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Your next hour is spent bending and stooping, and your thighs and sides are aching in protest as you finish dusting and polishing the many frames of the great hall.

The cryptic conversation with the Devil has left you rattled. You spare a nervous glance back at the painting and your stomach tightens with anxiety, and a stillness blankets you; it feels as if the entire Tomb waits with bated breath, akin to how the forest falls silent with a heavy hush when there is a predator lurking nearby. The tiger somehow feels alive with an air of malignant awareness that makes your flesh crawl, and you tear your gaze away from it. Something sinister beckons from within the molten gold of his eyes, frightening and yet tantalizingly alluring with lethal beauty.

Maybe you really are prey- you cannot help but wonder as you stand wary yet entranced by the visage of a predator.

The echo of heels clicking over the marble expanse of the hall draws your attention from the fluted grooves of a massive alabaster pillar that you are brushing out. Relief washes over you when you see that it is only Tuare, but her face is slightly pinched into a rather solemn expression, as if all of the sunniness has been sucked out of her.

"Tuare?" You call. "What's wrong?"

"Pestonya says you are to be brought to the throne room immediately. I think Lord Ainz is about to make his decision." She informs you. "I thought he would not be doing so until tomorrow."

"But... he already came to speak with me." Your brows knit with confusion. "I told him that I would take the job."

You are admittedly puzzled, but you rest your polishing rag down on the cherry wood end table and straighten your outfit in preparation to accompany her.

"Um... that's odd." Tuare looks equally stumped and licks her lips. "But we had best hurry. We cannot keep Lord Ainz waiting."

She leads you down the great hall to your destination, and you see a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette sauntering from the opposite direction. Tuare slams on the brakes and comes to a dead halt.

"There's Lord Ainz now." You whisper, and watch the red-clad Devil push the towering double doors open to enter what you are assuming is the throne room. He pauses, and turns to look at you. You bow, and he flashes a cavalier smirk before disappearing into the room. You then redirect your attention to Tuare. "See? There's nothing to worry ab-"

The hair on the back of your neck prickles with alarm when you see that the color has drained from her face, and her eyes are blown wide with fear- she is frozen. A bead of nervous sweat rolls down her neck.

Tuare looks utterly petrified.

"What's wrong?"

"Th-that's not Lord Ainz." She squeaks out, and her lips roll and you watch the motion of her anxious swallow.

'Then who the Hell is he?'

"That is Lord Demiurge."

"Lord Demiurge?" His name doesn't ring a bell. "Who is that?"

"The Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He-"

"Make haste! Lord Ainz has summoned you." You both jump out of your skins when Pestonya gently ushers you forward to escort you to the throne room, away from your trusted friend, your only real lifeline in this place.

You peer back at Tuare, and she remains still as a statue with raw worry etched into her features. But she does not follow, nor finish her explanation.

Who is Lord Demiurge? Why is she so afraid of him? A cold and heavy stone of dread settles icily into your stomach, and you hope like Hell you haven't made a terrible mistake.

"Um...Pestonya? Who is Lord Demiurge?" You ask quietly as you walk.

"Lord Demiurge is our Commander of Defenses and the Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He is to lead Nazarick in its Defense if we are ever to fall under siege." She clarifies. "He is remarkably intelligent and can outwit all but the Supreme One with strategic thinking alone. We are most fortunate to have him on our side."

'That doesn't sound so bad. So, he's like a combat Commander or something.' That would explain his intense 'predator and prey' talk, but you do not see his position as a reason to fear him, and it would seem he is well-respected individual, according to Pestonya.

"I hear he has offered you a job." She comments. "Have you accepted his offer?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have." You tell her with a furtive glance, and try not to stare at the massive scar that seems to split her face in two.

"Then be sure to address him as Lord, Lord Demiurge, or Master when conversing. And tomorrow, we will show you how to cook his meals to his preference."

'Aw, Hell.' You had just barely learned how to chop carrots and use an oven. How were you going to cook an entire meal?

"Here we are. Lord Ainz may look quite frightening to you, but he is a fair and merciful ruler." Pestonya advises, and pushes open the door for you. "Remember to bow."

"Thank you." You say, and slowly walk in, with your heart threatening to hammer out of its cage.

