When warriors drink, they tell stories. The more the ale flows, the more they say and the wilder the stories run, the more embellishments are added. The tales grow taller in the fertile hops. Songs are sang, outrageous toasts are made, bragging begins.

When the Demon Prince of the War drinks with the Archangel of the War, they do not do this. They cannot do it, though their own Words beg for the treatment: Michael cannot lie, though he can weave Truths like no other, and Baal has too much Pride to lie - not that the Balseraphs, the Liars, the darkest band of demons, ever believe they lie (there's Pride again there, father of all sins) and Baal is a Balseraph. To lie is to submit to an indignity; whatever untruths they tell they believe, and force that belief on others.

So telling stories has a bitter edge when Michael and Baal drink, and so the two avoid it where possible. It is not always possible.

"And my duel with Laurence-"

"You lie," Michael said, and lowered his beer. It was Labbatt's beer, off tap and cold, but he hadn't tasted it for the last few minutes as Baal spoke.

Baal drew up short, thick muscled shoulders tensing. "I do not lie. I duelled with Laurence."

"You did not. If you'd duelled with him one of you would be dead by now." Michael knew. Michael had duelled Laurence shortly after the young angel had ascended to the position of Commander of the host. He remembers it, Laurence's lithe leather-clad form twisting frantically out of the way of Michael's axe. He remembers the youth's short breaths, remembers a swing so close that his hair tie snapped under the blade of Michael's weapon as he dodged. A dramatic moment, Michael had thought at the time, and silly, watching Laurence fall, black-feathered wings flailing, his long dark hair sending his face into a shadow only God could see into.

"You cheated," Laurence said, shocked that anyone could consider such a thing. His hand was at his ankle where Michael had tripped him. "You cheated."

"People do," Michael had said with the fierce honesty only a Seraph could muster. "Whether or not you resort to trickery, your opponants will. Learn every trick there is."

"That is dishonourable."

"Only if you use them."

Michael had not been able to see the shadow of Laurence's expression, but when the darkness cleared enough for any being to be able to see the Commander's face, it was calm.

"Teach me."

And Michael had.

"You have no way," Baal said, calm, "Of saying I did or did not. You know that one or the other of us will be Invoked enough by our Servitors."

Michael let go of the beer to gesture. "You have no respect for him. If you had lost, you'd have never mentioned it. If you'd won, I'd have heard from Laurence."

"You think he tells you everything?"

"Yes."

Baal took an angry drink of his own beer, the glass threatening to break in his grip. "You have no way of saying I did or did not."

"I have the Truth."

Baal's laughter was a bitter sound. "Your Truth. What use does it serve you?"

Seraph Archangel looked at Balseraph Prince. "It serves me well. More than yours can."

"My Truth," Baal said, his eyes red with the flags of battle, "is triumph and victory. My Truth is the trumpet blast that calls the enemy to retreat. My Truth has the power to bring the world to its knees. Can you claim likewise?"

Michael's eyes met Baal's, their gazes locked together. "My Truth is True."

Baal looked away first and drank his beer. "Why do we do this?"

Unstoppably, Michael heard the Truth rise to his ears: Because you cannot best me, and will not settle for anything less; because I cannot let you go until the Final Battle. He kept his mouth closed on it. Baal would not want to hear it and thus wouldn't believe it - until the end, at least. The Final Battle would, in the end, proove whose Truth was real, which is why Michael knew that Baal would lose.

They drank in silence.