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The Ball
The golden hallway of Lussi’s crystal and ice palace is strewn with demonic nobility of all races. There are nymphs, fauns, satyrs, cambions, incubi and succubi, nagas, rakshashas, lamias, huldra, trolls – everything under the sun, all dressed in Lucifuge’s most recent fashions.
Mistress Lucifuge Rofocale sits with a pinched face and black shadows clinging to her gaunt form on the matron’s throne, with Malik flanking her. Malik is ignoring everything, madly drawing on draftsman paper new architectural features for the palace and eldritch weapon designs. Biting his lip, he mutters to himself, crosses out a design, then madly scrawls a new one.
I watch the freshly sourced hell brides of Lucifuge’s finishing school and their lucky – or perhaps not so lucky – young new demon husbands and sigh. “So, more broodmares for Jahonna for your cambion armies. How pleasant, Lussifart.”
Lussi smiles like a razor, d
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