'Holy filet of fuck!' The seconds crawl by like hours as your feet root themselves to the floor, and your every muscle freezes in paralytic indecision. It's the only thing preventing you swiveling around and fleeing like the hounds of Hell are on your heels when you lay eyes upon the Lord of the Tomb.

The true ruler of Nazarick is the most intimidating entity you have ever beheld; the colossal undead emperor reclined confidently on his throne; he makes the fact that you think the demon is frightening almost laughable.

He is nothing short of terrifying; an Elder Lich, a sorcerer whose form is that of a 7-foot-tall skeleton clothed in a regal black academic robe, edged in royal violet and gold trim. The collar is resplendent with just a touch of edginess; it appears to be forged of curved metal horns and banded with polished chunks of ruby stone as thick as your thighs.

His face, however, is his most startling feature- it is a bare gray skull. Points of crimson red light burn like twin blood moons in the cold, black space of his eye sockets, and his entire form glows with an aura of dark radiance.

He is an Overlord, and among the highest-ranking of magic casters who have become undead in order to master the most potent of spells.

Despite being scared to death, you muster every ounce of your courage to favor him with a trembling bow and silently thank Pestonya again for giving you an idea as to what expect.

Now that your focus isn't entirely nailed to the Elder Lich, you realize that the demon and Sebas, two rigid pillars of composure, stand before the throne. In the towering presence of Lord Ainz, your brain didn't even register the other two mere feet away.

Upon seeing the gray haired and bearded Butler, you instantly recognize him as a small fragment of your shattered memory clicks back into place. His hair is pure white, as is the beard and mustache framing his mouth. His face is wrinkled at the corners of his eyes with laugh lines, which gives you the impression that he is a kind and gentle person, but his intense, steel-gray eyes remind you of a wolf. Despite his piercing gaze, there is an underlying softness and warmth to his eyes; a kindness and mercy just beneath the surface. The old man's back is ramrod-straight, like a sword forged of steel. He is stone faced, and donned in a black tuxedo suit.

Much of your memory of that night is still watery, but you know him in your heart to be your rescuer.

Sebas is quiet and still, like the calm before the storm; his lips are pressed into a grim line. It sends a low swoop of anxiety through your stomach.

Something is wrong.

"I cannot imagine what would possess you to bring yet another human into the walls of Nazarick, Sebas. The ruler rumbles in the deepest baritone you have ever heard; it rattles you to the very marrow of your bones. "After the fiasco it created before, I do hope you had a very good reason." His phantom voice booms not from lungs, but from a crimson crystal ball of power that rests within his ribs' cage of ivory- his jaw does not move at all when he speaks.

The glorified Grim Reaper is unabashed in making it clear that he is not particularly pleased by your presence.

"Yes, Lord. Had I not come to her aid; she would have been beaten to death. The aggressor was the same ma- monster who had nearly killed Tuare. And her fate would have..." He closes his eyes, as though he is struggling to find the right words as he relives what he has witnessed. "I could not in good conscience stand idly by and watch her die." He concludes, tipping his chin upwards, resolute in his belief that he has done the right thing.

Lord Ainz carefully considers the Butler's response as he rests his chin on his ring-adorned knuckles. He can see how sympathetic Sebas is to her plight; though that should come as no surprise- valiance is the heart of his core programming. While this is indeed an inconvenience, he is also admittedly impressed; the NPCs are not only moving of their own volition, but seem to be developing genuine emotions that influence their decisions as well.

Sebas has proven his loyalty once before by demonstrating that he will obey an order to kill the very human he rescued and risked everything for, so he does not doubt his allegiance in the least. No, this is a matter of the NPCs evolving beyond their programming.

'Remarkable.'

"So, it is because her fate would have been Tuare's? Had you not prevented Tuare's death when she was left in the street to die?" Ainz connects the dots.

"Yes Lord. It is as you say." Sebas agrees with a somber nod, bearing his master's scathing stare. "I offer my sincerest apologies for letting my emotions dictate my actions once more. But that... monster could not be allowed to continue. It was more than a disgrace. It was criminal, what he had done. She is a victim, like Tuare, and not a threat to us in the least. I understand if you cannot allow her to remain here. But my Lord, I implore you to spare her life. Tuare remembers her and has taken to her well, and if I may humbly give my opinion, I think she would fare here even better with another human, a friend to confide in."

