Paul stepped back to admire his handiwork. It wasn't a perfect circle, but it was good enough, he thought. He hoped, anyway. He wondered vaguely whether it should be in an unconsecrated burial ground, where they interred suicides, politicians and other soulless aberrations. Or maybe the site of an old church, bombed out in the war. The book hadn't mentioned anything about the location. He expected the supermarket car park was as good a place as any.

He gripped the small penlight in his mouth and opened the ancient book. The symbols were convoluted, and Paul didn't have much of an artistic bent, but the sigils chalked out on the tarmac looked identical. He just needed the candles, and he was set. He turned to his bag.

"Scarth!" he yelled, trying to catch the penlight as it tumbled from his mouth.

The demon paused, half-eaten candle in his hand.

"Put the candle down now!"

Scarth turned large, sad eyes up to his master.

"Ice-cream?" he asked, plaintively.

"No! Just put, I mean, by the seven scrolls of ..."

Scarth shoved the candle into his mouth, his lantern jaw crunching the wax with the speed of a jack-hammer.

"... the-Beast-of-Torment-I-adjure-thee ..." Paul raced to finish the invocation, but Scarth was too quick. Scarth lifted his hands, palm outwards, to show the candle was gone.

"Why the hell did you do that?" screamed Paul.

"Mmmmph blbble," said Scarth, crumbs of wax falling from his lips.

"What?"

Scarth swallowed. "Scarth hungry, Master."

"Do you know what I had to go through to find black candles? Do you?"

Scarth slowly shook his head.

"Bloody dozens of shops, and weird looks from the staff, too. Right! Get in that circle now."

Scarth drew back and shook his head.

"Scarth want stay, Master."

"By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment," Paul shouted, as Scarth covered his large ears with his taloned hands and wailed, "I adjure thee to get in that bloody circle before I kick you in there, you thieving little toe-rag."

Scarth slumped over to the circle, giving Paul puppy-dog stares all the way. He raised one foot and let it hover over the chalk outline. He gave Paul a long, doleful look as his lower lip trembled.

"Go on. You know you have to. You made me use the invocation, so bloody-well do what you're told."

Scarth might have been stepping into a freezing-cold bath, such was his reluctance to place his foot inside the circle. He shuddered as his foot touched the ground, his ears drooped and his shoulders sagged. He stood in the centre of the circle, scrawny arms wrapped around his thin body, and looked up at Paul miserably.

"Look, I'm doing this for your own good, understand? You're no good up here, are you? You haven't a clue what modern living is all about, and you just get into trouble all the time."

"Scarth learn. Scarth not eat anyone else. Scarth be good." His voice quavered and his large yellow eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

"No, I can't be doing with this anymore. Besides, you'll be happier down there, with all your mates and everything."

Paul turned his back on the creature and rifled through his bag. There were meant to be eight black candles, according to the book, but Paul now had only six. He took out the sword of banishment, which an hour earlier had been a simple breadknife, and cut two of them in half. That would be all right, wouldn't it? If you cut a candle in half, what you got was two candles. There was nothing in the book about them having to be the same length or anything.

"Please, Master," whined Scarth, as Paul placed the candles around the circle.

"Shut up, Scarth."

"Scarth stay?"

"Shut up, I said."

"Scarth be good."

"By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to shut the hell up," snapped Paul. He felt a little guilty, afterwards, but Scarth's voice jangled his nerves at the best of times. At the least worst times, he amended in his head, because, in all honesty, there had been no good times with Scarth. He was a liability, and as irritating as it was possible to be.

Paul walked around the circle, lighting the candles. As each wick caught and spluttered, Scarth gave a little whimper. Paul studiously ignored him.

Paul placed the breadknife of banishment at his feet, pointing towards the circle. Muttering to himself as he read the book, he unlaced his trainer and placed the rope (or, more accurately, the shoelace) of confinement over the blade. Then, holding the torch high over the book, he read out the spell.

A breeze sprung up, causing the candle flames to stretch and dance around the terrified Scarth. A chill descended as the breeze became a wind. Dust and leaves spun around the magic circle and the wind became a mini-tornado. The candles guttered and expired. Through scrunched-up eyes, Paul could hardly see Scarth, as debris from all over the car park was sucked into the maelstrom.

Finally a deafening thunderclap followed a flash that left Paul blinded. It was over. He could now wake from the nightmare curse of having a demon slave to do his bidding.

Paul squinted into the suddenly calm night and shone his torch. Scarth blinked back at him.

"What? What are you still doing there? I sent you back! You shouldn't be here."

Scarth backed away from Paul until he reached the edge of the circle. He pushed up against the invisible barrier, a look of fear on his face. His feet continued to push him back, his talons tearing long grooves into the tarmac as he attempted to push himself further than the incantation would allow him. He started whimpering, as the fear grew into terror.

