Miles was not a good woman.

Back when she was still alive, one knew, with just one look at her—the sores on her face, the stench emanating from them, the discoloration of the little skin that wasn't popping red with white pus—exactly where she was headed, if religious. If the observer was a non-believer, then, well, instead of feeling pious-pity towards this grotesque masquerade of a woman, they'd just cross the street and try their best to get the stench out of their nose and the sight out of their mind.

Miles herself was a devout Catholic. She was so incredibly devoted to the higher power of God that she went to Church, like many others good Christians, only on Christmas Eve, drunk and hazy, making sure to have drank so much that she wouldn't remember the next day whether she had gone or not. Despite this lack of reverence, and many other vices, though, Miles was sure, once she had passed, and everything had turned black, that when she opened her eyes she'd be face to face with the Saviour Himself.

Just like she had predicted, when her soul regained the pure consciousness that only souls had with all physical volition gone, she saw a man. The land surrounding them was bright white. This had to be Heaven.

"Welcome to Hell," the man said. Miles smiled. So, God had a sense of humor after all, she thought to herself.

"Hello, Father," Miles said. Then, instinctively, like a fawn that knows to hide in the bushes, or a salmon that knows to swim upstream, Miles held her arm out in front of her. The small, round burns that had been with her since childhood were gone. The sores and discoloration, too, had faded away. She was holding up an arm that, though it was hers now, she did not recognize. The feeling was strange to her.

The man ahead, in fact the Devil, not God, further explained to Miles that it was true: she was not in Heaven, but Hell. After a showing involving flames and red-skin, Miles was finally convinced, though still confused.

The clean, white light; the cordiality of the man; the cleansing of her body—how could this be hell? she wondered.

"Your confusion is normal," the Devil said. "Almost everyone finds this place a little different than they had imagined. But some things align with preconceived notions: this is, Hell; and you, Madame, will be punished."

"Okay," Miles said. She eyed the small man up and down, thinking he wasn't so much different from him, the one she had when she was alive. "So what's my punishment?"

"That's the thing—you get to choose."

"I do?" Miles said, smiling now. This man was just like him. Just like all of them. Whatever this game was, she'd be victor. "Is this like, a genie thing? I choose, but then you warp it to be bad?"

The Devil nodded. "That's a way to think of it."

"Okay," Miles said. She licked her teeth, a habit she had formed as a child whenever she was excited. The giddiness in her chest made her feel like a schoolgirl again. "I'd like to spend my time in Hell together with my husband."

The Devil paused for a moment. It looked as if the light in his eyes had gone off, as if he were a computer and suddenly went into sleep-mode. Then, he turned back on.

"Your husband is currently in Heaven," he said. Miles nodded.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I can bring him down under, but are you sure that's what you want?"

Miles looked the Devil in the eyes and knew that she had won. "Yes."

"All right. Have fun." The Devil clapped his hands and instantly Miles found herself in the house that had belonged to her when living. In front of her, on the couch, was her husband, dazed and confused from the fall.

Back in the light, with a new customer in front of him, the Devil felt good about his choice. Miles didn't seem like an atrocious person—sure, snatching someone from Heaven was bad, but it's normal for humans to want to be with their beloved—so he hadn't warped her wish at all. He figured the bickering from her husband, an eternity of complaints about being brought to Hell, would be enough punishment. Things might even get physical; he smiled.

Back in the house, though, the Devil could not have been more wrong. The husband, a tiny, meek excuse of a man, sat, shivering, on the couch. On seeing his wife, he shook even more, and brought his hands up in front of his face to defend from the incoming strike.

I liked it more than mine! You should write more.

The late summer's harvest moon cast a soft, yellow light upon the field. Below the heavens, below the wispy white clouds, below the soaring black hawk, below the trees that gently rustled in the wind, Argyle sat on a log around a dull green fire.

From his pouch, he pulled out more copper sulfate. He looked at it in his hand, the blue crystals shimmering in the firelight, before throwing it into the flames. It was the offering his demon needed.

The dull green flames turned into a vivid, almost acidic color. Then, they grew and grew until they were higher than the trees. The flames acted as a portal. Out from it stepped Argyle's old friend.

"You always look so ridiculous, stepping out from that tower of fire," Argyle said, as the flames died down and eventually disappeared entirely. "You're not that tall, you know."

Indeed, the woman who had stepped out from the portal was shorter than Argyle himself, who, although once a tall young man, was now a shrunken old geezer.

"You know I like to make an entrance,"—the woman tried to say, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. Though it was dark, the moon gave Argyle just enough light to see something shimmering on the woman's face. Blood?

"Here," Argyle said, handing her his waterskin. As she drank, she tilted her face upwards, allowing more moonlight to shine across her. Argyle noted how smooth her skin still was. His used to be like that. "How goes things on the other side?"

