The Eleventh Commandment.

“Fear not the truth, O man,For truth is dear to the Lord…”

Michael lit the final candle and admired his handiwork. The pentagram was a masterpiece! Every sigil was drawn exactly as required. All that remained was the incantation.

To recite it properly in the ancient tongue, Michael had squandered two years and a small fortune studying under a cantankerous professor from Latrun. Gathering the necessary lore and ingredients had cost him another year.

A Glock pistol lay on the table. If this failed, a bullet to the head would be his only way out. Bankruptcy was the least of his worries. What was money, anyway? He owed the kind of men who would butcher a person piece by piece—but only after slaughtering their entire family, right down to the household pets.

Everything was on the line.

Michael cleared his throat and recited the incantation.

పాతాళలోకం యొక్క గొప్ప ఆత్మపై మీరే చూపించు! నేను నిన్ను నీ నిజమైన పేరుతో నిన్ను గూర్చి ఆలోచించుచున్నాను.

The candles, rendered from the fat of unbaptized babes, flared violently. A blinding shaft of light erupted from the center of the pentagram, piercing the ceiling.

Instinctively, Michael squeezed his eyes shut.

“Summons me, then takes a nap. How rude,” a slightly hoarse male voice remarked.

Michael opened his eyes.

A blindingly radiant figure stood anchored at the intersection of the lines.

Goosebumps prickled across his skin.

It worked! It actually worked!

“Yes, it worked. So what?” asked the spirit of the underworld.

“I have a draft for a contract...”

“Boring.”

The intense light vanished.

In the center of the pentagram stood an angel. Tall and slender, draped in a scarlet toga that cascaded to his heels. His features were impossibly perfect, his skin delicate and smooth. But his eyes...

One was pitch-black, while a blinding flame rippled in the other. It was best not to look into those eyes...

Behind the angel towered massive wings, rising far above his head even when folded. They were snow-white, save for a funereal black trim along the edges.

He’s a fallen angel... He answered the call himself... In person...

“In person, of course,” Satan smirked. “It’s been an age since anyone summoned me directly. To draw every sigil perfectly and gather all the right ingredients... incredible! You are one lucky man, Michael Madson!”

“Um, Prince of Darkness, I have a draft of the contract...”

“I know, I read it. Boring.” Satan sighed and stepped out of the pentagram.

The moment he crossed the final boundary, the scarlet toga and the massive wings vanished. They were replaced by jeans, a polo shirt, and a pair of stylish designer glasses. Only the leather sandals remained the same.

Satan dropped comfortably into an armchair, plucking a glass of something resembling a mojito out of thin air.

“I love this footwear,” Satan confessed, catching the mortal’s gaze—or perhaps reading his mind. “The left one is made from Stalin’s skin, the right one from Hitler’s.”

“Seriously?”

“Want a pair for yourself?”

“Uh...”

“I know what you want, I’m just messing with you. Sit down, why are you standing there frozen like Lot’s wife?”

Michael collapsed onto the sofa and suddenly felt a cold, condensation-beaded glass of mojito in his own hand.

“Take a sip, calm your nerves, and we’ll talk. Yeah? Prosit!"

They each took a sip.

Satan looked around the room. “Nice place. Stylish. Why did you go through with all this? You blew through five million of your own money, and another five of someone else’s. You’re up to your neck in debt to the mafia. What was missing in your life? Tell you what, I can rewind it all. Make it as if none of this ever happened.”

“You never spent the money, never summoned me. You just go on living your life.”

“And how much of a life do I have left?!” the words burst from Michael’s lips.

“Not much,” Satan agreed amicably. “Give or take five hundred and sixty-four days.”

“Am I terminally ill?”

“Oh, no, you’re perfectly healthy. But the guy who’s going to blow himself up right next to you has already crossed the border with a group of Syrian refugees.”

“I’m going to be killed by a terrorist?”

“Spot on!” Satan roared with laughter. “So, what do you say? Do we have a deal? A do-over?”

Michael shook his head violently. His throat was utterly dry. He was frantically trying to calculate the exact date of his death.

“Don’t sweat the math!” Satan waved a dismissive hand. “November second of next year.”

“What if I just stay home that day?”

“And what makes you think the bombing won’t happen right here?”

Michael’s stomach lurched.

“But what if...”

“If we go with a do-over, you’ll forget everything we’ve talked about. Simple as that.”

“I want to sign the contract!”

“Sell your soul?”

“Yes!”

“For seven years in exchange for the fulfillment of all your desires?”

“Yes!”

Satan snorted.

