A fallen demon from a Hell more hellish.

An imposing figure, long horns, red eyes and leathery wings. Sharp teeth glistening around an ever-present smile, like all the children. The Master of Flame, the pits of hell under my command.

I never know the cold, feeling the burning at all moments, sitting wreathed in flames to relieve the heat. Fire spreads across the skin of others, twisting and blackening, the nerves singing in a chorus of agony as the blood boils beneath the skin.

Fire combines death and disposal at the same time, glowing ashes strained from moltern lead, blackened bones tipped from bronze containers. Nothing can survive heat in the end, not metal, not rock, not people.

Trial by stone, trial by water, trial by metal. They all pale in comparison to trial by fire. The crackle of flame as a forest burns, the agonised screams of a person doused in burning oil, the whoosh and crackle of a true firestorm, all is in the beauty of a flame.

After all, I am a fallen demon. Wonder where they fall to?