text: [Themes: Fantasy, treasure, folklore character, fantasy, vehicle, female protagonist, ice, hell, Demon]
  
  He who eats fire, shits sparks; this line of work involves no small amount of risk, therefore. But compared to everyone else, demons are refreshingly easy. No suspicions are necessary; you know they're out to screw you over.
  
  The war-engine cache was a new tactic, enabling you to penetrate deeper than you'd ever contemplated before and still make it out. And this seemed like the most secure site to hide the thing. If your minions weren't idiots of the first water, it would have been a good plan.
  
  The ice of the Cocytean piedmont is pitted and rotten, riddled with moulins of befouled meltwater. For the most part the caves are unstable, but they don't tend to change too much over winter. This one is large enough to serve as temporary depot, but small and twisty enough to keep it hidden.
  
  The imposing bulk of the Iron Quagga takes up much of the space here.
  
  [Author's Note: Storing a war-engine inside Hell was a new tactic; you'll be able to penetrate deeper than ever before and still have a chance of getting out again. The job isn't without its risks, but at least you know the demons are out to get you.]
  
  > look at Quagga
  Oh, now the sow pulls out the bung. You told that fool Mayken a dozen times that when she made the drop she should demonproof everything thoroughly, but what a mess. Not even a tarp thrown over it, for pity's sake. There's a sliver of a chance that it might still be functional, but de-imping the thing is going to be unpleasant.
  
  > About yourself
  No longer young, not yet old. For a period of about two months when you were seventeen, you might have been considered handsome; you are almost six feet tall, with a great cow-catcher of a nose, enormous feet, washerwoman's hands, and precious few teeth. Not to mention the effects of soaking in brimstone fumes for a few hard weeks.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a bog-iron scramaseax
  a demonoscope
  a pile of loot
  a wheel of artisanal Camberzola
  a Camus first edition
  a spun silver birdcage (closed)
  an ornamental imp
  an octavo of Shakespeare fanfiction
  
  > read the fanfiction
  A small single-run printing by one Wm. Shakspere, with the mysterious title D5-D6. Hette, non-Conne, wingefick. Neifile/Fiammetta/Panfilo, Elissa/Filostrato, Dioneo/Misia. Spoileres.
  
  > read camus
  The Cahiers of Camus, all but unobtainable in the mortal realm. Your usual reading-material extends about as far as grocery lists, but you know several buyers who will cheerfully gouge each others's eyes out for this. Disappointingly, it is bound in rather boring green canvas.
  
  > look at the demonoscope
  A small, crudely painted ikon of the Blessed Egdethbra of Wessex in the act of her martyrdom, a sordid little affair involving a backsliding Dane, a turnip field and an ironbound psalter. When waved at demon-infested things, the aforementioned proto-saint wiggles her toes and rolls her eyes wildly. (Demonoscopes are usually crafted with saints of better repute, preferably ones who actually existed, but these are usually overwhelmed by the demon-saturated environment of the Circles.)
  
  > Wave demonoscope at imp
  The unfortunate saint wriggles a little bit, dislodging a turnip or two, but that's about background level for anywhere below circle four.
  
  > Wave demonoscope at Quagga
  You sweep the ikon vaguely across the Quagga. The doubtful blessed writhes and kicks, turnips flying in all directions. Not an all-out frothing fit, bethankit, which means that the most you reasonably have to deal with is a handful of imps or perhaps a lesser cluster. Making more controlled sweeps, you narrow the disturbances down to three areas: the aft right hip joint, the furnace and something up towards the pilot's end - have to get inside to narrow that down.
  
  > examine the scramaseax
  Cold-wrought bog-iron is a wretched material, but you'd carry a weapon made of soap if it could wound the dead. It's notched, pitted, holds an edge for about three seconds and has been twisted back into shape countless times; constant application of walrus blubber mitigates the rust somewhat, but considering what's in the air here the final outcome is not in doubt. Locating a replacement for when the dear old thing falls to bits is one of your more pressing concerns.
  
  > look at the loot
  Most of this is hell-forged treasure of the gaudiest sort: crowns, plate, jewelry, fist-sized diamonds. Horse droppings are not figs: it will all turn to dented tin and broken crockery when exposed to fresh air and sunlight, but until then it will serve as a cover for the good stuff, and as bribes for the more stupid gatekeepers.
  
  > Wave demonoscope at aft right hip joint
  Ach. Yes. Definitely something hiding out in the hip joint; the silly bint's gibbering like a Barbary ape. If you're any judge, it's an agubulge, one of those inane little point-coolant things they use to stop body heat from eventually melting out the more populated regions. Knowing your luck the thing's carrying eggs, too.
  
  > examine the imp
  (the agubulge)
  A mass of ice, at the centre of which is presumably a cold-imp. The things are mindless and relatively easy to deal with, on the whole, except that they breed. By means of microscopic eggs. The last time you stumbled into a swarm of them you had to take three saunas a day for two weeks and boil everything you owned; but hopefully any eggs will get killed off by engine heat if you can just get rid of this one and get things running.
  
  > examine the ornamental imp
  The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.
  
  This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes.
  
  > Wave demonoscope at furnace
  Yep, there's something nasty in there all right. Turnips everywhere.
  
  > look at the furnace
  Some of the hobbedehoys used for commercial freight have furnaces with external access - the fireman walking alongside, hanging off a ladder or balancing on a footman's plate, and sparing the pilot from blazing heat and clips on the ear from clumsy shovel-handling. Military models, though, invariably have the firebox opening onto the relative safety of the pilot's plate, so you'll need to climb aboard if you want to get at it.
  
  > examine the aft right hip joint
  Big mass of ice. Icicles. Probably an imp deep inside. Not going anywhere until it's dealt with.
  
  > examine the aft left hip joint
  An unmodified Blazing Host four-joint limb, in good condition apart from superficial scratches.
  
  > look at the cage
  A local product; within a few hours of your escape it will have become a chamberpot or a cracked jug, but it'll do until then. It presently houses an ornamental imp..
  
  > examine the imp
  (the agubulge)
  A mass of ice, at the centre of which is presumably a cold-imp. The things are mindless and relatively easy to deal with, on the whole, except that they breed. By means of microscopic eggs. The last time you stumbled into a swarm of them you had to take three saunas a day for two weeks and boil everything you owned; but hopefully any eggs will get killed off by engine heat if you can just get rid of this one and get things running.
  
  > examine the ornamental imp
  The smallest and most stupid demons come in innumerable shapes, most of them hideous; a few breeds, however, are rather attractive and are worn as ornaments by ladies of fashion. They don't breed true, however, which ensures that there's constant demand for wild specimens. Occultists love to grumble about being priced out of the market.
  
  This specimen is of the type usually worn on a fine silver chain around the wrist and used by demimondaines to light their cigarettes; it resembles a butterfly-wing folded into abstract origami, with eyes.
  
  > look at the pilot's end
  You can't see any such thing.
  
  You can't see any such thing.
  
  > examine Quagga
  The basic chassis is one of the Blazing Host two-and-twos that have formed the backbone of the al-Andalus line for almost a century. It's really an infantry-breaker, working best at a killing trot; when they face the dashing thoroughbuilt machine-hunters favoured by cavalry snobs, they're generally swept off the field. But they handle difficult ground well, they don't break down much, and on the march - using those little auxiliary limbs under the pilot's plate - they burn about half the fuel of a thoroughbuilt.