It's always too hot in the infernal Casino. You shuffle your chips, listening to the clicks. The last game of the night is poker. One card left.
You don't recall your life before death. Clearly, you were no saint. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, betting for absolution. Behind you, there's the muffled titters of demons and the scuffling of imps serving cocktails. Yesterday, after a loss, a succubus threw a drink at you as punishment. It burned, rendering your face little more than a blackened crisp.
Today, your face is cured and ready for ruin. You eye the pot, calculating the odds. You're the button, the last to bet. The woman at lojack position raises, then the man at cutoff folds. For this display of weakness his handler digs her claws deep into his shoulders. Scarlet blood wells and dots the green felt.
Each player is assigned a demonic handler. Their purpose is to act as representative and coach, though some take pleasure in assigning cruel punishments for losses. Even here fame and fortune are valuable currency, and top players and handlers are celebrities. Their lavish lives generate enough grist for the envy mill that the demons are always entertained with the balance of suffering, especially since top players are never safe from falling to disgrace.
But you and your handler are far from the top. Her name's Lilitu, and she's cunning, with her eyes set on infernal glory. Her form shifts often, but today she's taken on the semblance of a red-skinned girl with black sclera and gold irises. Her fingers tap an anxious rhythm on your shoulders.
Your turn. Just you and the lojack. You're one card away from a flush, but if luck doesn't go your way…
"She raised twice the pot," you think to Lilitu. "Think she's got the nuts?"
The nuts: the best possible hand. Lilitu scans the table, her gaze flicking over the flop and turn before eying your opponent, the lojack.
"She could've hit the full house on the turn," she says telepathically. "But her early betting was