“Do you have any idea, Michael, how much time and effort I’ve expended to make this knowledge as inaccessible as possible to people like you? Hell is at full capacity. We nitpick and reject candidates at the slightest excuse. We didn’t even take Saddam Hussein!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. A murderer, a tyrant, a scoundrel, but he had mitigating circumstances. He loved his family, built quite a bit of infrastructure, and revered the Almighty.”

“So what—he went to Heaven?”

“Saint Peter filed an appeal,” Satan admitted reluctantly. “Bureaucracy is everywhere. The point is, I don’t need you, and I certainly don’t need your soul. Our quota for sinners is maxed out for the next couple of centuries.”

“You have no right to refuse a contract! You hold a monopoly on Hell!” Michael blurted out.

“Michael, Michael,” Satan shook his head reproachfully. “You’re not a lawyer! You’re a regular guy! A businessman—moderately greedy, moderately arrogant, and even somewhat cultured. Where is all this legalese coming from?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

The glass in Satan’s hand seamlessly transformed into a crystal snifter of cognac. The Prince of Darkness buried his classic Grecian nose into it, inhaling the aroma with profound enjoyment.

“It’s neither good nor bad. It simply is. You’re backing me into a corner here, Michael!”

“I apologize...”

“Don’t be! Take it and sign!”

With trembling hands, Michael caught the tightly rolled parchment, unfurled it, and read... And then read it again, and again...

“Sign it already!” Satan urged. “I’m drowning in work and my schedule is booked solid for the next hundred years. Though, I promise you, in exactly seven years, I will come for you personally!”

Michael read the text of the contract one last time.

It all seemed correct.

“We, the undersigned: The Prince of Darkness, hereinafter referred to as the Soul-Acquirer, of the first part, and Michael Madson, hereinafter referred to as the Soul-Relinquisher, of the second part, have entered into an agreement on the following...”

Fundamentally, it was his exact draft, completely unaltered... But anything was possible... The Prince of Darkness was, after all, also the Prince of Lies!

“Cautious. I approve!” Satan declared, now sipping sparkling wine from a tall flute instead of cognac.

Michael pricked his finger with a pin, dipped a quill into the bead of blood, and signed his name across the parchment.

The moment he finished, another signature flared beside his, glowing in a brilliant, crimson-tinged gold: Lucifer.

“The deal is struck.” Satan rose fluidly to his feet. “Your first wish, Michael?”

“Will you be appearing in person for every wish?”

“Hardly! Just speak it aloud, and it shall be done. But I always hear the first wish in person. Tradition!”

“I want to be the Prince of Darkness!”

Satan burst out laughing.

“The consolidation of all contractual parties into a single entity renders the agreement void. And a voided contract dictates an immediate return to the original state of affairs. Are you entirely sure you want that?”

“Is this a trick?”

“Sue me!”

Michael struggled to swallow his anger. A brilliant loophole, ruined!

“How about a billion bucks? Hmm?” Satan inquired smoothly. “Total absolution of all your sins? I can arrange that.”

“I want to be a multi-billionaire in perfect health! I want to wield so much influence that presidents and prime ministers of the world’s greatest powers grovel before me! I want a personal guard of fiercely loyal virgins!”

“So you want to be Muammar Gaddafi? No can do. You wouldn’t survive the seven years.”

Michael seethed. Satan was openly mocking him!

“I want to speak directly to God and file a complaint about you!”

“The contract does not stipulate the Almighty as an arbiter. Request denied.”

Judging by his smirk, Satan was thoroughly enjoying the process and was in absolutely no rush to leave.

“Fine, a billion will do for a start...” Michael conceded.

Satan stepped back into the center of the pentagram and dissolved into thin air.

In the corner of the living room, a massive pyramid of cheap, woven plastic bags materialized—the oversized, checkered kind favored by low-budget street merchants.

Michael unzipped the nearest one and ran his fingers over the tight stacks of US dollars.

But there was no joy. Just... money. Sure, a lot of it... But where was he supposed to stash it all? What would he tell the IRS and the police? His friends and family?

“I want an account in the Caymans, and send the money there!”

The bags vanished.

Not bad.

Michael walked over to the window and stared down at the car parked outside, occupied by the mafia’s lookouts. They had been staking out his house for a month; the deadline to repay the loan was fast approaching. The thugs were getting anxious that their debtor might try to make a run for it.

“Let my debts be settled in full!”

Ten minutes later, the mobsters drove away.

And what exactly do I want now? A pizza? Stupid! Megan Fox as a mistress? Too much of a hassle!

Michael pulled a can of beer from the fridge and slumped down in front of the blank television screen.

Nothing came to mind. All his previous business plans and ambitions now seemed like utter garbage.

I can have anything in the world, but what do I actually want?