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Title: A Simple Use for Spells
Author: Bluebell (silverkris@earthlink.net)
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"I want to know what you think you're doing. Explain it to me slowly, 
to make sure that I'm following your logic."

Tara takes a deep breath, not looking at him, looking past him. There 
is a mirror hanging precariously on the wall, reflecting not only her face 
and his leathery back but the faces and bodies of others as well, others 
who are most definitely not in the room with them. It is enchanted. Her 
mind always wanders to `Snow White' when she gazes at that mirror, 
even though she knows it is made of water, not glass, and to speak to 
it is to let yourself be drawn in by what you want to see, not what is 
truly there.

Like now. Willow's long, slim body lies half-shadowed in the mirror's 
calm face, superimposed over Tara's own puffy cheeks and wobbling 
chin. A dark red sheet is draped just so over her belly and breasts, but 
if she allows herself to think on it...and then the blanket is gone, revealing 
pale skin and compact muscles. Willow could stay in shape just by 
walking around campus and over-thinking everything. Although in truth, 
the Willow that the mirror enticingly sprawls across a fictional four-poster 
doesn't look like she is thinking about much of anything.

"What is happening to you?"

Tara's attention quickly disentangles itself from the naked Willow and 
refocuses on the demon prince who is gaping at her openly, clearly 
disgusted.

"It's not really any of your business, Lypoch," Tara snaps in what she 
hopes is her most authoritative tone, although a throat thickened by 
weeping can rarely enunciate effectively enough to put a demon back 
in his place.

"You're obsessed with this girl." 

Am I? 

If you wander the strange bands that strap the Earth without ever really 
touching it for as many centuries as I have, perhaps it's really no surprise 
at all if some pretty young witch turns your head and pulls you onto that 
rebellious train of thinking. You know the one. As ancient and wise as I 
am, I can't help but revel in such flights of fancy as `maybe this time I 
won't go back', or `perhaps I'll just stay here and die like any other 
linear being.'

It's all very fanciful, I know. Tara, who is me but not all that I am, is 
completely in love with Willow. I'm a voyeur gone mad, a bride 
engaged to a portrait of a dead man: I can see this love, I can speak 
it, touch it, taste it, ride along side of it, but I cannot be in it. The skin 
of mortal love is too tough for demon hide. My deepest desires are 
those of a frustrated immortal's adolescence. I want to preserve 
Willow forever in a Gestalt Tower, one of those never-was places 
on the wide open grasslands of always-has. She'd go mad there, 
but she would never die. Once plucked from the mortal coil, as it 
were, there is no point in going back. For a human, the mind is 
gone. A man or woman cannot think without boundaries, and time 
is the framework generously provided to the people of this planet. 

Lucky, lucky children they are. So you ask, why can a human not 
survive the reality of the phantom realms, the places where demons 
are born? Well, I imagine it is possible that some humans could, 
but they would no longer be human, as you would know the term. 
They'd look the same yes, but that would be the end of it. I've 
heard tell of men and women who have successfully transitioned 
into non-linear existence, and directly upon their first visit back to 
Earth, they went berserk and started killing people, often making 
attempts to eat them or wear their flesh as well.

For all that I know that humans can only be one thing or another, 
however, I so desperately want to cart my delicate little Willow 
off to my homelands in the still-might and drink in her cool 
simplicity till the stars blink out, three at a time. 

Lypoch is making a good show of being revolted. But he wants 
her too. I'm surprised Willow's not finding that there are quite a 
lot of demons thinking about her lately. They could start showing 
up at her dorm room any day now. They wouldn't be able to say 
it in a way she'd understand, but all they would need would be a 
touch of her hand, to imprint her into their memories so that they 
could love her inside their minds. Like I do. Like my Tara does.

"Stop looking at me like that." Tara wipes her eyes with the back 
of her hand, embarrassed. She is a very pretty girl, but somewhat 
hesitant and unsure. No surprise; she was modeled after Willow 
for maximum compatibility. Next to Tara, Willow looks and feels 
like a confidant extrovert. "What does it matter to you, anyway?"

"Why do you insist on playing these games, Veneris?" I've really 
thrown young Lypoch for a loop with my love-so-deep routine. 
I'm like an old man at the nursing home who likes to pop out his 
dentures at other people's grandchildren, just to see them squeal. 
"All D'Hoffryn wanted was for you to give her a little push towards 
the dark side of love so that he can get her into that Vengeance post 
before anyone notices how long it's been empty. The idea is to make 
her fall for you and then leave her. It's keeping with the `vengeance' 
theme, understand? You're older than I am, Veneris. You can't 
actually be falling for this human."

