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The candles flickered as you finished tracing the last sigil, your fingers steady despite the familiar tremor of anticipation that always preceded his arrival. At forty-three, you'd been practicing long enough to know the difference between theatrical magic and the real thing—and Belial was decidedly, devastatingly real.
"You're early tonight," his voice materialized before his form did, that low rumble that seemed to vibrate through your bones. When he finally solidified in the circle's center, you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Even after two years of workings together, his presence still made your heart skip.
"Couldn't sleep," you admitted, settling back on your heels. "The Henderson project is draining me. Thought maybe we could work on those protection wards you mentioned."
Belial stepped out of the circle with characteristic disregard for your carefully drawn boundaries—a liberty you'd granted him months ago, though you sometimes wondered if that had been wise. Tonight he looked almost human, tall and sharp-featured, dark hair falling across eyes that held too much knowledge. Almost human, except for the way shadows bent toward him and the air itself seemed to thicken in his presence.
"Protection," he mused, moving to examine your altar setup. "From what, exactly?"
"The usual. Negative energies, unwanted attention..." You trailed off as he turned those ancient eyes on you. "People who might not understand what I do."
"Ah." His smile was knowing, perhaps too knowing. "The mortals who fear what they cannot comprehend. Yes, I can help with that."
As he began explaining the ward structure, you found yourself studying the elegant movement of his hands, the way he spoke about centuries of magical practice as casually as you might discuss last week's grocery run. This was the problem—or one of them. To you, these moments were precious, stolen time with a being who fascinated and terrified you in equal measure. To him, you were certain, this was barely a blink of his eternal existence.
"You're not listening," he observed, settling beside you on the floor with fluid grace.
"I am," you protested, though heat crept up your neck. "You were explaining about layering intentions."
"I was explaining that three centuries ago," he said dryly. "Just now I was asking why you seem troubled."
The honest answer was complicated. How could you explain that somewhere between the professional relationship and genuine friendship, your feelings had shifted into dangerous territory? That lately, when he appeared in your circle, your pulse quickened for reasons that had nothing to do with magical energy? That sometimes, when he looked at you with something almost tender in those immortal eyes, you forgot about the vast chasm between what you were?
"It's nothing," you said finally. "Just tired."
Belial was quiet for a long moment, studying you with the intensity of someone who'd spent millennia learning to read between lines. "You know," he said eventually, "in all my dealings with mortals, you've been among the most honest. Please don't start lying to me now."
The gentle rebuke stung, partly because it was deserved. You'd prided yourself on directness in your magical practice, on calling things by their true names. But this—whatever this was—felt too fragile and too dangerous for such honesty.
"Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing," you admitted carefully. "This work, this... partnership. Whether I'm in over my head."
"Are you afraid of me?" His voice was softer now, almost concerned.
"Not afraid of you, exactly." You picked at the edge of your ritual cloth, needing something to do with your hands. "Afraid of myself, maybe. Of wanting things I shouldn't want."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken understanding. When you finally looked up, Belial's expression was unreadable.
"I see," he said quietly.
"Do you?" The words came out sharper than you intended. "Because sometimes I think you enjoy this—the way I react to you. And I can't tell if that's just your nature or if there's something more deliberate about it."
Belial was still for a long moment, shadows shifting around him like living things. "What would you have me say? That I'm unaware of your feelings? That would be a lie. That I don't care for you? That would be a greater lie still."
Your breath caught. "But?"
"But I am what I am," he continued, voice gentle but implacable. "I have existed since before your civilization had words for concepts like love. What feels overwhelming to you is, to me..." He paused, seeming to search for words that wouldn't wound. "Precious, but brief."
"A moment in time," you said, echoing your earlier thoughts.
"Yes." He reached out then, fingers barely brushing your cheek. The touch sent electricity through you, made your eyes flutter closed despite yourself. "But perhaps that doesn't make it less valuable."
When you opened your eyes, he was watching you with something almost like vulnerability. "I would never force anything from you," he said quietly. "You must know that. Despite what I am, despite the power I wield—I would never take what isn't freely given."
"I know." And you did know, deep in your bones. Whatever else he was, Belial had never made you feel unsafe. "But that's almost worse, isn't it? Because the choice is mine, and I don't know if I trust myself to make it wisely."
"Then don't make it tonight," he said simply. "We have time."
"You have time," you corrected, thinking of your graying hair, the lines around your eyes that hadn't been there when you'd started this work. "I have maybe forty years left, if I'm lucky."
Belial's hand dropped to yours, warm and solid and real. "Then we have forty years," he said. "And that is not nothing."
You wanted to argue, to point out the fundamental inequality in that equation. Instead, you found yourself squeezing his fingers, accepting the comfort he offered even as part of you warned against the danger in it.
"The protection ward," you said eventually, needing to return to safer ground.
"Can wait until next time," he replied. "Tonight, why don't you simply tell me about your week? The Henderson project, your garden, whatever mortals worry about when they're not summoning demons."
So you did. And if his attention felt more focused than usual, if his questions seemed designed to make you laugh, if the space between you on the floor seemed to shrink as the night wore on—well. Perhaps some moments were worth the risk they carried.
When he finally departed near dawn, dissolving back into shadow with a promise to return soon, you sat in your empty circle and wondered if you were strong enough for whatever came next. The smart thing would be to step back, to return to a purely professional relationship.
But as you extinguished the candles one by one, you knew you wouldn't. Some gravitational pulls were too strong to resist, even when you could see exactly where they might lead.
Especially then.