"The same as ever, I fear. Seventy years later, and nobody's learned a damned thing." She whipped the ground with her tail in frustration. "They're practically at our gates now." Argyle looked down at his hands. Seventy years, had it really been that long?

"But you'll survive, just like you always do," Argyle said, now touching the top of his hand with the other, feeling how bony and brittle he was. Where had all the time gone?

"I'm not so sure about that," the woman said. "This time it's especially bad. And I don't have you to rely on anymore."

Argyle wanted to apologize. But for what? It wasn't his fault he was human. This is just what humans do. They get old. They age. They leave everything behind.

"I'm not dead yet, you know." He held his arms open, motioning for her to come into an embrace. Telling her to feed.

Up close, she was as beautiful as ever. Argyle's heart smiled. It wasn't her powers as a succubus that was making Argyle feel these things, but the time they had spent together over the years.

In his bedroom, when he had initially summoned her, they had talked for hours. They learned they both were deathly nervous of the event. Argyle was worried he'd summon something that would eat him alive, and the succubus had been told tales of abusive humans who enslaved her kind. In reality, Argyle just wanted somebody to talk to, and the succubus just wanted reprieve from the war that ravished her home plane. It was the first time she had been brought into this world for something other than lust. It was also the first time she learned a human could make her laugh.

After that first encounter, he tried to summon her at least once a month. When he was young, it had been easier. There was more time for himself and less for work. They got to know each other, along with the differences between their worlds. In hers, a continual war threatened all living creatures. In his... well, humans weren't much different than demons after all. As he aged, though, their meetings became less frequent. Sometimes, an entire year would pass without the two seeing each other. He'd try his best to sneak in a visit in an inn, or dungeon, but the times were few and far between.

Eventually, Argyle retired. The time he so desperately yearned for as a working warlock now returned to him. But a lifetime of labor changes a man. Though his spirit remained young, his body did not. He was always tired. Things didn't work as they used to. And all around him, life changed as well.

As he held the succubus tight, as tight as his old muscles allowed, he knew he had little to offer. Gone were the days where he could give her every last drop. She knew it too, barely taking an ounce of the old man's energy. Their embrace was hardly more than one between humans.

"Come on," Argyle whispered. "You can have more than that."

"No," the succubus said, laying her head on Argyle's shoulder, sounding tired as well now. "I can't."

"At least rest, then," Argyle said. "I'll get a fire going. A normal one."

"That, I can do." In the demon's realm, there was no time to sleep. You always had to be vigilant. Spies and assassins were everywhere.

She was already snoring even before Argyle got up. He gently laid her down on the soft earth.

"Always so trusting of me," he said to himself, as he gathered up sticks and logs. Instead of using his flint and steel, he used magic to start the fire, not wanting to wake the girl. It crackled and popped and the heat felt nice against his skin. Even though it was summer, he was cold.

Argyle was able to see the succubus clearly in the firelight. The shimmering on her face was indeed blood. She was still bleeding, too, which was strange, because even the little energy she had taken should have been enough to heal a cut like that. Maybe she had taken nothing.

Also in the firelight, Argyle could see himself better. He turned his hands over and frowned. He was eighty-six now. His bones creaked. His body ached. His time was coming soon.

The succubus was curled up in a ball on the floor, tail wrapped around her, like a cat. Each sleeping breath she took was full-bodied; her lungs knew chances like this didn't come often. Argyle watched her laying there, and wished he could help. He cursed his mortality. If he was young, she wouldn't be hurting like this.

But, he knew, there was still something he could do.

He let out a deep sigh that was carried away by a passing wind. He looked up at the gigantic yellow moon, which was obscured by two thin black clouds. He thought about his life, and everything that had happened during its course.

He was alone, now. Nobody alive even knew his name, besides this girl asleep in front of him. The girl who had been there practically since the beginning. She was the one thing that never left his side.

He knees hurt as he bent down beside her. A lock of dark hair lay draped across her face. He brushed it aside, causing her to stir for a moment. Argyle held his breath. She didn't wake.

With a fair amount of difficulty, he managed to get onto his side, so he was face to face with the succubus. It reminded him of the first time they met, laying next to each other in the bed at his parents' house, giggling all night.

He lay like that for a long time, making sure this was the right choice. The sun began to rise, painting both of them in a golden hue. Argyle took one last look at her, and made up his mind.

He'd been wanting to do this for the longest time. For almost eight decades he'd wondered how they felt. It was always off limits, though, because of the consequences. Now, that didn't matter; finally, he'd get to know.

With his hand on the back of her head, he held his breath, and pressed his lips to hers. The lips of a succubus. As he felt his life leaving him, he couldn't help but smile.

They were just as soft as he'd imagined, all those years ago.