Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

THE KINGDOM :: 215
But what sort of ring could compel demons, especially if
the bearer was not a magician? And then it dawned on
him—the greatest treasure of the ancient Middle East.
“That ring...is the Ring of Solomon?” whispered Richard.
“The same,” Duunel hissed.
Richard caught the side of the bed to steady himself. To
have been so close to an artifact of such magnitude was
almost too much for him. His mind staggered at the thought
of how much power its bearer could wield, and the danger
to the world should that bearer be the wrong sort of man—
which it always, invariably, was. Only one sort of man
sought out Solomon’s Ring—those drunk with power and
intent on no good.
Richard got a grip on himself and turned back to the
demon. “To what end does he hold you here? Why? What
possible good is it doing him?”
“Hatred. Revenge,” came the otherworldly voice from the
wizened lips. “So much does he hate the old man, that he
compels me to inhabit him so that he will continue to draw
breath. So that he will—”
“—continue to suffer,” Richard finished.
“Yessss...”
“Evil fucking bastard.”
“No shit, priest.”
“Duunel, listen, we think Dane—the younger Dane—
might have something to do with the disappearance of one
of our friars. Do you remember Mikael?”
“Goth boy. Newbie. Three nipples.”
Richard arched an eyebrow. How in hell did Duunel know
about that? “Er...yeah, that’s him. He’s gone missing, and
we’re sure he’s undergoing demonic oppression from one of
your colleagues. Can you tell me where Mikael is?”
“Do I look like I get out much?” Duunel narrowed one eye
at him menacingly.