It is easy to die in a forge. A simple accident. Big fires can easily burn out of control, or a blacksmith might reach too far into one and set herself on fire. Perhaps an errant flame leaps out and does its worst. This is why everyone fears smithing, very few find it enjoyable to try and contain the unpredictable. A smith must not only contain the flame but work carefully with it to achieve the height of craftsmanship. How does one contain the unpredictable, let alone coax it to do her bidding?

That’s the part everyone, even learned smiths, tend to miss. A blacksmith does not coax the flame to do her bidding but wields her tools so they heed the will of the flame. It would be foolish to think one can contain an uncontainable thing. Of course, most blacksmiths would not understand such a thing, men only know how to exact their willpower on the world and try to make it bend. As it so happens, most blacksmiths are men anyway. I walked into more forges than I could count before one of Temeneh’s many blacksmiths agreed to take me as an apprentice.

I was painfully desperate for something, anything to come of the years of schooling that were being wasted by my blacksmithing job in our tiny mountain village. I wasn’t even a blacksmith yet. I had spent seven years as the only apprentice under the town’s oldest smith.

Apprenticeships usually lasted three years.

My teacher kept saying I was “getting there” but the only jobs he would give me were horseshoes and household objects. None of the broadsword engraving for the shiny knights that came through the mountain pass toward the rest of the kingdom. Maybe he would allow me the occasional trim hammer for a farmer just starting out.

I had no idea where exactly he wanted me to go. Surely, if I wasn’t good enough at something the other four blacksmiths in town could lend their expertise. I just wanted to do the work of a real blacksmith. Real blacksmithing was artistry; broadswords with lovers’ names subtly engraved in the hilt, or enemies’ names at the tip of a shiny and sharp blade, a curved sword so lithe that it could cut air, scythes so grand they would make the grim reaper jealous.

I wonder now if that was why death came to my door. It looked like a man, but its skin was redder than the burning coal of the forge it had just stepped out of. I sat cross-legged in front of it to open my lunch. The damn thing was eating up my only break in a seventeen-hour day.

“Well,” It crossed its arms and tapped a lazy finger on its shoulder. I shouldn’t say it. The creature was human-shaped but did not appear to be human at all. Aside from its broiling, fire-tinged skin, it was the size of a soldier, nearly six feet tall with a similar build. I would have expected a standard broadsword held at its side, but there was no weapon in sight. When I had asked about its weapon, the creature said it had no need for one. I couldn’t help but let a small scoff escape. I decided then that the thing in front of me was a man. I didn’t bother to stand in his presence.

Soldiers in the army’s ranks had inspired more fear in me. Besides, what was the worst he could do, kill me?

Hell is in Temeneh anyway.

I once thought hell was elsewhere, somewhere quiet and even less eventful than Temeneh. Hell used to be a sleepy village just outside the city itself, where nothing grew except wheat and no one did anything except harvest it every day during growing season. Although, when I thought back to the small farmhouse far away from the dirt road where traders made their way to Temeneh, perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I had thought.

I have one memory of my childhood in that house, of my father showing me how to shape a horseshoe by the roaring fire in the living room. We had done it on a colder day, outside of harvest season. The heat of the fire had filled the gaps between the wooden slats which made up the walls. Each time I sit by the forge, I feel the same warmth radiate between the holes in my shirt.

I had gone far from the quiet farm outside Temeneh to the kingdom’s best weapons school, right by the King’s castle. Most students went on to knighthood. I had no interest in fighting. To me, making the most perfect lightweight sword, branding each hilt with my own crest, creating weapons no one had ever seen before, that was worth my time. Within the flames of the forge I sawe everything from swords made of two intertwining metals to hexagonal axes. Weapons were works of art, and I wanted to see mine brandished across the King’s army.

So, my teachers had told me to find a blacksmith. The best one just so happened to be in Temeneh itself. After years of drawing, I had seen the flames of a real forge for the first time, and they were marvelous. Wide-eyed, I watched the way the ends danced towards the sky. When metal was placed within, the hottest part of the flame parted eagerly, excited to shape something as complex as the flame itself.

My teacher, as I deigned to call him, fought with the flame.

“You must overpower it to create something strong,” he would instruct, “weapons should reflect the strength of the smith.”

He had thrusted swords into the flame with command, twisting them eagerly as the flame moved in protest. I had winced the first time he welded one, the screech of metal on stone mimicking what could have been a screaming flame. The swords themselves came out straight, brutal, devoid of the elegant curves which could have made each weapon legendary. In witnessing my disapproval, my teacher said if I did not have the stomach to witness metalwork, I should try anything besides smithing. Then, I did not have the courage to tell him that his unnecessary brutality was uncouth, his creations reflecting his own lack of elegance. How could this man, who barely looked at the forge’s magnificent flame before he fought to violate it, be considered the best blacksmith in Temeneh?

