The Midnight Hour by Neil Davies

creatures before him, the Stokers of Hell, were his! The power they represented was his!
    Even the Lord Satan would have to bow before their combined might.
    “What news Brother Baphomet?”
    He searched out the caller, a particularly slimy, blue-headed demon whose name was unknown to him. Nevertheless he nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement as if they were the best of friends.
    “Nothing yet Brother. The slave Hargot has been given our ultimatum and ordered to take it to Lord Satan himself. Now we wait.”
    “But what if the Legions are sent against us?”
    The speaker this time was a small, feeble looking astral, barely managing to maintain a solid form in its nervousness.
    “Not even Satan would dare that. It would lead to civil war in Hell!”
    There was grumbling among the crowd. He knew there were many who feared a violent response. Even he feared the Legions. Only a fool didn’t. But he truly believed that Satan would have to acquiesce eventually, without violence, without forcing the workforce back to the boilers. They were strong, they were powerful. They just needed to believe in themselves.
    He was still composing a rallying cry when he saw Hargot approaching, striding between the boilers, unconcerned as steam that would strip the skin off a living human swirled around his limbs, his face. Hargot had worked the boilers for three centuries before his current promotion. Neither they, nor the Stokers who ran them, held any fear for him.
    But Baphomet made him uneasy. Baphomet had been in Hell for less than three centuries and yet had somehow raised himself above the others, had proclaimed himself their leader. He was not the first to try, but he was the first to succeed.
    “Welcome slave Hargot. What news?”
    The ‘slave’ reference pissed him off, as did the grand, archaic way of speaking. He struggled to retain his composure as he faced this… human !
    “Our Lord Satan demands your presence immediately Baphomet.”
    He stood at least three feet taller than the human before him, yet he could not shake the impression that he was looking up at the other.
    Baphomet smiled, wiped a film of sweat from his shaven head and stepped towards the advisor.
    “With pleasure.”
     
    Satan waited impatiently. Hargot and the human troublemaker Baphomet were approaching.
    Satan had deliberately moved the walls closer together, giving even less of a path between the running, dripping flames. It now irritated him to see Baphomet showing no more discomfort than Hargot. He had expected some sign of pain, of burning from this troublesome human.
    He had to admit to a slight and annoying respect for this display of physical and mental control.
    Nevertheless, he fashioned his best frown and his most ferocious grin, allowing his sharp incisors to pierce his bottom lip and dribble blood down his chin. It was a bit theatrical, but he felt this man would appreciate it. It seemed his style.
    “Lord Satan.” Hargot was the first to speak as they arrived before the throne. “This is the man Baphomet. The leader of the unrest among the Stokers.”
    Baphomet nodded his head in the briefest of bows. Arrogance all but shone from his being. If he was nervous, he showed no sign of it.
    “Lord Satan, I trust your slave here has passed on our demands? I’m sure you’ll agree they are reasonable.”
    Satan saw Hargot stiffen at the word ‘slave’. He had to admit to a growing liking for this human. He reminded him of himself as a young demon. Nevertheless, he had a job to do and a reality to run.
    “I do not agree that they are reasonable! Your request for shorter shifts I could maybe give some thought to, but the increase in pay… do you have any idea how difficult it is to find virgins these days? The demand is increasing while the supply has fallen drastically.”
    He leaned forward, fixing the human’s eyes with his most intense, malevolent stare.
    “I suggest you and your followers return to work immediately, or suffer