

With several small, smoking holes and a strong odor of grilled flesh, the hulk fell over with a thud, spreading a small gust of dust and leaves on the forest path, and moved no more.

Prexil took a deep breath, sighed, and said to the corpse, “Let it not be said that Prexil the Demonolator does not keep his promises. No obligation will ever hinder you again.”

He slapped the dust from his garments, straightened them, and headed North, again whistling his weird tune, which made even the nearby pelgranes silent and afraid.