After seven years under such a teacher, were my own methods so inelegant? I had not touched the flames of the forge for longer than I could remember. Perhaps if my teacher would let me make a single sword for the King’s commander, or even just a bejeweled hunting knife for the King himself, Temeneh would see what I was worthy of, the King could see what I was worthy of.

I had enough experience to work in the forge, so one evening, when I was left to my own devices, I gathered the tools of an unshaped sword and seated myself by the still roaring flame. The night was cool. A heavy breeze whisked into the windows of the smith’s shop, clashing with the warmth of the flame as they danced with each other through my shirt. I held the iron forceps with a shiver.

The flame was much brighter from the welding seat than from where I usually stood far behind. I offered the unfinished metal to the flame. It accepted eagerly, dancing every which way around it, as though the flame itself were instructing me which way to turn the piece. So, I did. The metal melted into curves I had never seen before, inviting me to sharpen its edges in the shape of a twisted vine. I worked in time with the flame, so close to the forge I could have been inside it. Within the flame, my desires as a smith could come true.

Perhaps it was then that I found the creature standing in front of me within the flame.

“That’s what you want?” The creature that had appeared in the forge asked with a smug little grin. The closer I looked, the more his skin looked like fire, with black smoke curling off his arms and chest. Actually, he didn’t really have skin. It was all hues of orange, blue, and white flame. His body tapered into flame after his waist, disappearing into the forge.

“That’s what I want,” I said. The creature rubbed his chin.

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean am I sure?” My face twisted into a mocking grimace and my voice rose two octaves at the end of my sentence before returning to its normal timbre, “I’ve been thinking about it for seven years.”

“What do you mean?!” He mocked right back. I felt like I was having an argument with a child, except his voice sounded eerily like my own. “I mean,” he spread his arms wide, “you come face-to-face with me, and you don’t want to think twice about what I’m offering you?”

“Well,” I scratched my head and glanced around. Until now, I had assumed I knew exactly what this creature was. Red smoke, wishes, he had to be a genie, right? “I just kind of assumed you wanted to grant me three wishes.”

“What?” His voice became deeper, fuller, “you thought I was just a demon?!”

“Uh, um, not really,” I responded rather stupidly, “more like a…genie?”

The creature made a retching noise. I actually thought he was going to vomit.

“That’s disgusting,” he said solemnly, once he had composed himself.

“Then what exactly are you?” I crossed my arms. I didn’t think calling him a genie was as offensive as he was making it out to be. What a drama queen.

“You—ugh,” he sighed and rested his burning forehead into his burning palm. Were they really burning if they were made of fire? “Darling,” he took on what I thought was a rather patronizing tone.

“I am far worse.”

His voice had a chilling confidence that sent involuntary goosebumps up my spine. I could tell he was satisfied with the look on my face, because his exasperation turned into a cunning grin. “They have many names for me around the world,” he continued, “you can call me whichever suits your fancy. Mestophiles, Shaitan, Iblis, Belial, Lucifer…” he trailed off in thought.

I hadn’t heard any of those names before except for one, “are you telling me that you’re the Devil?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want to call me.”

In all the days of my childhood when I remember my mother threatening that the Devil would want to take me if I misbehaved, I always thought I’d be at least a little terrified if that day ever came. Now, staring him right in the face, I wasn’t even sure this was, in fact the Devil. But hadn’t he just told me he was?

“What?” He asked irritably, I had been staring. I gave a meek effort to wipe the slack-jawed expression I could feel had taken over, but I imagine I did not do a very good job. The Devil’s face didn’t look any less irritated.

“I just thought you’d look different,” my own nonchalance took me aback. It certainly did not match my face.

“I can look however I want. How did you think I’d look?” The Devil tilted his head curiously. I imagined he had not been expecting this conversation.

“I’m not sure,” I mused. “Just… more.”

The irritated look on his face returned swiftly.

“So if you really are the devil—”

“I am.”

“If you really are,” I continued, “then why are you here?”

“Obviously, to make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” At this point, I imagined he thought all my questions were stupid. I didn’t care.

“Whatever you want.”

“But what are the terms of your deal?” I raised an eyebrow. I heard no shortage of these stories in my time. Someone was stupid enough to make a deal with the Devil and got more than what they bargained.

Something tugged in my chest. It was pulling me further into the forge’s flame, toward the Devil himself. I stifled a sound bubbling in my throat. He could give me everything I wanted. A place beside the King in history, perhaps even a craft of my own that would carry forward for centuries. I thought of a grand weapons master’s crest, and those fancy wax seals that nobles signed their letters with, an oval table with the King at the head and myself at the opposite side, surrounded by the most skilled knights in the kingdom. They would be far more skilled that I could ever find and make weapons for in Temeneh. They would know how to handle my dear creations. I would clothe myself in the finest silks, my crest embroidered on the cuffs of every one of my fabric items. Oh, how smiths from cities I hadn’t even heard of could lust after my weapons if only I could make them the way I wished.

I had no real opposition to selling my soul for freedom of the forge, as long as the Devil did not wish to take any more than we had agreed on.

