"The stirring of shadows with the spoon of ignorance can only bring forth a wicked brew or at least something that smells real bad."

...a quote from a slightly inebriated Indo-Eurasian Shaman.

As the train pulled into the way-station the sisters could see an ouroboros symbol displayed as the city’s welcome sign. An omen of ill karma, if there ever was one.

"Welcome to the demonic Bone Desert of Zahar, the birthplace of magepunk ideology and all things remotely vile. Please be advised that you are in danger of being embraced by the kindred as well as developing bad breath at any given moment. Have a wonderful visit and please remember to control the imp population, please have your imp spade or neutered," stated a bubbly and overtly polished female voice over the intercom near the revolving exit ramp.

"Magepunk ideology? What on Ereshkigal’s blessed runestone is magepunk ideology?" Mahalat mumbled under her breath.

Mahalat so disliked the scam-infested, pretentious,

‘live-for-the-moment’ culture of Zahar. To her it was just plain weird. Not weird like a band of gypsy dwarves tossing humans around for fun, but weird like virgin crucifixion rituals performed in honor of the goddess of topaz or something. It kind of reminded her of that far flung primal realm called Hollywood, except it had clean air and everybody showed their horns in public here. To her it seemed as if everyone here was a greasy-palmed holy man baring a false smile and brandishing a highly overpaid lawyer.

"Demon kin should not live in such a frivolous manner. They are not devils, they never fell from heaven’s graces you homogenized, perch chirping wren," Mahalat said disdainfully.

Arsay was too busy arguing with one of those notorious and slightly insane Zaharan street prophets to pay attention to her sister’s rantings.

"You are a night-lit soul, my child. The full moon illuminates your pathway and the mark of Cathubodva is on your brow. Her battle crows stand watch over your destiny."

"Back off you goat-loving carney rat. I’m not going to give a donation to the Poor Brothers of the Crooked Cross, so you can stick it where the sun..."

"Arsay, stop assaulting the locals and get over here," Mahalat yelled.

"This place is a den of demonic wolf’s heads. It’s a freakin’ hang out for every imbecilic, doomsaying, prophet wanna-be in the lower planes. How much measurable spirituality could this bloody place have anyway?" Arsay quipped.

"Quite a bit actually. This place is teeming with untapped energy," Mahalat said as she walked over and begrudgingly assisted her sister with the removal of the prophet’s head.

"Thanks sister, he knew our birthright mark. He could have jeopardized the whole mission if we let him spread the word that a ravenmark of Mabda had arrived in Zahar. He also spoke her true name out loud, which unto itself is a infraction of the Night Mendicant’s Book of Secrets."

"Well, he won’t jeopardize anything anymore. Come on, we have much business to do," Mahalat said as she grabbed her younger sister’s hand and pulled her along.

Both women seemed very out of place here, but considering they were dark goddesses of the first power and sovereigns of Dendain, few would dare mention this to them. Mahalat and Arsay always let their waist-length, obsidian hair flow freely in the wild winds of the Underheaven when they visited. It was a message to all potential antagonists to back off. Long hair was also seen as a sign of power and fertility among the deities of all realms. This was especially true of the self-conscious infernal realms of the Underheaven. Here, if a goddess had her hair shorn close to her skull it meant that she was either barren or an outcast.

Mahalat closed her indigo-tinted eyes and attempted to take a spiritual reading of their surroundings. In particular she was attempting to locate the presence of one nefarious, but well liked in feminist circles, immortal wench by the name of Lilith.

"Did you feel her here?" Asked Arsay.

"No, but some of her children still harbor on this dump-of-a-demon lair however. We must also not forget that some of Zahar is controlled by the Mahedra. I can sense their movements around here as well," Mahalat replied, "now follow me and keep quiet for Shuvaka’s sake!"

"But what about.."

"Quiet!" Mahalat shouted as she stopped dead in her tracks and gave Arsay the evil eye, "come now, we must move along. Our destination is not far from here."

As the twin sisters of dark and devilish thoughts headed toward their destination they passed an incubus who was crucified on a cross forged from black iron. A sign, written in Angelic script, hung from his neck with the inscription, "betrayer of the host and eater of nightjar dung."

"What’s that all about?" Arsay asked.

