Fear Not

The last shell falls to the ground, and the fear that burns in his chest only magnifies in intensity. He gropes blindly for ammunition he knows isn't there in his dumbstruck state.

The wounds he punched into it's form weep a purple ichor and close with the sound of suction. It stood before him, it's form unmarred, and rippling with naked power. Horns studded with gems and tipped with a speck of fire, too many eyes, a pincer tipped tail and cloven hooved legs with too many joints.

Angels spoke the tongue of men to say 'fear not'. Devils had no such compunction.

Complete in it's sheer superiority over him, it's approach was slow. Any move he made to try and scramble away was met by the snapping spikes on it's tail, and laughter. It said something he could have no hope of understanding before kneeling and slamming it's claw-tipped fingers into his chest.

It didn't... Feel. He had expected death to run hot, but it was cold. So, so cold, like someone had poured ice into his chest. The fear threatened to consume him, before he caught the look on the devil's face. It was an expression that transcended race. A smirk.

That was the tipping point. The fear burned away and ignited into rage. The devil's pupils widened slightly as the expression crosses his face, and then the butt of his gun slams into it's head. It was a clumsy, unaimed blow, catching one of the jeweled horns. But it was enough to crack the the base.

He grabbed hold of both the devil's horns. One to keep the bastard close. The other to rip and pull. With a massive crack, the pointed growth came away in his hand, still trailing that point of fire. He wasted no time in turning it around, and slamming the tip home into one of the devil's many eyes.

The scream was the most horrific thing he had ever heard in his life. That probably meant it hurt, a lot. It's blood was some kind of rainbow hue that seemed to change color by the second, and was everywhere in an instant. Luckily, the jewels provided good grip to the horn. He pulls back, and begins systematically destroying more and more of his enemy's face with it's own appendage.

By the time it was finished, the devil lay on the ground, spasming every once in a while as errant neurons fire. And he felt the cold returning. Burned too bright instead of trying to keep what little life he had left with him. Operating more on primal instinct than anything else, he used the devil's horn to carve open it's neck, and wrenched it's head to the side. He was cold, and whatever it had for blood was warm.