“I’ll admit,” the Devil’s voice pulled me out of my own thoughts, but my chest ached with desperation still. So close.

“My terms can be quite steep.”

“I guess that depends on what I’m getting,” I forced out. I could have agreed then, but that would have been more foolish than I was willing to let myself be. I was foolish enough to entertain this conversation in the first place.

“You can have everything you want,” the Devil smiled a syrupy, inviting smirk. “In exchange, all I ask is for your soul after a life well-lived.”

That seemed less than outrageous, didn’t it? After all, my soul had to go somewhere after a life well-lived, and while I did not sin, I never thought of myself as model citizen. At least this way, I knew where I was headed.

The tug in my chest became so strong I had to sigh deeply to relieve the pressure on my heart. Whatever was in there pressed even harder onto my ribcage, making the weight on my heart far too heavy for my chest to hold.

Seven years. What was the point of staying here, anyway? Nothing had changed since I arrived, and as it were, nothing was going to change soon. I was going to stay static, staring at clumsily formed broadswords if I remained with my teacher. I could leave, but where would I go? I would have no livelihood and no way to continue my craft. Even if I found someone else to teach me, would my new teacher only be able to force his way into the flame the way my current one did? What sort of blacksmith would I become learning under people like this? No, this, the Devil’s deal, promised me a way to become a weapons master that my own teacher or even the King could not have promised me themselves.

“Do you promise me glory?”

“All that which you are due,” the Devil’s voice was enticing now, dripping in honey and my own desire. The warmth of the flames caught in my chest and soared upward. My head felt as though it was twenty feet above the rest of my body, I was gazing upon myself. I stood dangerously close to the forge, my face nearly pressed up against a wall of fire. Anyone else would have been burnt within an inch of their life, but my skin only glowed in the orange light. From where I watched myself thinking, the Devil simply looked like the flames of the forge. He must have not been visible outside of our small communion. Within a second, I was back to staring at him blankly.

Gathering my own thoughts, I shook my head vigorously. Was any of this worth my soul? Then again, had I not already committed my soul to smithing? “Hold on,” I raised a palm. The Devil leaned back ever so slightly. “Why me?”

“What?” He choked out.

“How’d you know how to find me?”

“This is…” he trailed off for a moment, “I mean… this is my job.”

“So out of all of Temeneh’s blacksmith apprentices…”

“Can we just get on with it?” the Devil sighed. “I don’t have so much time.”

“You are an eternal being.”

“With an eternity of tasks.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“Look,” the Devil’s voice was still surprisingly honeylike despite the impatience I could sense in his tone. I was still leaning forward, hanging onto his next words. What were his terms? “If you want this, I’ll settle for your soul. Normally, I bid higher for dreams that mortals want as badly as you want yours, but…” he studied me carefully. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment before sliding up and down so slowly I almost felt as though I should cover myself with my hands. “You seem to be driving an indecisive bargain.”

Indecisive? I had been pondering on this for seven years. More, in fact. If the Devil had found me on my first night in my teacher’s forge, I was positive I would have begged him for the same. What smith would pass up an opportunity for guaranteed glory? Especially in a city like Temeneh. “Really?” I asked. I felt like I was bartering for a piece of jewelry in Temeneh’s street market. The price of glory, the price of my destiny, was my soul. One for the other. If I took this deal, perhaps my soul was no longer my own. Still, if I did not take this deal, would my soul be my own even then? Or would I be leaving it in the clumsy hands of an old smith who didn’t think I had the stomach to be even half as renowned as he? Even then, my soul would not be my own. Whose hands deserved the price of my fate?

“Yes, I usually take more in the fine print but…” the Devil trailed off. If it were even possible, his eyes softened. For a moment, I saw the face of my own decision, my widened gaze reflected in his. My own pupils were so large my eyes looked black.

“I’ll make you a straightforward deal,” he finished.

I thought I knew better than to make a deal with the Devil. But it had been seven years since anything exciting had last happened to me and God-knows-how-long since I had dreams like this promised to me. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had felt like I could finally leave this forge for my own.

“Fine. You have a deal.”

The Devil smiled, fully this time. The forge turned bright red, then orange, then the flame burned white-hot, beckoning me to it. It was way too hot to touch. I knew that.

“Excellent. Tell me your name.”

“Nisa.”

“Nisa,” he spoke my name back to me slowly, savoring its taste, “I will see you when you return to the flames of the forge, do not forget our deal.”

Just like that, the flames returned to their usual dance, and the forge was suddenly so hot it singed my eyebrows. I stepped backwards and the metal in my hands became heavy. It had been shaped into an intricate spiral, two snakelike razor edges curling to make a blade unlike anything I had seen before. Had I made it? I glanced back towards the forge. There was no one in the smithing shop except for me.

“Of course I’ve made it,” I spoke aloud to myself. My voice echoed through the shop, escaping through the windows, carried by the now frigid nighttime breeze.