Sebas kneels in a low bow as he pleads for your life, the definition of valiant and selfless.

"So, now that she is safe and healed, what do you intend to do with her? We already have one human working in the kitchen." Ainz presses, curious if Sebas has even thought that far ahead.

"I understand this was not protocol, as well as the security risk that comes with bringing in outsiders, so if you wish it, I will have her memory wiped and release her in a nearby town, as far away from the brothel as possible. And I will deal with the consequences of my actions, as they are punishable." He offers with a submissive bow of his head.

You do not like the sound of that. Next to dead, the last thing you want to be is on your own, and you have only just begun to recover some of your memories. Now you might lose them again?

What if someone in one of the towns recognizes you, tracks you down and returns you to the brothel?

"I will grant her sanctuary here." Lord Ainz declares, and you feel a suffocating weight lift from your shoulders.

The Overlord decides he will entertain the idea and will allow her to remain, as this woman was harmless enough, but he cannot not further encourage the Butler to continuously bring home every battered human he runs across.

"And I will later discuss my terms with you, Sebas."

As a reprimand, cruel as it may be, he will not extend his kindness any further to grant her full protection in his name, as he graced Tuare with. He will speak with the Butler privately afterwards to relay the entirety of his decision, as he sees no sense in making the human feel more victimized than she already is.

The Devil steps forward and kneels before the skeletal king, and raises his head. "Most honorable ruler, might I make a somewhat selfish request?"

"You may, Demiurge." Lord Ainz permits as this piques his interest.

"I believe I have an employment opportunity for this human- I would like her as my personal servant." The demon bids.

'Servant? I thought the job was for an assistant?'

"I have watched her clean and deem her competent enough to keep my personal quarters tidy, and having her around would certainly lighten the amount of work placed on Pestonya and her staff." The Devil proposes.

The Elder Lich hums, and appears amiable to the demon's suggestion. "An excellent idea, Demiurge. And I'm sure as far as Pestonya would be concerned, it is not selfish at all. I grant your request." With that, Lord Ainz seals your fate.

You are partially relieved by his blessing of sanctuary, but also afraid to be placed in the hands of the demon Tuare seems to be terrified of.

"My Lord, if I may suggest, I think she would fare better working in the kitchen alongside Tuare." Sebas counters. "They already know each other, and I feel she would be more comfortable working with her."

Demiurge cast an icy glare at the butler, and Sebas' eyes gleam defiantly in retaliation like polished steel.

"Oh? And what skills does she possess in cooking that you are aware of?" Demiurge inquires with a light air of sarcasm. "She has only proven adequate in cleaning thus far, so-"

"I'm sure with both Tuare and Pestonya to guide her, she will learn quickly." Sebas cuts him off.

"Enough, you two. I will enact a compromise." Ainz puts an end to their bickering. "She will work in the kitchen when she is finished with her duties on the 7th Floor, and therefore will be most useful to Nazarick. Demiurge, she is now assigned to you."

Sebas visibly bristles, but only for a fraction of a second and bites his tongue. He does not dare challenge his master's final decision.

"My most humble thanks for indulging, my Lord." The Arch Devil rises to his feet and bows once more at the waist and he flickers his gaze briefly at the Butler, and he allows himself the small luxury of a vindictive smirk.

"And fear not, Sebas. I promise to take excellent care of her." The Arch Devil vows. His voice is warm silk, but there is a blade buried just beneath the surface.

The tension in the room is buttery thick, making you swallow nervously, and you see Sebas' frame almost tremble with barely-leashed rage; his hands clench into tight fists at his sides, but before the ruler he endeavors to withhold his composure.

What you, a lowly human wants, is apparently meaningless; how you feel about being handed over to the demon is not even discussed. The decision as to what would become of you is over in less than five minutes.

"Come, human, I will guide you to your quarters." The demon calls and saunters towards the exit with his hands clasped behind his back. His tail sways fluidly in a seemingly pleased manner, and you obediently follow closely behind your new Master.

