'And then what, o mighty and powerful spirit? Prithee, o beneficent, beautiful, and proud creature of light, what more can ye tell me, your most humble slave, of this most wicked of demons, Amaimon?'

Aziraphale sighed and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He didn't like dealing with people who called themselves "mages". Or "wizards", or "alchemists", or "exorcists", or "demon-hunters"... He was sure they were all probably decent people, deep down. Beneath the runes, and the robes, and the funny hats, and the even funnier ideas about the world. He had assumed, perhaps unfairly, that all such practitioners were agents of The Other Side. Evidently not. His Side had gotten it in their heads that, provided these "mages" etc. etc. were working to expel, exorcise, or otherwise thwart demons, then he, Aziraphale, jolly well ought to be giving them a leg up with it. Whether he wanted to or not.

'Dear chap,' the angel said, wrestling his grimace into a smile, 'there really is no need for all of that "your humble slave" nonsense. I really don't go in for that sort of thing.'

Abramelin the Mage drew his eyebrows together and chewed his lip. When he had, to his enormous surprise, succeeded in summoning the Angel Aziraphale to his rooms, this was not quite what he'd had in mind. Abramelin had envisaged an Angel of the Ezekialian ilk, all metal and fire and thousands of eyes. Something terrifying and awe-inspiring and, well, a bit morefun, really. He would have settled quite happily for one of those chaps with four heads, or a lion's face. He would have even been satisfied by something with a flaming sword and burning eyes and a face like a Greek god. He would have quite liked that, actually.

The demon he had summoned a few weeks prior had been a similar disappointment in the "dramatic aesthetics" department, but at least he had been cool.

This Aziraphale wasn't even that. He looked vaguely like an eccentric, middle-aged alchemist that Abramelin had known in Delphi, what with his scruffy blonde hair, his slightly plump figure, and his habit of smoothing out his robes every couple of minutes. He was a bit, well, a bit ordinary. That was the only way that Abramelin could put it. The man - angel , he corrected himself - was quite tall, at least. That was something. He could work with tall. Tall could be spun into something a bit more intimidating, when he eventually recounted this tale to his students. And there was something else, too, although Abramelin couldn't quite put his finger on it. This difficult to define sense that beneath the pleasant, genial, bookish outer demeanor of the angel, there was something rather less friendly. Or, rather, not something less friendly, but something more dangerous. It was that underlying something that was keeping the mage on his toes.

Well, that and all of the things the demon had said about him.

'Oh. Yes. Yes, of course Mast- Er, I mean, of course. Whatever you say. Uh. So... If we could get back to Amaimon... How might one go about summoning him? Or defeating him, or fighting back against his evil ways? Or better still, capturing him and harnessing his powers for good!?'

Aziraphale pinched at the hem of his robe to prevent himself from pinching his nose in exasperation. Assisting self-proclaimed Demon-Hunters sounded all well and good on paper, but- Well, actually, no, it didn't even sound good on paper. It was a horrible idea all round. But one does as one is bidden.

And anyway, even if Heaven hadn't been sending constant memos about it, the last time Aziraphale had seen Crowley the demon had damn near begged him to go after some of the mages. Said that Hell was all over them, at the moment. That it'd be a huge favour if the angel would take a few of them off of his hands. Just enough to convince Hell that mages weren't the easy pickings they had assumed, and that they'd really be better off letting Crowley go back to doing things his own way. That he'd really owe Aziraphale one, if he did. That he was sick to the back teeth of bloody mages.

Aziraphale could see his point.

'Oh, well, I really wouldn't advise attempting to capture a demon, old boy, Amaimon or any other. Dreadful hassle, looking after a bound demon. And their friends will inevitably show up to see what's happened, and that never ends well.'

'Surely demons do not have friends!' the man exclaimed.

'Er, quite.'

'Anything, then! Please, o wise one, pray bestow upon me any and all heavenly knowledge with which I can arm myself and my acolytes against the forces of evil!'

'Really I'd just recommend not doing bad things, to be honest. Stay away from the lot of it, that's my advice. If you really want to work on the side of the Angels, the best thing you can do is to treat your fellow man kindly. Don't give into too many temptations. Er. Be nice to animals. That sort of thing.'

Abramelin failed to look impressed.

'Oh, well, fine then. If you really are set on learning about Amaimon-'

'I am!'

'-and I'm not quite sure why you would be, but-'

'Is he not a Prince of Hell?'

'Well, yes, but-'

'And he is mortally afraid of silver rings?'

'I'm sorry?'

'And does he not have the power to revive the dead? And make men fly ?'

'I really rather doubt that-'

'And is it not true that if you don't take your hat off when you summon him, he will lie to you, and you'll believe it all, and then he'll make sure all your work gets really buggered up forever? But that if you stand up straight and hatless, he will be like clay in your hands?'