"Okay, calm down. I'm not angry, I just must have misread something," said Paul, looking back down at the book.

"We need to talk."

Paul jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. Two coal-red eyes gleamed in the darkness. He took an involuntary step backwards.

"Don't step into the circle!" the invisible intruder commanded. Paul windmilled his arms. Looking down he could see the heel of his trainers almost touching the chalk circle.

A hand shot out of the darkness, grabbed Paul by his jacket lapel and tugged him forward. Paul wanted to close his eyes, but a horrified fascination dragged his traitorous eyes down to the hand that rescued him. Instead of a green and leathery arm that ended in a fistful of claws, he saw a suited sleeve, cufflinked shirt and well-manicured hands. The stranger stepped into the light shed by Paul's penlight, dropped forgotten on the floor.

In any other context, Paul would have mistaken him for a successful businessman. He appeared to be in his early fifties, clothes hand-made and expensive, salt-and-pepper hair and beard close cropped and stylish. His eyes, now he was in the light, were blue, rather than fiery red.

"Jesus, you scared me," said Paul.

The stranger winced. "Please, a little consideration. We don't use His name."

"Who are you?" asked Paul. "You're not ... you know ... are you?"

The stranger chuckled. "No, don't worry. He's too busy to deal with individual souls, unless you're very special. The curse of scaling up, I'm afraid. He's very good at delegating, though. Let me introduce myself. I'm Lord Roath."

"Lord Roath?" repeated Paul. "The Destroyer of Peace and Whatnot of Souls?"

"Crusher of Souls. You've heard of me?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Sort of. Scarth keeps sacrificing things to you. Cats, newspapers, gravel, pretty much anything, really. I've told him to stop, but it's like talking to a brick wall. Well, worse really, because at least brick walls don't look like they're listening."

"Ah, yes, sorry about that. My fault, really. For the best part of three ages, Scarth had been part of my fiefdom. It's embarrassing, quite frankly. What he expects me to do with them all is beyond me. It wouldn't be so bad if he included the odd sacrificial virgin or saint, but what can you do? Between you and me, he's just a little bit simple. It takes forever to get an idea into his head, but then he just won't let go of it, no matter how much you torture him. It took nearly five hundred years in a lake of molten rock before he stopped picking his nose."

"I sympathise. I feel I've spent an eternity in hell just the last two weeks. Still, it's all over now. I'm sorry, I didn't know you would come in person to collect him. I hope you weren't busy or anything."

"The thing is, Paul," said Roath, wrapping an avuncular arm around his shoulders, "I'm not here to collect him."

"You're not?"

"No. Oh, it's all in the small print, perfectly legal and all that, but the version of the summoning spell you used has a clause in it that gives us the option to refuse the return of goods. Sorry, chum, but you're stuck with him. A demon's not just for Christmas, you know. Look on the bright side. How many of your friends can say they have their own personal demon to command?"

"But he's so useless. He doesn't understand most of the orders I give him, and he keeps eating things." Paul looked anxiously around the deserted car park and said in a conspiratorial voice. "I think he's eaten a couple of people too."

"Yes, he does that. Not strictly necessary, of course. Being a demon, he doesn't actually need to eat, but he does have a remarkable appetite. Still, just point him at people you don't like, and that will turn your frown upside down."

"I hardly think this is a joking matter," said Paul.

"I wasn't joking, " answered Roath.

"Okay, I get it. All right, you win. Where do I sign?"

"Sign?"

"Yes. The contract to hand you over my soul. Give it here."

Roath plunged his hands deep into his pockets and had the grace to look guilty. "Well, normally that would be the way of things, to be sure. But, you see, the thing is, if we did that, we'd have to take Scarth back. And quite frankly, Mother Theresa's soul wouldn't be enough for me to take him back. No, sorry, you're stuck with him for life."

"I'm stuck with him for the next fifty years?" cried Paul, aghast.

Roath reached out with a polished, patent leather shoe and scuffed out part of the chalk circle. "No, not exactly."

"There's a way out?" said Paul, grasping at the proffered straw.

"No, I mean, it won't be fifty years. Not even close. One of the advantages of this special deal, you see. All the time you're blessed with Scarth, you're blessed with eternal youth. If I see him again in the next five hundred years, I shall be sorely upset. Well, goodnight, young man. Nice to have met you. Have fun."

He waved his hand in a complicated movement, and a cloud of smoke erupted around him. When it cleared, Roath was still standing there.

"Damn, that's embarrassing. I hate it when the ..." and he disappeared with a pop.

Paul stared at the spot for long seconds, but it became apparent that Roath was not returning. He turned round. Scarth was speculatively sniffing a candle. He looked up at his master and smiled hopefully.

"Ice cream?" he said, and bit into the wax.