You cast one last glance back at Sebas, who looks ultimately defeated. He eyes fall from yours and to the ground.

Seeing as you have no choice in the matter, you try to dilute your anxiety by looking on the bright side; perhaps this is a good thing. You have gained favor with a Guardian, as Tuare did, and you hope this will help ensure your safety in your new surroundings.

But it is that grim look on the Butler's face which prevents you from fully deceiving yourself; he looks as if you have been sentenced to the guillotine, rather than granted a new home.

You cannot shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

---

It is a long, agonizing journey from the throne room to the 7th Floor.

The demon treads onward, navigating through the foreboding levels with purpose. You shadow him as closely as you can, just short of clinging to him out of anxiety of the situation and your new surroundings; with his tall, dark presence looming next to you, he provides the sensation of deadly support; warm, solid, dangerous. As if you are walking with an attack dog of the most fearsome breed at your side.

The Devil is the only anchor of familiarity you have left, but Tuare's fear of him also makes you tense with apprehension- but you would rather be walking with him than by your lonesome as you traverse lower and lower into the dark, humid maw of the earth.

The sconces of flame were the only feature of the dark corridor, and cast dancing shadows against the walls. Rather than illuminate, their flickering only seems to enrich the eeriness of the enclosed, tunnel-like path with a sickly jaundice glow. You pass the room he had you clean yesterday, and wonder just how far this tunnel goes...

You are relieved when the corridor empties into a more well-lit chamber. This place more closely resembles the great hall, but rather than the alabaster marble and velvet curtains which exude an air of luxury, this level is composed of pitted and scarred cobblestone. Lanterns hang suspended from the stony jaws of gargoyles perching upon a towering bookcase crammed full of leather-bound volumes, and cast fractured shards of light against the walls. You pass familiar end tables against either side of the bookshelf, but instead of displaying kintsugi vases or hand-carved sculptures, they are topped by tarnished candelabras streaked with melted candle wax.

There is a atmosphere of medieval Gothic beauty which permeates this Floor. It is more akin to a castle than a Tomb. If the walls of stone could speak, you think they would whisper of the ages, of being built upon blood and and bodies of the fallen. They are steadfast, clearly constructed for defense in an age defined by jealousy, greed and the rampant desire for power, as much as honor, nobility and loyalty to a crown.

You cannot help but ponder how it was all conquered and claimed, and how much of a hand your new Master had in its crumble.

Your feet are killing you by the time Lord Demiurge escorts you to your final destination, and your muscles wobble precariously; you're thoroughly winded. Your clothes stick to your skin and sweat beads on your forehead. It's sticky-hot on this level. Demiurge, however, maintains steady breath and has not even broken a sweat.

As a Devil, he must be immune to the heat.

"Here we are." He shows you into a small but cozy room. It is far more reserved than the rest of the Floor- so much so that it almost seems out of place in how normal it is. It contains a queen-sized bed, neatly made and crowned with an elaborate mahogany headboard, a small nightstand, a bureau that lacked a mirror and a round table with two straight-backed chairs nestled in the corner. There are no drapery or curtains- as there are no windows.

'No escape.' Your paranoia hisses. 'One way in, one way out.'

The walls are bare stone; there are no pictures, no wallpaper, and the little room was like an oven. This chamber of the Tomb is quite warm, and it occurs to you that this must be the Floor with the sea of magma Tuare mentioned. You will have to strip the comforter off the bed before going to sleep or you just may cook to death. You see a large, rectangular hollow that is reminiscent of a walk-in closet which lacks a door, and it looks as though the frilly maid uniforms inside, all identical, will likely fit you better than this one. They are also a bit skimpier, although you do take into consideration that the design's practical purpose is to prevent you from overheating while working here.

But what thrills you most of all is that you now have a personal bathroom, complete with your very own shower. The counter and sink are gleaming white marble, and boast a ovular mirror, encircled by a frame of threadlike strands of gold, interlaced together in a mock-liana arrangement, and the walls of the shower are lined in handcrafted tiles.

'Maybe this won't be so bad after all!' You've found a silver lining.

"Has anyone given you a demonstration in how to operate the shower?" Demiurge inquires and motions towards it.