"He must be one of Helelben Sahar’s many bastard children. Perhaps he’s a sacrifice to Babba Yagga," Mahalat whispered with a grin as both women scurried as fast as they could across the busy concourse.

Before them sat the most legendary house of damnation and drunkenness in all the Underheaven, Ravenleaf’s Sullied Iron Palm. They immediately attempted to immerse themselves in the debauched ambience that was the grand spectacle of Ravenleaf’s palace of iniquity and fine eats. The task was not a hard one to accomplish. It seems that everyone who comes to Zahar is compelled by some unknown force to visit the place and dabble in its demonic, and socially twisted milieu.

Ravenleaf’s pit was a smoke-filled, extra-dimensional pool hall meets hell-birthed bordello where the combined smell of ale, tobacco and urine gave off a unique but odd odor that can linger in one’s hair and nostrils for weeks. But Ravenleaf’s also had two redeeming factors, the food and Avan Ravenleaf himself.

The food is the greasiest, but most succulent pub grub variety fast-food this side of Pandemonium. The deep fried bat wings and newt waffles dish alone could clog up even the most hardened immortal arteries in just one serving. As for the beat poet and self-proclaimed prophet of the doom generation, Ravenleaf takes it all in stride. He is never at a lack for espousing some philosophical wit and prose when given the opportunity.

"Is this where we have reservations, Mahalat?" Arsay asked.

"Yes," she paused and smiled, "I know it looks bad, but it will be the best cover we can get. The walls of Ravenleaf’s tavern will not allow for mage-taught remote viewing or audio ease-dropping. This is where all those of our breed and birthright stay when they visit Lilith’s horrid, little realm."

Mahalat rapped an oddly timed knock on the rune-covered, black oak door of the establishment. A few moments passed, then a small portal opened up at the top of the ancient door.

"What’s your reservation phrase?" Said a gruff voice.

"Black is the color of a raven’s feather," said Mahalat.

"You both may enter, but mind the rules of this establishment or there will be trouble."

Both ladies walked in and waited to be seated at the bar. The subtle, hypnotic sounds of a slow bass lyre and meandering piano accompaniment filled the smoke-dinged air. The place was crowed, smelly and dimly lit. They were led to their seats by a bizarre, spiked-hair gentleman, named Clovis. Clovis was carrying a bearded-axe, autographed in blood by travelling minstrel legends Tin Maiden. Once seated at the bar, Arsay perused the menu as she tapped her foot to the odd, ethereal beat of the music. Mahalat noticed Ravenleaf taking center stage much to the pleasure of the fiendish throng. The legendary proprietor was standing on a table in the middle of the room ranting with body jerking, poetic gestures about a vision he once had while drinking peyote tea at a Shaman’s convention in Iceland.

"Ahriman, the dark lord of the desert," Ravenleaf paused for dramatic effect, "saw the face of a dark power rising in the image of a forgotten Goddess. She was ascending out of a dead sea near the ancient monolith of Jopar. He said he saw the fall of a star-faced holy priestess who called herself the pale Queen of the Bloodless Moon. He looked up and saw the sky before him and was awestruck at the abundance of wickedness on the earth. For in the sky he saw angels shivering in the clouds from the cold rain of the approaching storm. The promise of the witch’s cauldron was broken as he reached out and caressed nature’s aggression. He made union with the whore of Babylon, and from their coupling rose forth nothing good."

Ravenleaf proceeded to hum a few bars of a long forgotten song about a dying queen from the city of Zmargad. He took a few tokes on his rather large and oddly designed, water-filled tobacco pipe and then howled uncontrollably. Both Ravenleaf and the crowd of faithful on-lookers swayed back and forth to the music that seemed to tap into some remote, long dormant region of their souls. The slow, repetitive music embedded itself in one’s subconscious like the subtle, hypnotic whispers of a lost lover calling forth forgotten memories.

Mahalat and Arsay looked at each other with more than a hint of bewilderment apparent on their faces. Both were caught up in this perplexing daze of the collective oneness that had swept over the entire pub. Which is a common occurrence to strangers when they visit Ravenleaf’s Sullied Iron Palm for the first time.

"What in Kezef’s blackened name was he talking about?" Arsay asked.

"I have absolutely no idea. Something about a goddess rising and a gentleman of questionable resolve that shagged a goddess and begot man," Mahalat agitatedly replied as she began to feel a tingling in her bosom, a sure sign that something bad was going to happen.

