by Rachel Green
He sits on the edge of the lake as dusk approaches, the last rays of the dying sun giving his face the ruddy glow of a denizen of Hell. Appropriate, then, for that is exactly his nature, though he shows neither horn nor hoof nor arrow-barbed tail. Instead he mourns the loss of Heaven and coaxes a melody from an ancient violin, its rich tone coming not from its construction, though Stradivarius would have wept to see it, but from the centuries of care it has enjoyed under its master's fingers. The baby at his feet gurgles and waves its arms as if to catch the mournful notes before they are carried away and Lucifer looks down and smiles. "Hold not the sadness," he tells his mortal son, "I'll play the pity fiddle no more." With a sweep of the bow the dirge glides into a jig, and young Harold giggles, opening and closing his fists in delight.
Rachel Green, whose full catalog is here, is an English woman who spends far too much time writing about demons.