In a shrouded room, magical mercury ran from silver faucets and spilled into a basin.

  It could heal all wounds… but one.

  A tall humanoid with toned limbs and a pair of shadowy bat wings reflected in the quicksilver. He was a muscular man of extended middle age with icy purplish skin and shiny black eyes like frozen coal. His hair possessed hues of the deepest indigo-blue and spilled down his shoulders handsomely. A silver circlet was encased around his forehead.

  His broad chest, though strong and sleek, was carved with an enormous scar that tore through his inhuman veins.

  Every movement he made, caused him to wince, especially as he slid into the pool of quicksilver.

  The monstrous man eased into the basin. The strange liquids lapped at his skin and he let out swear.

  "Devil's wounds." his subterranean-deep voice rasped. "This stings like the wrath of hell itself."

  A young man of similar demonic skin and aura rushed to his aid. "My Lord!" he cried. "My sweet Daemon Lorde! Are you okay?"

  The demon lord with the oddly fitting name gripped the edge of the basin, seething from his pain.

  The young man was also comely despite his odd hues. A long purple robe partially covered his slim chest. He held his hands to his face, staring at the grevious wound. "Do you need some more mercury, my Lord?"

  Daemon rolled his red eyes. "It stings enough as it is. Bartholomew, do you really think I need more pain? I never expected a mere human to cut me with a Devil's Hangnail, but it's crippled me for a bloody year now."

  The demon lord reflected back to the skirmishes he had fought so viciously in. He had nearly dealt the death blow to the human king who had fought in dishonor of his murderous kingdom. The mortal man–with only mere seconds to live–had used a tool fixed from unholy origins: The Devil's Hangnail, a blood red blade capable of slaying even the strongest of Underkind.

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  Where this human king had gotten it, the demon lord did not know, but in his final breath, a crippling blow was dealt.

  Even this magical mercury, meant to heal his wounds, only stung like salt on an open blister.

  Bartholomew's wing span retracted as he watched the Lord with great concern. He gestured a clawed hand in his liege's direction. "I come bringing excellent news and some rather less excellent news," he added at last. "It's been nearly a year since the apothecaries have attempted to find an elixir for your wounds! And they are on the cusp of brewing a cure for your immense pain but…."

  The mighty demon lord finally felt an ease he hadn't felt for 12 months. But he was worried about what the catch was. He reached a lengthy purple finger out of the silver mire. "You are lacking one essential ingredient."

  Bartholomew put his hands together and sighed.

  "Yes," he said solemnly. "Precious Death Blood. The one thing to truly heal you of this ever-so personalized wound."

  "Have you contacted our apothecary in the Kingdom of Featherbottom," the demon lord said. "Has she obtained a vial?"

  "Yes…she has, my lord," Bartholomew added.

  Bartholomew eyes gaped at his wound. He shuddered over the king's immense pain.

  "But need I remind you that the cursed blade remains in their royal possession.The one that nearly decimated you."

  The demon lord covered his face in his hand. These matters had only gotten more dire. He let out an exhumed sigh.

  Bartholomew was fearful of the Demon Lorde's wrath; he huddled his body close together, shivering from the ice of his Lord's frozen soul. Even crippled, the lord could lay low the weakest of humans and demons.

  "I must get that elixir," he growled. "At…all…costs."

  "Should I prepare your troops?" Bartholomew squeaked.

  "No…" the demon lord said. "If they caught wind of us, it would be the end of our kingdom. I must send someone to deftly slip within their walls without attracting a heap of attention."

  Bartholomew clasped his hands together. His mouth spread into a collection of mealy fangs. "I-I-I-I will go. I'd do anything for y–y-you, my lord."

  "No," the demon lord said definitively. "I cannot leave this errand in the hands of a babbling fool."

  Lord Daemon's blood red eyes gleamed brightly. He gave him a powerful silver grin. "I will send my daughter, the most gifted seduccubus of our realm."

  The demon lord rolled his eyes skyward and spoke in a deep guttural voice. "She would do anything for her dear father."

  "B-b-but…" Bartholomew stammered. "Devillia’s much too sheltered and docile…ugh…"

  His words were silenced by a lengthy purple spearlike tongue penetrating the cavity of his chest. The Lord of the Underkind reveled in such freakish feats. As it retracted back into his mouth, Bartholomew dropped to the floor clutching his chest.

  The fatherly demon lord growled. "Only I can have a sharp tongue about my daughter! Anyone else will pay dire consequences."