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Long Live the Queen	By : razzaname Category: 1 through F > Charmed Views: 19860 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charmed, nor do I make any money from this. This is purely for entertainment.

Chapter List
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This is probably the least spicy of the early chapters. Least spicy for quite a while, actually. As this is a story with a plot, that plot does need to progress and be defined. Hopefully, however, the next chapter will make up for that lack.
A gasp of pain escaped Phoebe’s lips.
She was alone, in one of her many rooms, in the Underworld. The Seer had warned her this would happen, soon after her ascension: the power of the Source was evil incarnate. Ruin, death, sin and destruction.
Hardly conducive to creating life. Even her resilient child, spawn of the Source, wasn’t able to survive it.
Blood on her hands. She didn’t look, waiting until the cramps had stopped before waving a hand, and burning the remains of what would once have been her heir.
Washing her legs and arms, Phoebe stood up straight, and checked her reflection. It almost surprised her, how little sense of loss she felt. Probably part of the whole Source of All Evil package.
Smiling to herself, and allowing darkness to overtake her eyes, Phoebe left the room to greet her demonic subjects.

Back on Earth, the two remaining Charmed Ones slept. Or rather, tried to; sleep had been a futile endeavour, since their sister had gone missing. In one room, Paige wrapped herself tightly in the duvet, and tried not to worry. In the other, Piper lay still, on her back, eyes wide open.
Piper was married, but her husband, Leo, was rarely around. He was a whitelighter, essentially an angel: a race composed of souls who’d done enough good in their lifetime to ascend, and go on doing good after. They served as protectors and healers for witches, ensuring the survival of all good witches, and playing a major role in the war of good against evil.
As such, he was busy: and Piper accepted it, even if it was a disappointment at times like this.
Which was why she instantly sat up at the sound of chimes, and the shining white light that represented a whitelighter orbing in.
“Leo,” she said, smiling and exhaling, relieved, as her husband appeared, standing beside her bed. Then she paused: frowned at his grim expression. “Wait, what is it? Is it bad news?”
Unconsciously her grip on the duvet tightened.
“It’s not-” Leo hesitated. “The Elders aren’t sure. There’s been a major power shift in the Underworld. I had to make sure you were fine.”
“Power shift? What power shift?” Piper said, “It’s nothing to do with us, I can promise.”
“I didn’t think so,” Leo said, “Just- there’s not much it could be. Something big’s happened, though. I can-”
He stopped mid-sentence, and there was a distant ringing: a sound Piper recognized as the Elder talking directly to her whitelighter husband.
She had mixed feelings about the Elders. They were the top higher-ups on the side of good, whitelighters who occupied a council and presided over the rest. Any beings more powerful than them, like the Angels of Death and Destiny, were emphatically neutral.
As such, Piper was glad of them. However, in practise, they ended up being trouble. Too many rules, too many regulations, too little help.
“Cole’s dead,” Leo said, suddenly. Piper blinked.
“What?” could she dare hope? “Are you sure?”
“They are,” he gestured upwards. “A demon blabbed. Someone’s taken out the Source.”
“But- how?” Piper said. “I thought that need the Power of Three, or the Hollow, or something…”
“Apparently not,” Leo said, and shrugged, as mystified as her.
There was a clatter from the other room, and the sound of heavy footsteps. Soon, the half-whitelighter Charmed One, Paige Matthews, entered Piper’s room, almost stumbling through the door, massaging her head.
Leo took one look at her, and winced, darting around the bed, and resting a hand on her head: a soft glow of light. Whitelighter healing.
“Thanks,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I think I just had everyone upstairs wailing in my head. I take it you know what that’s all about?”
“Cole’s dead,” Piper said.
A moment of silence.
“Wait, seriously?” Paige said. Then: “Do you think Phoebe…”
Piper hesitated. “I hope so,” she said.

Phoebe Halliwell, Source of All Evil and Queen of the Underworld, sat on her throne. An audience of demons waited in front of her, to listen and, unofficially, to judge. As the new Source, she had to prove herself: especially one from so controversial a background.
A dark priest read from the Grimoire: the evil equivalent of the Book of Shadows, compendium of magical knowledge, and the place where the ritual to formalize the new Source was written.