The very fact that he asks me these kinds of questions makes his 
superiority over me a travesty. Oh, I know how much royal lineage 
will buy you with the Elders, but I'm nearly an Elder myself, with 
enough friends in high places to ultimately do with Willow whatever 
I choose, contract with D'Hoffryn or no.

And once I have her in that room in my tall red tower where she will 
never die or age, I will take her apart, piece by piece. Because there 
are no linear restrictions in may-yet, and her cells will never stop 
regenerating. I could peel her skin off, layer by layer, and the next 
morning she would be perfect once again. Or perhaps I could 
assume this shape, or that of any other man or woman she desires, 
and gently fuck her day and night until she is incoherent with lust 
and fatigue. 

There are no boundaries to the reality of things in my homeland. 
Thinking of the possibilities is enough to make them as real as 
you yourself believe that you are. Of course, when on Earth I 
may be killed. Especially in Tara, who for the sake of integrity 
is as sturdy as any other nineteen-year-old. It's exhilarating, this 
constant fear. I could die by falling down the stairs, by slipping in 
the shower, by crossing the road, boarding a plane, driving a car, 
sitting under a tree or building. Should Tara die in any of those 
ways, I would be dead as well. All of me. Forever. 

It's beyond my control. That's why I love these little assignments, 
and why I agree to do them, though many will not. Your average 
Earth-walking demon is as intelligent as a handful of silt. With great 
intelligence can come a great fear of one's own death, especially 
among those who, under normal circumstances, are not supposed 
to die.

"You just can't see her the way I do," Tara whispers, her delicate 
face bowed in supplication to the fates. How could this have 
happened? How could the form and function of some young 
human subjugate a demon so old and powerful? Lypoch's 
thickly lobed brain slugs its way through this conundrum while 
I turn on Tara's weeping willow display once more. When a 
human cries, they are losing precious bodily fluids. When I was 
very small, I used to believe that a human could weep itself to 
death. Now I know better. Still though, I do wish it were true. 
What a lovely way to vanish, through the most superficial form 
of grieving.

 Willow likes to cast spells. I've always found the business of 
casting spells somewhat tedious. Ritual is for the untrained and 
inattentive, but I must admit that Willow has actually made me 
somewhat fond of them. Though I did have to put a stop to a 
demon-tracking spell she was performing with Tara, since it 
would have implicated me rather undeniably, I do so enjoy 
watching the glimmer of her red hair in candlelight. Those two 
fine lines appear between her brows and the spiked peaks of 
her lips...well, let me say only that demons are known for carnality, 
and watching that fine pink mouth-flesh undulate as she speaks 
childish words of startling power is something of a turn-on for 
this old demon.  

If I had her in my red tower, that Gestalt Tower that looks like 
origami but could withstand a hydrogen bomb's blast, I'm sure 
I'd never come back to Earth. In time all things lose their luster, 
but I have so appreciated the time I've spent with Willow that it 
would feel like a betrayal to go back to her homeland without her. 
Of course, if I took her up those winding red steps and laid her 
down on those glistening sheets of demon-silk, I might be struck 
by sudden distaste for her rubbery-smooth limbs. Perhaps it is 
only that exotic softness that so ensnares demons that I'm 
appreciating.

But when I think of pulling her heart out and boiling it...when 
I think of bathing her slippery form in a milky bath and showering 
her in flower petals until she laughs like I know she can, 
unselfconscious and throatily...when I think of wrapping her 
in exquisite dresses and cutting her tendons with a plastic letter 
opener...

You see my dilemma. As old as I am, and as much as I scoff at 
Lypoch's gullibility, I have to admit it. She's captured me. Perhaps 
she cast a spell on me, a simple, two-paragraph affair she found 
in a spellbook from some corporate-owned bookstore. Wouldn't 
that be this great warrior's downfall...oh, yes, I can appreciate the 
poetry of that.

I should cast a spell of my own. Just to be sure. A demon's love 
spell. I can't love her, but she can love me. Not just the Tara, but 
the rest of it. Veneris. A creature of nightmare and legend.

I have split cities in two
Have turned rivers to blood and blood to vinegar
Set fires that burned through water
Put the islands back into the sea
So here this, human girl
You will love me

Tara raises her eyes and peers through her damp lashes. She does 
not look at Lypoch, but looks past him into the calm liquid of his 
enchanted mirror.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

And in the mirror, the reflections of the two in the room fade away. 
She waits for the images of Willow to appear. Her eyes grow 
unfocused as she stares into the blackness.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, show me what is in my heart...

And in the mirror, there is nothing.

I cannot love. But she can love me.

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