JUST AFTER TWILIGHT, in the first full seconds of the evening of the autumnal equinox, in the city mortals call Philadelphia, a demon invoked a random act. The demon was named Kejstvil, a recently anointed Lord of Pain, the self-styled Friend of Fallen Foliage, and the autumn tourney champion of the past one hundred ninety-seven consecutive years. The random action involved a surge along a neural pathway in a motorist's foot, just as he began to move it from accelerator to brake. The foot twitched. The brake went untouched. The driver's car struck and killed a child playing in the street. Time froze.
In that instant the air filled with dust, scattered motes of perception and far-seeing sent by every major demon, and many lesser ones too, bearing witness to the start of this year's tourney. Silently they looked on as Kejstvil's minions caught the boy's soul, clutched it fast with claws of smoky anguish, and stretched it wide for their master's inspection. As befit a defending champion, the Pain Lord took corporeal form first, assuming the aspect of autumn leaves. He swept in close, a swirl of gold and red and brown.
His challenger rippled into existence on the other side of the young soul, man-shaped and shadowy, head devoid of ears or eyes or mouth, and with just the hint of a ridge where a nose might otherwise be expected relative to the chin. Lord Zhole, eldest of the Lords of Disease, had been roused from self-imposed retirement by the ill luck of a demonic lottery. Demon law required an autumnal contest, and if no one would volunteer to face the reigning champion, then all of demonkind drew lots. Not even the eldest of the Lords of Disease could pass, and so Zhole found himself there now. Together with Kejstvil he examined the soul of the newly dead child, peeling away the fading memories of its recent life.
"You need not have killed this mortal to mark our game's setting," said Zhole, his tone heavy with contempt.
Kejstvil chuckled, a throaty rustling sound, freshly incarnated with the new season. "Screw him," he said. "It's been a long time since any of you older relics got tagged for the challenge. I wanted a sacrifice to commemorate the event. Have your eons made you squeamish? Forget the kid. You'd be better off focusing on the playing field. This single street, both sides, for the length of this one block, defines our game. Name your tools, Zhole; then I'll do the same."
Lord Zhole felt no offense at Kejstvil's lack of respect. "I will sow what I hope to reap," he replied. "Smiles will be my instrument and the measure of my success."
"You are as unimaginative as you are old," said Kejstvil, snorting. "Looking at you now it's hard to believe all the stories I've heard of the fearsome Zhole, Lord of Disease. Can you even recall the last plague you unleashed? Can you trace the last arc of contagion you painted across the mortal landscape? No, probably not. You putter away in your own demesne, growing smiles like some imbecilic gardener with affect vegetables."
Zhole merely shrugged, a slight lift of his chin. "There can be no shadow without light. Perhaps after you've sourced a millennia of anguish and suffering you'll appreciate its opposite as I have learned to." He paused, then added, "or perhaps not. As for the smiles, I gather them, rather than grow them. Think of it as my retirement, planned back when you were still an imp. It amuses me to store the energies I harvested so long ago in expressions of mortal delight. But I wouldn't expect you to understand, let alone appreciate the practice. You spend too much time emulating the disaffected and nihilistic mortal youths you so enjoy tormenting."
Vibrations of amusement chimed around them from the audience of perceptual dust. It was clear even to Kejstvil that they hoped he might finally lose the tourney.
"Spare me the lecture of your superior sensibilities," said Kejstvil. "You're a dabbler, nothing more. But I'll respect the gesture and counter your pathetic smiles with the tokens of my own hobby, the crisp and colorful leaves of the season."
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