Pure Dead Frozen Read Online Free

own inadequate clothing—a thong, a black leather string vest, and a pair of flip-flops—and wondered how he was expected to make it back home without freezing to death. Even the thought of the walk back to his apartment brought him out in odd little shivery pimples.
    Minutes later, shivering uncontrollably, he huddled against the boiler, trying to tune out the howls of agony now coming from the smoldering troll, who had, he assumed, generously set himself alight in a doomed attempt to provide his master with more warmth. With little hope of success, the demon phoned first for a taxi home (line busy), a rented car (ditto), a chauffeur-driven limousine (no answer whatsoever); then, in utter desperation, he phoned the Hadean Bus Company in the hope of finding a bus that might take him in the general direction of home before his toes froze solid and snapped off one by one. On the other end, a mechanized voice informed him that due to unprecedented snowfall, all services were canceled until further notice.
    Snow
fall? The demon’s brows plunged toward his nose, and his eyes squeezed shut as if to expunge such a hideous notion. It
never
snowed in Hades. That was unthinkable. And yet, as he opened his eyes again…there they were, little white flaky things dropping out of the sky, drifting in through the doorway and sizzling on the hot troll by the furnace. The demon swore loudly. This was simply not on. It was outrageous. Someone had to tell S’tan what was happening. Someone had to alert Him to the fact that His domain was on the verge of collapse. Someone—the demon swallowed—someone brave enough to endure the fiery blast of His rage when He was informed that He had a problem with His furnaces. The demon bit down on a squeak of terror. Whoever was
insane
enough to face down the ire of S’tan, His Imperial Inflammableness; S’tan, the First Minister of the Hadean Executive…whoever was brave
and
insane enough to do
that
would stand about the same chance of survival as…say…a snowflake in Hell.
    â€œKinda sums it all up,” the demon mumbled to himself, keying in the number that hopefully, after many labyrinthine twists, turns, menus, options, and multiple choices, would finally allow him access to the inner sanctum of the Lord of Misrule, S’tan Himself. Perhaps it was an electrical fault, the demon thought, staring at the icicles that were forming on the ceiling of the furnace room. Or maybe the other furnace-stoking slaves were on a go-slow. As he half listened to the dial tone, a heretical thought passed through his mind—surely it couldn’t be that the fabled powers of his Loathsome Leader, his S’tainless S’teeliness S’tan, the Arch-Fiend, were failing? The duty demon groaned out loud. How could he even
think
such a thought? S’tan was invincible, all-powerful. He wasn’t going to fail…. His powers weren’t dimming like some kind of cheap battery—
    â€œWelcome to Below, region of eternal Punishment, everlasting Torture, and unending Despair,”
the phone interrupted. The demon’s shoulders slumped. A recorded message. Gosh, what
fun
.
    â€œFor barbecue with added fork-and-skewer involvement, press one,”
the phone continued, its merry, upbeat tone at odds with the menu it was detailing.
“For lies, lies, and more damned lies, press two. Ha-ha—only kidding. Press three…Or is
that
a lie?”
    The demon sighed. The only thing to do was hang on with gritted teeth until the recording reached the “speak to a real person rather than a machine” option. That was, if there
was
such an option. This
was
Hades, after all.
    â€œFor fraud, bouncy checks, and armed robbery, press six. For Deadly Sins, press seven. For…”
    Using a none-too-pristine fingernail, the demon picked his teeth and waited.
    â€œFor using a cell phone in a manner designed to alert anyone within a half-mile radius