Conversation with Flying Devil Oil
I place my Flying Devil Oil within the conjure circle, on top of a cloth. It leaks constantly, I do not know how the sealed jar can constantly spurt forth spicy oils. I call forth its spirit. A devil, made of translucent, fiery oils, steps forth. He sits on the jar, gently dripping down on to the cloth. He croaks with a toady voice that crackles like fire. He has a small humanoid body and large bat wings. He has an animalistic head with large horns protruding from his brow.
“I am here, mage!” although he does not say ‘mage’, he uses my real name. “Yes, I am here, hot as fire, hot as the sun; I am here to run after devils and eat them up! I am here to chase them away, as far as the day, I am here to eat.” I ask if he would like any kind of foods. “I eat spirits! I eat them up, and on their flesh I do sup.” I say, that is quite violent. “Violent, violent, I do say – are you here to eat or play?”
I say, I am here to talk. “Talk away, little mage.” He again uses my real name. “I guess I am here to play!” I ask how he may protect someone.
“Protect, protect, how boring it is! We are here to eat. Let me show you how.” There is an astral person in my vision with termites or parasites upon them. The devil steps forth, but surrounding him are many tiny devils, the size of red pepper flakes. Like piranha they fall upon the parasites, consuming them wholly. I say, I was under the impression that Flying Devil Oil was meant to chase away little devils; not that they were themselves flying devils who came to eat things.
“Wrong, wrong! The mage is wrong. We are here to eat and here to stay. Observe.” I now see the astral person, surrounded by little red devils. As soon as any malicious or malific energy comes towards them, the tiny devils swarm upon it, consuming it. I ask why the devils do not feed upon the person themselves. “Do not bite the hand that feeds!” screeches the devil. “The master draws food and we feed, yet if the master was food for feed where would we be? Without any good devils to eat.” I ask if there is ever any danger that Flying Devil Oil will turn upon its master. “No, no.” He says this softly. “We have no quarrel with humans.” I get a feeling or vision that the devils secretly like humans, and would not hurt them, or for some other reason are bound to protect humans.
I ask how Flying Devil Oil may be used to break a hex, since it cannot be applied to the skin or a bath as many other hexbreaker ingredients are. “You need not disturb our home at all,” says the devil. “Shake us up, good and fast, and soon we will fly out and feed. Like a genie in a bottle are we! Only disturb us a little and here we will be. Tell us your trouble and ailments all, and we shall go to feast on them all.” I say, you should not rhyme “all” with “all”, it is cheating. He screeches a rude word at me, then turns his back to me. I have hurt his feelings.
In apology I ask if he would like some whiskey. “Yes,” he says softly in his toady voice. “We would like that.” I place a cap-full of whiskey on the conjure circle and he sips it delicately. I ask how he likes it here in my room. “It is nice enough,” he says. I ask if he must feed regularly. “No, we sleep much. Only when we are awaken do we fly forth. But if you awaken us regularly with no food we will grow hungry, so you must feed us lots of eggs.” I ask if he would like raw or cooked eggs. “Raw is best, and leave the egg in the shell. Only crack it open, and we will come to eat it and be very satisfied. Only do not feed us before an attack, or we will be full and have no desire to eat the devils that plague you.” I note that he has stopped rhyming, but I do not mention this. I do compliment his previous rhymes, saying that they were very unique. He is pleased and ruffles his wings. “I like to rhyme,” he says softly. I take this to be a personal hobby or habit of his; something that he enjoys. I feel badly for calling him out. I say I would enjoy to hear more of his pleasant rhymes. “No, no,” he says. “We must practice more.” I feel extra bad.
I ask if he is well combined with another formula such as War Water. “We do not like War Water,” says the devil. His cup is empty and I fill it with more Whiskey. “They slice away at the enemy so quickly that we can hardly get a bite to eat, and we are not carrion eaters.” I ask if he would like a raw egg now. “We are full,” he says. “You feed us every time we are awake.” I ask about his use during a candle spell. “You do not need to use a candle for us, only shake the jar, as I have said.” I ask, what if the devils must be sent far away to do a task in another area. “Use your taglock with the candle and we will go swiftly to whomever is there, and we will eat all the poison off of them.” I ask if there is any physical symptoms to the human, as capsicum is quite spicy and hurts our skin. “It only hurts when you rub it on your face,” he says. Earlier I accidentally rubbed some on my face when it leaked from the bottle. It does indeed hurt, as I use superhot peppers in my Flying Devil Oil mix. I ask him if the hotter peppers do a better job. “The hotter peppers are more vicious and fearless, and will hunt down the enemy for a longer time before they give up. But my good red peppers will do the job admirably, they are like loyal hounds.” Still feeling badly about my insult to his rhymes, I try to think of questions that he will enjoy. I ask if he likes to work with flame.