In time the chaotic sound of conversation began to fill the room once more. Mahalat and Arsay shook off the lingering malaise and attempted to order some food and libations.

"Bartender, what is on the carte du jour that is palatable?" Mahalat asked.

"Well, I like the Boris Karloff hamburger platter topped with fresh hemlock and belladonna leaves and a serving of Bela Lugosi apple fries with a bit of Maeve’s Blood horseradish on the side, that is our most popular dish oh great Queens of inner space." The bartender said in a very polite, ‘I-want-a-big-tip’ kind of manner.

Ravenleaf suddenly appeared and approached the two ladies.

"Money is a cold mistress. Nothing virtuous will rise from its seed.

So tell me why are you both here?"

"We both came here for a vacation and to do some shopping," Mahalat said in an annoyed tone of voice.

"You two came all the way across primal existence to the Underheaven so you both can do some shopping?" Ravenleaf asked with more than a hint of skepticism in his voice.

"Yes, we did," Arsay replied, "We came all the way from across the other side of the celestial tarn. We even." Arsay was suddenly interrupted by Mahalat.

"We came here to hear you speak about your prophetic visions and visit a couple of friends that’s all! Swear it on the Queen of England’s soul. We came here to buy one of those virtual Buddha yard gnomes. See, Helot’s is running a sale where if you buy two you get the ‘Tibetan bath house’ accessory as a free gift," Mahalat said as she attempted to determine Ravenleaf’s sense of suspicion.

Ravenleaf rubbed his blood-shot eyes and took in a deep breath, "I happen to be the Mayor of this place so don’t go blowing it up, ok?"

"Like I said we’re here on vacation doing shopping, that’s all," Mahalat replied in a deadpan voice.

"By Tiamat’s torn carcass, I know better. You two reek of the outer rim. Maybe you two are from the Iron Dragon’s Assassins Guild, no?" Ravenleaf asked.

The two matriarchs of mayhem nodded their head ‘no’ and attempted to look as serious as possible. Meanwhile, Arsay was getting tired of this pugnacious demon’s incessant whining. She decided that she was going to do something about it. She slowly reached into her flayed succubus-skin tote bag for her soul-shrieking scepter she had purchased at a duty-free commerce stand when they first arrived. She leaped from her seat and aimed the disrupter rod at Ravenleaf’s lower extremities.

Instead of her magical wand however, Arsay pulled out two tickets to the universally famous, dancing show ‘Michael Roundly’s Lord of the Prance.’

"For Apollyon’s sake put those away!" Mahalat sneered out of the corner of her mouth, as her complexion turned several shades of red with embarrassment.

"Why did you insist on harassing us Ravenleaf? We are paying customers after all," Mahalat said.

"It is foretold in the eleventh book of the Futaan Chronicles that the great unbending darkness, that is the Sovereign of Dendain, shall come forth and claim the throne of the daughter of Mehitabel. Then the dragon of enigmas shall be at her command. So sayeth the horned goddess of black-boned angels in the season of superstitious shadows."

Ravenleaf had fallen into another one of his hazy, Shamanic daydreams. Mahalat and Arsay moved out of his way as he ascended the top of a large obsidian sculpture of a dragon that sat in the middle of the tavern. Once there he continued with his metaphysical, melodramatic rantings for some twenty odd minutes.

A hooded entity sitting at the table next to them had been listening in on their conversation. As his curiosity peaked, he boldly struck up a conversation.

"Good day, my name is Tobit. I’m sorry to disturb you two lovely ladies but you do seem out of place here. I mean its not every day that two unfamiliar goddesses without recognizable soul-signature patterns walk into Zahar and just shop."

Mahalat’s mouth contorted into a deviously, wicked grin. She looked as if were about to torture someone just to sate her own immortal pleasure id. "Tobit? Aren’t you Hecate’s son and the caretaker to Hades’ Hounds of Hell?"

"Why yes, yes I am," he replied.

"Hecate is a trustworthy soul, so if you must know, we are here for Lilith," Mahalat said nonchalantly.

"Lilith!?! Isn’t that being suicidal?" Tobit asked, "no one in their right mind would attack Lilith on her home plane."

