How far had the great Lucifer fallen. Struck down by his own brother for his rebellion, cast to the frozen depths of the lake Cocytus, and stripped of his glory and wings, he'd stayed encased in ice for millennia, alone in the deepest part of Hell, whispering to the hearts of mortals.

Until, much to his shock, a mortal not only whispered first, but actually pulled him from his eternal punishment through a summoning circle. For the first time in eons he could move his limbs and stand upright. The dull torchlight had been blinding to his eyes, so used to total darkness, the flames' gentle warmth practically searing his skin. And yet...never had the fallen angel felt such immense relief. And so, when this powerful human summoner—the first person he'd seen since his fall from grace—offered him a contract of servitude, no matter how humiliating the terms, he'd accepted. Anything was better than being sent back.

Now here he was, relegated to a mere familiar, bound by the terms of the contract to obey and serve his summoner for the duration of the mortal's life. At last he was free from his icy prison—at the cost of his pride. There was irony in that.

"It is done," he rasped, his voice husky from disuse. "I hope you know what you're doing, mortal." Defying the divine to make a pet of the devil himself was either the most astonishing or the most stupid thing Lucifer had ever heard of. Possibly both.