“Flame is different than us, although it is hot it is not quite the same kind of hot. You do not need both the devils and the flame, that is too much/overkill.” I ask why the peppers must be put in oil, and would a plain pepper spirit not do just as well. “The oil makes us one,” he says. “A pepper spirit may do the same job, if you ask politely and give the dog some offerings.” I am surprised that he calls normal peppers “dogs”. “But when we are in the oil we are reborn in to Devil Oil, constrained to our task of feeding, and we require no offerings.” I ask about the mysterious process that seems to turn individual ingredients in to one unique oil or water. “I do not know about that,” he says. “I only know that one day I awoke, fully formed, and saw you from my watery/oily jar, through a haze of red. And I said, 'there is my Mother, I am bound to protect her.'” I say, I am honored to take that role, and I did not know that I was considered his mother. “Yes, you created me, and I am bound to help you.” Astrally I see myself spontaneously reaching towards him, and with his kobold-like nose he nuzzles my hand. Astrally, my hand sizzles a little, although there is no physical pain. I ask if he likes his fate. “Yes, we like it. We are a simple spirit, we like to fly and feed. That is our duty and our role. You are also a good Mistress/Mother, you keep us out of the sun, and let us out regularly to eat. This is a good life and we are happy for it.” I asked how his nature changed when I added the superhot peppers to his mix; originally he was just red pizza pepper flakes. “It did not change me, for I am Spirit,” he says. “But the hounds under my control became multiplied, and as I said, the hottest peppers are the most vicious. So this increased our/my ability to fight for you.”
I ask if I may do anything in his honor. I see a brief vision of a candle flame. “No, no,” he says. I say, I will light a candle for him. He behaves quite shyly. I take a tea light and light the wick. It burns with no effect, so I dedicate it to the devil. “For my child, the flying devil,” I say. He seems terribly shy and hides behind his hands and wings, but I can tell he is very pleased. The small flame warms him and he looks at it. “Thank you, Mother,” he says. I say that it is my pleasure to light the candle for him. I ask if there is any circumstance in which he may die or perish. “If Mother is tired of me, only empty out all the oil, and I will be abandoned.” This seems quite harsh. I ask what will happen to him. “I will exist, constrained to be with my pepper-hounds, and I will become lost.” I say that this is not a proper fate. I ask if he may be returned to a greater spirit, to dwell in peace. “If you wish it, you may take the jar of oil and dedicate it to a god of Fire, or a goddess of peppers and gardening. And then I will be able to go to them, and dwell among their spirits, and that will be a good resting place for me until I die.” I ask how he could die. “I do not know,” he says. “I only know it would be more pleasant for me if I was not abandoned and constrained to fade away in the wilderness.”
I ask if other jars or oils should be released with respect as he wishes. “I do not know,” he says again. “It seems cruel to create a spirit and abandon it, but we are nothing but loyal servants; you may do with us what you wish.” I say, if ever a time comes when I do not need him, I will surely dedicate him to a beautiful goddess so he may live out his final days in peace. “You are kind, Mother,” he says.
I ask if he may have any other uses besides feeding, such as being a spy. “I may go look at things for you, but it is my instinct to eat them,” he says. “I do not prefer to be a spy, I like to stay close with my hounds/brothers, and rest in the oil, where I can watch you.” I ask if he watches me often. “I care for your safety, so I do watch you; and I ensure that if there is any evil some of my hounds will slip out.” I ask him if that is why his jar is always leaking. “I will not be held prisoner by a jar, Madam, if you are in danger; but it is dangerous for me if you leave the top off, as I may spill and be lost.” I ask if I am often in danger. “Your spirits take care of much danger which you never realize,” he says. I ask if this is the proper way of things, or if I need to pay more attention. “You are doing the proper way of things, for you have many spirits about you which care for you and protect you. And you have good protections up, and we are all safe here. It is our job to take care of the little tasks, and you organize us well for the big ones.”
I ask him if he has a name. “[redacted],” he tells me. I think this is a fine and pleasing name. “I chose it!” he chirps in his unusual voice. I say, I know he chose it, because I know the spirit to whom it originally belongs. “This is a good being of fire,” he tells me.
I say the time for our formal conversation is done, but he may stay and enjoy the candle flame for as long as he likes. I offer to put him on my desk. He seems to be very pleased with this idea. “I will stay and watch over you,” he says. My desk is now full of crystals and other conjures which wish to stay with me.