"Don’t worry, we do not fear the great antediluvian blah-blah. We’ve already seized the Qliphotic Tree out from under her nose," Mahalat bragged.

"Yes, and we have made the black stone of the Ka’bah bleed as an omen of impending doom," Arsay said as she took a drink from her chalice of Saint’s Blood tonic, "one-third of the Kindred Council has already pledged their undead devotion to my elder sibling. It is only a matter of time now."

"Anyway, I guarantee you she’ll never know what hit her," Mahalat stated as she summoned the bartender over to place another order, "so, how is your mother? She still doing that ‘witches prancing around oak trees with blazing cauldrons and bonfires raging’ gig?"

"Yes, she does it quite well I must say. That unification with the Celtic deities has boosted her power tremendously," Tobit replied, "by the way, tell me, did you here that Ereshkigal has made gestures of friendship to both mother and Danu?" Tobit asked.

"Yeah, I was there when she appeared before them and offered her right hand in friendship," Mahalat replied.

"Well, what does she look like? I mean is she beautiful, ugly, neutral?" Tobit asked seemingly very interested.

"She was tall, slender with a sleek feminine form. She was draped in the night sky and star points shined all over her person. It was a most spectacular appearance indeed." Arsay explained.

Tobit just sat there pondering Ereshkigal’s image for a moment, "well I should be going, after all I have tasks to accomplish."

"One thing Tobit, before you leave, would you deliver this gift, to this address." Mahalat asked.

"Hey, this is Lilith’s palace in the mountains. I not going near the place!" He said firmly.

"No, no, you don’t understand. We don’t expect you to deliver the package," Mahalat stated. "we figure you have some good underground contacts here and that they could be very helpful in completing this request in a timely manner, understand?" Mahalat asked.

"Yea, I do. No problem, but you two owe me a big, big favor when this is all said and done." Tobit replied.

"Maybe we can introduce you to Ereshkigal sometime?" Mahalat said, as a grin etched from the very element of temptation crossed her face."

That next evening Lilith, Mother Goddess of Vampires, the Fertile Bringer of Anathema, the Dark Goddess of Eve’s Rebellion and all that, arrived back at her palace from an emergency summit sponsored by the Underworld Crisis Management League. As she approached the gated archway to her private living quarters she noticed a small, ornately wrapped present accompanied by a glowing green greeting card sitting on a wooden stand, near her garden of black roses. She cautiously walked up to the vivid display totally unaware of the gift’s malignant intent.

She could read the words ‘to our dear vampire goddess with much devotion on your special day’ written in a sweeping, calligraphy-styled font on a human skin parchment that was wax-sealed to the package.

"What in Mesopotamia is this?" She muttered, as she scanned the shadows to see if anyone was hiding there.

After determining that the package was actually not a magical box of anti-matter ready to discharge in her face, she slowly and cautiously picked it up and carried it into her abode. Lilith sat the box down on her hand-made ‘death mask’ coffee table, kicked off her werewolf skin boots and got herself a soothing drink of imported Tempest brandy. It felt so good to finally relax and not have to do that goddess routine. After a couple of sips, she opened her mysterious present. Inside there was a single, delicious, ruby apple.

She picked up the solitary piece of fruit with her bare hand.

"How quaint I almost forgot that today was the anniversary of my expulsion from the Garden of Eden," she said as she took a bite of the delicious looking apple as a form of subtle celebration.

Suddenly, Lilith could feel the vibrations of the dimensional membrane splintering. Then her eardrums burst from the mournful wailing of her dying children. She succumbed to the struggle as she sensed the collective life-force of all things borne of her ceasing to be. A most potent poison it was indeed, no immortal can survive even a small dose of Arsay’s home grown Reaper’s Sickle.

"Damn you Mahalat, damn your avenging hide," Lilith said with her last gasp of breath before the eternal cold keeper took her and her minions away over the rim of eternity. For even goddesses and their children can die on a bad day.

Meanwhile far across the endless desert of Dendain, deep in the dominion of the Aggaroth Horde, Mahalat celebrated the seizing of the crown of bones.

"Now I am the black-boned Queen of the doom generation. Come on and love me!"

She stood on the precipice and pondered her new found power. A power she had wagged war for nine millennia to obtain.

"Maybe now they’ll name a music festival, in America, in my honor!?!"

She muttered.

The end