Soon, it was done, and Phoebe began her reign.
“Not all of you support me,” Phoebe said, pleased at how uncomfortable the crowd suddenly seemed to become. “Don’t be shy. It’s obvious: and you have reasons. Which is why I will earn your trust, and your respect.”
Most Sources made a promise like that, at their inauguration. Most hadn’t kept them: she would.
“I vow this by my role as Source, by the power of darkness that courses through me, and by my soul,” Phoebe said, at last getting serious attention, “Before the month is over, a Charmed One will be imprisoned: and by this time next year, at the latest, the whitelighters will be no more.”
She’d already started making plans. After all, she had nothing no other Source, save possibly Cole, had: the trust of the Charmed Ones. It might take a little effort to return to their good graces, but it would be possible.
“Others have promised you the heads of the Charmed Ones,” Phoebe said, “And I know they have not delivered. I am different, however: that much you should know. I vow this, also: if I fail, I shall abdicate. If that does not convince you of my sincerity, and my worthiness, then I will not make any more of an effort.”
She let her eyes scan the crowd. This wasn’t the usual speech, but she had no time for platitudes and nonsense. She needed to cement her support.
“You are my subjects, and I am your Queen,” she said. “I will do as I have said, not because you wish me to, but because it is my desire. That is the role of Source, and it is the role I will fulfil.”

A short time later, Phoebe was alone in the Source’s personal room. Idly, she threw a fireball across, watching it spatter out on the far wall, practising her new powers.
The Seer, personal adviser to the Source, rippled into being. Phoebe turned to her.
“How was I?” she said, smiling, playful. The Seer did not return the smile, stoic as always.
“You have gained much support,” she spoke, “Much more than I expected, given your history. It will, however, depend on you making good on your promises. I assume they were not empty words.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I have access to the Charmed Ones,” she said, “And through them, their whitelighter. All I need, will come from the dark priest.”
The Seer regarded her, thoughtful.
“Very well,” she said, “I will speak with him. What do you require?”
“Spells, from the Grimoire,” Phoebe said. “How may a living soul be summoned to the Underworld, and how may the Source call darklighters to her side?”
“You can achieve the former,” the Seer said.
“Not the way I need it,” Phoebe said, and began to explain.
With a touch, she could bring anyone to the Underworld, the same way she walked between the realms. It wouldn’t have the appearance she needed, however: and, more than likely, whoever she touched could resist.
If he tried to bring one of her sisters. Piper’s powers could make her explode, and Paige could simply orb away. No, it wasn’t that simple.
When she had finished explaining her plan to a moderately impressed, though still expressionless, Seer, Phoebe frowned.
“Now then, tell me which demons do not support me,” she spoke. It would be best to put them in their place, sooner rather than later.
She listened as the Seer outlined what she’d heard. Gifted with the ability to see the future, she was a valuable adviser: and she knew what to expect.
Phoebe made sure to remember each detail. A few dozen demons, despite her promises, disliked Phoebe. The reasons varied: whether because she was a former Charmed One, because she’d killed the former Source (a common means of ascension, admittedly, but there was always bitterness), or because she was a woman. Due to the long lives of demon-kind, many still had outdated views.
Only two or three were at all interested in any opposition, though. Most were happy to wait, and see what she did: give her a chance to prove herself.
And prove herself, she would.
“The three you should concern yourself with,” the Seer spoke, “Are Zeran, of the Beelzebub class of demon. The Gressil demon, and Pesado.”
The advantage with being a former Charmed One, Phoebe reflected, was the knowledge it gave her of demon-kind. Demons kept aspects of themselves, especially weaknesses, from one another: witches however had made careers of finding those weaknesses.
The Beelzebub class of demon were renowned for their pride. Zeran, Phoebe recognized: she’d noticed the demon during her crowning. She had looked mostly human, only the occasional flash of red in her eyes giving her identity away.
To get her support, Phoebe would offer a role in the capture of a Charmed One. That would feed Zeran’s pride, and ensure loyalty, at least for a time.
