Poe must die

THIRTY-EIGHT

Jonathan, The third day.

The bitter winter cold that had been knifing through Laertes’ body began to fade. He was being hypnotized by Jonathan.

As ordered, he gazed into the magician’s eyes, fascinated by the colors that spun around and around-the reds, blues, greens. They drew him deeper into a pleasant warmth and he relaxed, smiling gently with no idea of who or where he was. He felt warm. The numbness left his hands and feet and never in his life had he heard a sound as pleasant as the voice that now filled his life; it was the only thing in the world worth living for.

As Laertes slept on the hard, cold earth, Jonathan sipped the drugged wine and thought of last night’s triumph over Asmodeus. The demon king would return. He had to. He had to stop Jonathan from getting the throne, for possession of the throne meant dominion over all. It meant dominion over Asmodeus.

So long as Jonathan remained within the magic circle, he was safe. But he wanted more than mere safety. He wanted power. And when Asmodeus returned, Jonathan would fight him again.

And win.

Nothing could stop the magician now. Nothing in heaven or hell or on earth could stop him or keep him from the Throne of Solomon.

Hear me, Asmodeus. Hear me. Bow to me, as you must. Bow to me, bow to me, bow to me.

Jonathan fell back into a drugged sleep.

Bow to me!