"Yes, Master, Tuare has. Thank you. I appreciate you giving me this opportunity." You bow deeply, and he acknowledges your gesture with a curt nod.

"Then I will allow you to get settled. Dinner will be delivered at 7pm, as I'm sure you will need this evening to adjust and recover." He concludes, and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"Thank you again, Master." You say and bow, but he does not respond. The demon lets himself out and pulls the door to behind him.

As soon as he is out of sight, you shuck off your shoes and tear the comforter off the mattress and toss it into the closet before flopping unceremoniously onto the bed. Fuck, you are exhausted. You waste no time in slipping beneath the silk sheets, and it takes you all but two minutes to nod off.

The Devil's crystalline eyes shamelessly skate over her prone body as she dozes, so blissfully unaware. Her feathery lashes fan over her cheeks and her deliciously plump lips are softly parted, and her hair spills in glorious disarray like molten gold over the goose down pillow. His gaze traces the gentle rise and fall of her rib cage, the dramatic dip of her waist, the climb of sweet curves that make up the roundness of her lovely hips.

So small, so fragile. How easily he could break her...

And he will.

He rests the steaming tray of food he brought on the table and stalks towards her with leonine grace. The demon inhales, savoring the nectarous glow that is the scent of her skin.

The cadence of her breathing deepens, growing heavier, signaling her descent into Rapid Eye Movement sleep.

Into HIS realm.

Your nails sink into his biceps through the vermilion pinstriped material of his suit as he pulls your head back firmly by your hair, bowing your body just short of an unnatural arc. Claws hook into the front of your dress, and suddenly rake downward to severe the laces and he peels the silken garment open like a pea pod, exposing your top half.

You blush furiously but before you can react, the Arch Devil dips his head and sucks a rosy nipple in between his lips, and you feel his muscles flex languidly beneath your clutching fingers. A startled cry tears forth from your lungs as his scathingly hot tongue laves at your breast, and you gasp in what can only be described as bone-melting ecstasy.

Terror wars with alien rapture, swirling in a caustic and potent mixture in your veins.

You have never felt pleasure when being touched before- the clients at the brothel were sadistically cruel and selfish, only ever taking what they wanted, and they thrilled when you screamed and bled in the process. Not once had anyone touched you like this. The sensation short-circuiting your brain is utterly overwhelming and disarming in its decadence, and your mouth falls open as you pant in fearful anticipation. All coherent thought is wiped from your mind- you can't think of words or what they even mean.

"M-Master!" The only thing you can see or feel bursts forth, and his diamond eyes flash carnivorously at you.

He growls softly in response, and his tail snakes like a python around your waist, the iron plates rasping over the skirt of your shredded maid's dress to bind you to him. The appendage is remarkably strong, and makes you feel like a helpless bird trapped in the coils of a serpent. He winds his other arm around the small of your back, pulling you flush to him.

His embrace is hot steel- inescapable, but simultaneously so sweet and secure. Each swipe of his tongue is sinuous, and damningly addictive. He suddenly releases your nipple from his molten mouth.

Your eyes flick from the ceiling back to his, to see them glitter as an arrogant smile caresses his lips.

"That's a good girl," He purrs, his voice like the darkest of honeys dripping over your skin. "Give in to me..."

You jerk hard and gasp, and the velvety veil of sleep slips away to reveal you are alone in your new bed.

Frantically, your eyes dart around in panic as you pant in a fog of foreign desire, struggling to wrangle your breath under control. An incessant throb pulses between your thighs. It's a sweet, fierce ache, and something primal hisses in the back of your mind that you have been somehow cheated... but you are at a loss as to how to assuage it. The glorious heat begins to fade, and you whine as your panties are awash in illicit warmth.

'What the Hell was that about?!'

What an insane dream. What he was doing... you wonder if it is even possible for that to feel good. No one has ever done...that before. For you, sex and involved acts were always excruciating, something to recoil from and fear.

Perhaps it was simply your dreams twisting what you know to be an abhorrent experience into something bearable with the devastatingly attractive Devil?

No, it was far more than just bearable. It was fucking exquisite.

But unfortunately, it was merely a dream.

'Damn it.'