The Gressil demon however, that was another matter. The last of his kind, a demon suited more for manipulation than outright conflict. She had only ruin his credibility: the demon would not dare move against her alone. And if she could make him seem weak, none would follow him.
That left Pesado, and the biggest problem. When Pesado had chosen a course, she kept to it: nothing would distract her. Though the world might be ending, she would not stop until she’d achieved the goal she’d set herself. If Pesado chose to depose Phoebe, there would be no way to distract her.
However, a ruthless streak might also garner support. Demons respected that: and a little fear never went amiss.
“Arrange an audience in, say, six hours,” Phoebe said. “Make sure Zeran, the Gressil demon, and Pesado are there. And tell the dark priest to have an answer for me by then.”
“Very good, my queen.” Though it was hard to tell, the Seer almost seemed pleased.

Stage one of her long plan.
Phoebe used her powers as the Source to alter her own form. She could look like anyone she wanted: for now, she chose to look like herself, just with burns covering one side of her body, and hands marked by grit, as if she’d clawed her way out of the Underworld.
Which wouldn’t be too different to the story she’d tell her sisters.
Inhaling, and preparing herself for her performance, Phoebe stood on the edge of Halliwell Manor’s garden. One moment she was poised smartly: ordered, perfect. The next, she slumped, and staggered towards the door, tripping slightly with each step. Frantic.
As soon as she reached the door, she knocked, and kept knocking until it seemed like she planned to beat the door down. She let herself gasp: seeming to be in pain always gathered sympathy.
“Alright, alright,” Piper’s muffled voice, from beyond the door. Then, she snapped, loud enough for Phoebe to hear: “Ok! I’m coming!”
When the door opened, and she saw Phoebe, and the state she was in, any irritation seemed to evaporate from her. Lost for words, she only stepped back, letting Phoebe fall over the threshold. As soon as she was inside, Phoebe crawled the next few steps, before curling up at the base of the staircase, breathing heavily.
Play scared. Play the victim. Sisterly instincts would take over, for Paige and Piper.
“Who on earth was that?” Paige said, coming down the stairs, “Don’t people know how to stop knocking any-” she stopped as soon as she turned the corner, and saw who sat at the base of the steps. “Phoebe?”
“Um, hi,” she said, a little shyly. “I know I might not be welcome back here after- but… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Phoebe…” Paige said, voice trailing off. “What happened?”
A moment of silence. Phoebe faked tears with ease, hiccupping slightly, before continuing. Then she took Piper’s hand; the nearest sister, and placed it on her abdomen. Piper’s eyes widened, feeling the distinct lack of resistance.
“A miscarriage,” Phoebe said, “It was sheer luck. The evil in it… it affected me. As soon as it was gone, I was… I was better,” she looked down, sobbed. “I didn’t tell them, immediately. I hid it. Pretended, until I had a chance…”
She felt almost impatient, but she couldn’t rush her story. If she did, they might see through her lie. She had to seem hurt, seem traumatized.
“I killed him,” she said, eventually. “As soon as I had the chance, I-” she paused. “There was a weapon. To deal with Sources who went mad, who abused their power. As soon as I heard about it, I found it, and… Cole’s gone.”
“We know,” Piper said, sitting beside her sister. “We know, the whitelighters, they… never mind, are you ok?”
“I will be,” Phoebe said, slowly. “The demons, they didn’t like what I’d done. They didn’t like losing the Source,” she rubbed at her eyes, clearing them. “I barely escaped. Bluffed it. Pretended I was framed to a few of those who were loyal to me. They took me out of there, and I escaped them. I think.”
Piper called for her husband: Leo the healer. As soon as he orbed in, he took one look at Phoebe, and knelt beside her.
This was always the real challenge. Whitelighters could only heal mortals: they’d sense anyone else. As soon as Leo touched his healing hands to her burn, she focused.
Phoebe altered her shape, lessening the injuries bit by bit. At the same time, she extended her senses: altered Leo’s perceptions as subtly as she could. Make him feel that there was nothing amiss, that he was doing something.
Maybe he felt something was strange. The fact it looked like Phoebe was healing, however, allayed his suspicions. Presumably he’d put it down to the demonic hormones still in her, after her pregnancy.
