“I demand power.”

The daemon groans, “Yea; ye all do.” Its head rolls to the side, probably the only thing not impeded by both spell and chains, and a glare is leveled at the human being. Jarl only glares back. “T’ere’s a price—”

“Yes, yes, I know!” the man rushes, “Get on with it!”

The shackled being rolls its eyes and stares at the ceiling, muttering. When the chains tighten, burning it, the creature Jarl summoned finally concedes, “W’at kind o’ power?” Runes appear above it, glowing neon green and shaking unstably in this world which is not their own. Jarl squints at them, not knowing what they mean; he does know what they are, though: his witchy friend warned him that all daemons already have prepared ways to grant these particular wishes as power—and no, you are not allowed to tell this vile creature that it is right; about ANYTHING—is something humans almost always ask for.

Manus also told him that the power he wants is not common enough to have a pre-existing rune.

For this reason, the creature will (—never know that it was technically right—) have to draw one specially for him.

~

“I wish to be a superhero.”

The daemon chokes on the floor, runes fizzing out, before cackling madly. Its whole-body shakes as it laughs, mouth wide and amusement high. “Y-ye w-want w’at‽”

Jarl sneers to hide his embarrassment, “To be a superhero.”

The thing splutters, writhing in humor on the floor. Finally, after Jarl growls and yells for it to shuddup, the daemon calms down to just a few chuckles. It’s wheezing, just a bit, probably because it’s not used to using air, as it clarifies: “hW’ich powers?”

The human bites his lip, “… You familiar with any of them?”

The green being rolls its eyes. Then, it nods, “Yea; a couple.”

Jarl lists the heroes he wishes to be like, running up a list that includes everything from super strength to super speed. For each additional ability, a line is drawn in the air by seemingly nothing—but the human can see that the thing’s doing it with its eyes and tongue, mouthing and tracing the words Jarl doesn’t know.

By the time they’re finished, there’s a mess floating in his spare room.

Sky blue eyes glare at it critically; but, without any way of knowing otherwise, the human knows he must trust this thing blindly. Well, not entirely blindly: Manus told him roughly what the chicken scratch would look like as well as gave him a list of very specific daemons that would be most likely able to do this.

He owes that witch big time.

“’Ow’s t’is?” the green thing asks, pupils glowing eerily. Jarl knows it’s just its power seeping from the void—or wherever it came from—but it’s still creepy as buck to look at. Shaking off a disturbed shiver, he double-checks the crude drawing Manus made of his prediction, holding it aloft and closing an eye.

The thing sniggers.

Stiffening, Jarl sneers at it, closing his notebook fast. He keeps his eyes on the daemon while setting it aside, “It looks right.”

A mocking grin splits its face and sharp fangs gleam in the dim light, “As if ye’d know~”

“Shuddup and super me.”

~

After laughing loudly for several minutes—during which Jarl kicked it a lot—the daemon finally obeys.

An Irish lilt cants the spell into something of an old Celtic song. Jarl stares, breath held, as he tries his best to not think the word beautiful. A monster such as this could never be that. Inhaling sharply, the human suddenly feels wafty, as though suddenly light enough to fly. His eyes widen; he can fly!

Grinning, the mortal inspects his new capabilities, ignoring the leering eyes of the daemon under him.

He tries to get closer to the table in the corner littered with notes and symbols; he finds himself unable to. Frowning, he reaches out, kicks his feet, and even swims midair; all to no avail. Frustrated, he glares at the grinning green thing below him and demands an explanation. Burning orange eyes ringed in lime just roll.

“T’ink it an’ it will ‘appen.”

Grimacing in confusion, Jarl turns back to the desk and tries that. He scowls as he finds himself unsure what that even means. Think it? Think it how? Is he supposed to imagine it? Visualize it? Say it in his head? What?

The daemon only laughs at him.

Growling, Jarl imagines himself floating down, grabbing his thickest book, and hitting the monster wi—suddenly, he’s there: book in hand and towering over the prone creature. His sky blue eyes widen as the green thing grins, “T’ere ye go~” It chuckles, seeming to enjoy how spooked Jarl is.

The human can only shudder.

He pulls back, returns the book to the table, and tries to fly again. He kicks off with his feet, but just lands back on the floor. Frowning, he jumps again. When he keeps failing to repeat his success, the daemon huffs, “Fer Jives sak! Ye said ye wanted t’is! Didn’t ya‽ Well: WANT IT! Want it MORE!”

Jarl gapes at it; then, he suddenly understands.

Remembering the feeling he had—the desire to just hit that thing—he takes it and applies it to flying. Successfully. Jarl gasps as he’s suddenly in the air, back slamming into the ceiling and loosing breath.

He laughs, “I did it!”

“Good job.” His elation is cut short by the daemon’s dry comment. It forces him to suddenly come back to himself and blush furiously. How embarrassing; he’s just acted like a child before this… thing.

Clearing his throat, the human wills himself back down and stands calmly on the floor.

The creature smirks up at him, “Now ta figure out t’e rest, yes?”

~

By the time Jarl has figured out everything, it’s well past dawn.

Seeing as he summoned this creature at the stroke of midnight—the witching hour—and it took him—what—two hours to bind it and sort the actual spell out: that means he’s actually been practicing all his new abilities for 10 hours. He collapses into a nearby chair, exhausted. The human allows his head to loll back and his body to go slack as the daemon that granted him this unrest remains chained and spelled to the ground.

He should probably release him.

Sighing, the human stands and glares down at the restrained creature. It smiles back. The corners of its eyes crinkle almost charmingly; and, for the first time, Jarl wonders exactly how old it is.

How many wishes it’s granted.

The two stare at each other in silence for many minutes. Jarl’s body feels tired and heavy from all the training but he’s certain the daemon feels no such weight. This puts him at a severe disadvantage. He needs to fix it.

“Daemon—”

“Ye know me name, danong,” it hisses, rolling its eyes. 10 hours seems too much for its patience, too.

“… Áesta. Will you obey me if I unchain you?”

It glares, “Ye summoned me, ye fize!” Aforementioned chains clang harshly when it tries to lurch up.

Jarl kneels and presses a hand against its chest, feeling heat but no heartbeat, “Be still.”

The thing obeys. Interesting. The human smiles and mutters both the chains and the binding spell off.

A clawed hand is instantly at his throat.

Áesta hisses, face uncomfortably close; but the threatening effect it was clearly going for fails as a result of its comparatively tiny form. It’s too small now—too condensed and narrowed—to inflict fear upon anyone.

Least of all its new master.

Jarl smiles coldly at the still caged creature, grasping its chin with his much larger hand. “Watch yourself,” growls the human, pulling the daemon so they’re nose-to-nose. “Or I won’t uphold my end of the deal.”

Burnt orange irises rimmed in dim green contract around bizarre midnight blue pupils with fear.

“Exactly.”