What?' Aziraphale shook his head, bemused. 'Look, I'm really not sure who you have been getting your information from, but- Actually who did tell you all of this?'

Abramelin coloured, and took a sudden interest in his sandals. 'Er.'

'Well?'

' Well …' the mage began, '...you see... Now, well, the way it was was… Well... Well , I was attempting to summon a demon. To, er, well. To fight it, obviously. I'm on the side of God. Obviously. It definitely was not to, er, not to do any deals with it, or anything. Because demons are snakey bastards who don't hold up to their ends of the bloody bargain. Er. I've heard.'

Closing his eyes and sighing, Aziraphale silently counted to ten.

'And this demon you summoned, he was the one who told you all of this, did he?'

'Yes! And then he told me that if I left libations of the best wine I could get hold of and left them on my kitchen table, and turned in a circle one hundred times with my eyes closed, then he would grant me the power to turn away demons from my house without harm!'

'And what happened when you did this?'

'Well, that was when he-' Abramelin stopped mid-sentence, realising his inadvertent admission. 'Er, that is to say, I did do as the demon bade me, but only because I wanted to, er, well, learn his wicked ways and then, er…'

'Use your powers for good?' Aziraphale helpfully suggested. 'Rather than, say, to protect yourself whilst summoning demons for your own business, or anything like that?'

Abramelin hesitated, and then brightened. 'Yes! Yes, exactly that. You've hit the nail right on the head there! All for good, that was my plan. Not that it was worth anything, though. When I opened my eyes again, he was gone.'

'I'd rather say he held up his end of the bargain, then.'

'What?'

'Nothing. The wine was gone too?'

'Yes! How did you know?'

'Oh, just a guess. And this demon, he gave you all of this information about Amaimon , did he?'

'Yes. He told me that he, the demon I had summoned that is, that he wasn't that big of a fish, so to speak. He said that if I really wanted some fun- er, I mean, well, that is to say-'

Aziraphale waved his hand. 'Just keep going.'

'Yes. Er. Well, he said that the demon I really wanted was Amaimon. And then he told me all about him. Said he knew him from back in the day. That they used to play dice together, and that Amaimon was a terrible cheat. I didn't know that demons played dice. Do angels play dice?'

'And where did you get my name, pray tell?'

'Er... Well, the demon mentioned you. Said you were his, er, his Great and Fearful Arch Nemesis . And, er, well… Well he said that if he found out I had spoken to you, he would have to, er, take you out .'

'So you summoned me, regardless?'

'Well, angels are far more powerful than demons, aren't they? ...Aren't they? And, well, I just thought that, well, that-'

'You thought that as he, in your view, reneged on your deal, you would exact a little revenge of your own by informing his, how did you put it? Arch Nemesis ? And, of course, any extra information you could get from me about that cad Amaimon at the same time would simply be a bonus?

'...That would be the long and the short of it, yes.'

'This demon's name wouldn't happen to have been Crowley, would it?'

Abramelin nodded. 'I've really ballsed this up, haven't I?'

'Look,' Aziraphale said, patting the man on his black-robed shoulder, 'if I were you, I'd give up on this whole demon-summoning malarkey. It really isn't worth the effort. And I'd steer clear of Amaimon, too. As far as I've heard his breath is appalling, and he never gets out of bed before lunch-time, and he is a colossal bore all round. If I were you, I would stick to your writing, and to teaching your students, and to helping the local poor. You've been doing a wonderful job with all that, why get mixed up with all this nonsense? The true path to Heaven lies in choosing to do good, no matter how small that good might seem.'

'Oh. Right. So, charity, and suchlike?'

'Exactly, dear fellow.'

'Right. That's a bit… dull.'

'Dull is safe, old boy.'

'Right. Yes. Of course. You know best, I'm sure. Er, and if I want to summon you again, for, er, guidance, or if I need a guardian angel, or…?'

Dredging up a smile, Aziraphale replied by outlining an overly elaborate and utterly meaningless series of rituals through which the mage might hope to call upon him again when necessary. In what he felt was a stroke of genius, he added the proviso that it would unfortunately take at least eighteen months for him to reply to the call. First time callers always get through faster, he said. Abramelin didn't look convinced, but nevertheless Aziraphale managed to wrench a promise from him that he was going to stick to the simple path of Righteousness from here on in.

'And now,' Aziraphale said, clasping his hands in front of him in a way at once both benevolently clerical and indefinably menacing, 'I had best be off. I have a few favours to call in…'

?￢ﾳﾨ?￢ﾳﾩ?

Some four and a half centuries later The Book of the Sacred Magics of Abramelin the Mage resurfaced, revived by the fashionable spiritualist movement at the fin di siecle of the Victorian epoch. Crowley got hold of a copy and gave it to Aziraphale as an early Christmas present, who, beneath the bluster of feigned annoyance, actually found it quite amusing.

Both were quite irritated to find their names omitted from the text, but nonetheless agreed that it was, probably, for the best.