The purpose of Leo was twofold. First, to heal her: second, to ensure she was still human, and still good. When Leo stood, and nodded almost imperceptibly to Piper, she was fairly sure she’d passed.
“I’ll understand if you don’t trust me,” Phoebe said, sniffing and clearing her throat. “I probably wouldn’t. Just, please let me stay here. There’s nowhere else for me, nowhere safe.”
She didn’t have to wait for an answer: she knew her sisters. It might take a while to fully repair their relationship, but she had access to Halliwell Manor, and the Charmed Ones.
It wouldn’t be long, now.

Once she went to her room, Phoebe locked the door, made excuses, and teleported in flames to her seat in the Underworld. As promised, the Seer had arranged the gathering.
She cleared her throat, tired of having to make speeches today. Still, things were almost set up: the last loose ends to deal with were the three potentially rebellious demons.
“Greetings,” Phoebe spoke. “Welcome again. I thought I should inform you of what will be happening, soon. I promised two things: first, the imprisonment of a Charmed One. Second, the end of the whitelighters. These are not empty promises. The reason I have called you here, is to tell you how I plan to achieve this, and to enlist the aid of some of you.”
She raised a hand, and gestured formally. The dark priest of the Underworld stepped out from the shadows at the side of the room, holding the Grimoire in his arms.
“Earlier,” he spoke, “Our new Source and Queen asked me to locate certain spells. As many of you know, there are countless ways to bring someone to the Underworld: the Queen’s request was much more limited. The spell required must move the victim to a certain area of the Underworld, say, a cell: and, above all, must seem to be caused by a demon, rather than our Source.”
A few demons turned their gaze towards a cage in the corner of the throne room. Most recognized the design: perfect for imprisoning witches. It allowed magic to enter into it, but not escape it, to allow for torture, executions, and indeed getting the witch in there in the first place.
“The spell that best fits the brief is complicated,” he said, turning to Phoebe, a little less certain of himself. “There are two parts. First is an element of the place you wish them to be taken on their person: that is not hard. Slip it into their food, for example.”
Food? Heaven forbid. Or hell forbid, whichever. Phoebe smiled to herself: there was no reason she couldn’t have a little fun.
“Second is the harder step,” the priest said. “There is an incantation which must be read by the witch herself. While there are other possible spells, this best fits your desire.”
They’d rehearsed this, a little, even if it didn’t seem like it. Phoebe had asked to be told the plan, and had purposefully chosen the spell, out of several options, that seemed nearly impossible to pull off. It would gain the respect of the masses, and would achieve her aim.
Not many demons read the Grimoire, however. They wouldn’t know of the alternatives.
The dark priest purposefully acted uncertain, as though afraid his Queen would reject the proposal. Continuing the act, Phoebe paused, humming in thought.
“Acceptable,” she said. “I have spent the past few hours reacquainting myself with my sisters. They do not trust me fully, but I have free access to their house and, above all, the Halliwell Book of Shadows.”
She let her eyes wander, scanning the audience.
“I’ll need a demon,” she said. “The Charmed Ones have not encountered one of the Beelzebub demon species before. Zeran, will you be willing to help?”
Feed the demon’s pride, and she wouldn’t act out. As an instrumental part of a plan to bring down the Charmed Ones, of all things, Zeran would have pride aplenty.
It was a simple job for Phoebe, after. Sneak into the attic, and alter the Book of Shadows. Replace the vanquishing spell for a Beelzebub demon with the incantation to bring the speaker to the Underworld.
She chose Piper to be her first victim. She had other, more pleasant, plans for Paige: and, after all, one of Piper’s powers was the ability to freeze things. It didn’t work on good witches, however, and while Phoebe could overpower the spell, if they noticed her struggling, her deception would be discovered.
That made Piper more of a risk: and so, the first to go.
As expected, a demon protested. Pessado, the second of the three Phoebe knew to be wary of.
“My Queen,” the demon hissed the words: her usual, sibilant tone. “Why all this complexity? Surely it would be far simpler to just kill the witches.”
Idly, Phoebe conjured a fireball, and incinerated the speaking demon. An overreaction, certainly, but one that made the other demons regard her carefully: and rid her of two thirds of her trouble.
