THE RUSSIAN: That's the problem. He's a brilliant lunatic and
you can't tell which way
he'll jump - like his game he's impossible to
analyse - you can't dissect
him, predict him - which of course means
he's not a lunatic at all.

MOLOKOV: What we've just seen's a pathetic display
From a man who's beginning to crack
He's afraid
He knows he isn't the player he was
And he won't get it back

"It was a good idea," Asmodeus agreed, slowly, ponderously, a bit of a slur in his voice. His head was tilted as he listened to the musical Chess, playing on Malphas's audio system in Malphas's private chambers in Malphas's Principality.

Malphas smirked with one of his mouths and refilled Asmodeus's cup. Things were going well; Asmodeus had apparently not even noticed how many he'd downed.

"Though," Asmodeus said, "it seems you have put too much of yourself into it and not enough of me."

"Tish," Malphas murmured. "That's not so; look, the musical is Chess, the game is Chess, the players are Chess. If they fear and backstab and hate each other, how is that not just part of the game? It's played in silence, and yet they sing. Nobody can hear their words. Listen."

Asmodeus listened.

"You in me," Malphas said, suggestively. "Me in you."

The Djinn's eyes closed. "Yes," he murmured and let Malphas take the cup from him. "Yes."

Malphas oozed across the table easily, scattering pieces, knocking over his own cup, flowed over Asmodeus. He whispered into the Djinn's ear, letting two tongues wind around it. "Each game of chess," he said, "means there's one less variation left to be played. Each day got through means one or two less mistakes to be made."

Asmodeus said nothing, closed his eyes, let Malphas move.

But if you hear today
I'm no longer quite so devoted
To this affair, I've been misquoted
You and I
We've seen it all
Chasing our hearts' desire
But we go on pretending
Stories like ours
Have happy endings.