Demonchild skulks on the slope of the world, his hooves tearing crags into ice and decay. In the wake of his victory comes the fall from his high; brought low by an experience of the highest ecstasy, he has lost his purpose and humor and way. The brute came home in a glorious blaze, only to be snuffed by the ignorance of his peers, blatant disregard and a lack of the awe the son of Seraphs knew to be his. He had prevailed, but his fellows had lost, and so Belial's triumph rang hollow and meaningless, and the joy of blood had quickly lost its copper gleam.

And so he leaves the Basin and wanders north, wondering if the curve of the earth will lead him to heaven, closer to the gods and his ancestor's abode. If he reaches the heights will he thunder back down, leap off the cliff at the end of the world and fall himself falling straight down to hell? The idea has appeal which he cannot deny, a stirring of bright and snarling desire spiraling dangerously at the base of his loins. Will he again feel the rush, the thrill, the swift delight of triumph and success? Will he find that high as the air rages past, rushing through his ears? Will he slay an angel and lay her corpse to waste, painting the mountain with blood and feathers and oh-so-mortal screams of pain?

The demon's pulse quickens and his breath grows harsh. Gargantuan hooves rend earth from its abode, sending clouds of ice and snow flying as he thunders through the steppe. He is running before he knows to stop, flying on legs of onyx to a peak of victory and pristine perfection, going somewhere he knows not for a purpose he cannot doubt. His muscles rip a perfect rhythm, his lungs work with fervor to support the blood that burns his veins. He is a god, he is a devil, he is a legend, he is invincible.

He stops.

She is ebony on the ivory sky, a crown of horns and the scent of lust carried heavily by the polar winds. He did not see the creature rise before her, but as he approaches he can smell the blood, and the yellow tint of bones that sprawl before her in a decadent display of power runs a shiver of delight through the demon's spine. The devil is not quiet as he approaches from behind, mahogany form held tight with excitement, great skull cracked in the semblance of a grin, and she turns on cue to face his gaze, and he stops in his track and exhales hard, his whitewashed face a mask of something dark and primal and deadly.

"Run, Queen of Death," the demon snarls, and there's a threat therein, and a promise, and a need. "Run, and I'll catch you, and you'll know the touch of a demon."