Two shadowy figures stand squarely facing one another, separated by a large bubbling pit of magma. The larger of them traces a long black fingernail in a circle counter-clockwise across the surface of the molten liquid. The surface stills and an image of humanity materializes.

A rabble chants endlessly, "Burn them! Burn them!"

A woman, beaten and bloody, lies in a cart as it moves slowly through the crowd. Her four-year-old daughter sits next to her in the cart. The girl mutely grasps her mother's hand. Her cherubic eyes stare out at frenzied faces as the cart moves along.

The smaller demon sneers in disgust. "You were a fool to think the race was worth preservation, Zyr. Had you listened to the rest of us we could have eradicated the flesh vermin soon after its inception. You sacrificed too much for too little."

The larger figure's shadowy wings twitch angrily. Glowing violet eyes narrow as he regards the speaker. The arch-devil's voice resonates with a metallic edge which echoes from the surrounding walls. "Azriok, the rest of you are blind to the future. You have always been blind to it. This race is the key to the victory in the Twilight. You all forget how far I see. I see your own destruction, the deaths of Maloch, Belial and Babalon, the plunder of Mammon. I see the end of Sephiroth and Seraphim, the dissolution of Tenaebra and Luminaria. I see the end time when all that remains of dark and light magic is couched in the quivering soul of this flesh-confined race."

Azriok stands very still. His dark, beautiful eyes fall on the swirling image in the magma. "Then we should weep for the future, for all magic is lost. They grow weaker and less divine with each passing generation. Magic becomes ever more alien to them. They spawn an endless river of withered, cowering souls to pollute the cosmos."

Zyr's violet eyes reveal a timeless wisdom. "But, Azriok, that endless river is the heart of the matter. The race spawns souls. That is a power both Sephiroth and Seraphim have been denied. Our numbers are finite. As one of us is destroyed, there is no replacement. At the moment of creation, we Sephiroth numbered six hundred sixty six. Now we are fewer than one hundred. In fusing a sliver of my soul with that mortal's, I have created a machine capable of replicating my power infinitely. Through her, I ensure that I will survive the Twilight, and through her, I will become all of humanity."

Azriok scowls, pointing to the image in the lava. "You waste your power. Look at them. Rough beasts devoid of any redeeming quality. Your divination fails on this occasion, Great One. The flesh vermin thwart your plans. They use the magic you gave them to banish you here. They'll kill your creation within the hour. Even if she were to survive, your cause is hopeless."

"She will survive. She will purge the weakness of white magic from the race. Humanity will again become what it was meant to be, endowed with fresh divinity. My divinity."

Azriok stretches his long, shadow-feathered wings, then pulls them tightly against his tall body. He turns his youthful face toward the magma, silently regarding the angelic countenance of the child in the cart. His face reveals his disregard for the greater demon's plot just as it reveals his disdain for the human race. Of all the animals that walk the earth, they alone breed indiscriminately.

Azriok considers the state of Creation before speaking. The Seraphim in Luminaria had long ago cursed this race with the gift of Love just as they cursed it with mortality. Love, far more than mortality, sealed the race's damnation. Nothing Zyr could do would ever erase the tragic flaw now inherent to the race's essence. Love ensures that the strong and magical among them routinely squander their gifts upon unworthy mates. Under its sway, they forever dilute the remnants of their species' power. The weak and stupid offspring of ill-conceived pairings multiply infinitely. A human's yearning for completeness in a mate is by far the most wicked trick played upon the race. Ironic that it would have come from the Seraphim, the Lords of Light.

"Her human blood corrupts the divinity you have bestowed. Her human body is vulnerable to the pain of flesh. Her human mind is incapable of grasping the magnificence of its birthright. Were she to ever understand the power coursing through her veins, the power would be her undoing. She would self-destruct as her kind always does when confronted with the full majesty of our magic. It is well that they should kill her now."

"You are wrong. I have created her perfectly. An ideal blend of that race's characteristics and our own, she is. I have planned it with a precision you will never understand. She will fulfil her destiny. Now that it has begun, it cannot be undone."

An idea forms in Azriok's diabolical mind. The child's soul makes her an ideal weapon, a perfect pawn. Zyr's obsession with Twilight prophecy and his tinkering with the human race could lead to his destruction rather than preservation.

The perpetual power struggle in Hell takes a new form.

Azriok tests his lord. "Given your certainty, surely you would not mind a wager?"

"Of course not, my upstart friend."

"You will lose her, if you agree to let me lead her as I choose. Her, and the human race you so cherish."

Violet flames dance in Zyr's eyes. "If you can sway her from the path of her destiny, her soul shall be yours. I will then willingly concede defeat and not stand in the way, should the others wish to annihilate the species. I see your ambition, Azriok. You hunger to devour the piece of my soul within her. You yearn to rule Tenaebra, to absorb my magic. Should you lose in this matter, your own soul shall be the price of your hubris."

"Agreed." Azriok takes flight, disappearing into the inky darkness. He senses the momentous opportunity to overthrow the mightiest Lord of Darkness.

Zyr's laughter echoes through Hell. All is just as he had foreseen.