That, and it was a firm reminder she was not kind, quiet, good Charmed One any more.
“Speak through the normal channels,” Phoebe said, hastily coming up with a justification. “I was going to answer that question soon, anyway. There are several reasons: the first is that many have tried to kill the Charmed Ones before. You all know how that’s worked. Second, I have my eyes on a larger prize: and to achieve that, to end the reign of the whitelighters, we need the especially dangerous weapon of hope.”
She paused, before saying her third reason. It would doubtless be her most controversial.
“Third ties into a command I was going to give,” Phoebe said. “When my sister is held here, she is to be treated well. I know your usual treatment of prisoners, your usual lusts: you are not to act on them with my sister. I have two reasons for this. First, I am not ashamed to say that I still care for her. The bonds of sisterhood are strong: if any of you doubt that, I would ask why you did not face us when we stood as one unit.”
The Power of Three: three sisters, one unconquerable might. Bane of the Underworld.
“Second,” Phoebe said, “Imagine the power we would wield when they’re turned. Others have tried, I know: but now the Power of Three is broken. They are no harder to hold than any regular witches, and one of them has already succumbed to evil. It will be easier, now they are no longer one. Corruption seeps through.”
That was all the explanation she needed to give: and enough to ensure her support for quite a time. Even Zeran would wait, glad of her high role in Phoebe’s plan. And when that plan succeeded, the capture of a Charmed One would ensure she was held in high esteem.
The last possible spanner in the works was the Gressil demon. He was easy to deal with, however: he would not act against her unless he had support, and he would not get support if he was humiliated.
And there was no reason she couldn’t mix pleasure and business.
“You,” Phoebe said, when a few demons seemed ready to leave. She pointed at the Gressil demon: “Are you loyal?”
The demon hierarchy was complex. Officially, it was structured, ordered: the Source at the top of the ladder, the Seer and a handful of especially potent servants next, then the upper-level demons… In practise however, there were so many grey spots.
While no one would question the right of the Source over, say, a warlock, those on closer rungs to one another often had their power level dependent on their reputation. And reputation was itself a tricky topic.
“Yes, my Queen,” the demon said, hurriedly.
Another thing about reputations: they did not have to be good, or bad. Someone could have a great reputation, but never be considered for good positions if those positions required skills they weren’t known for. To prevent the Gressil demon leading an uprising, she need only give him a reputation for taking, rather than giving, orders. That, and likely turn him into a laughing stock if he tried to turn himself into a figure of resistance.
“Really?” Phoebe cocked her head, thoughtfully. “You seemed less than enthused at my coronation.”
“I swear, my queen, I will serve you,” he moved to bow, real fear suddenly showing. Phoebe let herself smile.
“Really?” Phoebe said, regarding the kneeling demon. She moved her legs, slightly, let her skirt ride up: “You’ll serve me?” she echoed his words.
“Absolutely,” the demon said. No doubt intending to lie, to cover his disloyal thoughts: he moved to stand.
“Uh-uh,” Phoebe shook her head. “Stay on your knees, we’re not finished,” momentarily, anger showed in her tone. Then, sweetly: “Come closer, though. You say you’ll serve me: I want to see how much. I want everyone to see how much.”
“My Queen?” the demon said.
“Come on, you can’t be that dense,” Phoebe said, shifting her legs again: parting them, skirt high enough to reveal a distinct lack of anything beneath. “You promise to serve your Queen: you promise to fulfil any needs, any urges she might have. Get to it.”
She could tell the demon had figured it out. Both what to do, and why she was asking it. He knew of his disloyal thoughts, no one else did: and this way, he’d be remembered only as that demon who went down on the Source. While it wasn’t uncommon for Sources to play around with their subjects, it was still a fact rarely forgotten, especially when it occurred in such a public setting.
She saw several hundred possibilities flick through the Gressil demon’s mind, multiple excuses, multiple escapes… when he realized none would succeed, defeated, he moved closer to Phoebe. She smiled, in triumph and anticipation, as his head moved between her legs.
Phoebe gave a low moan, as the demon’s tongue touched the lips of her cunt. He hesitated, briefly then, surprised to find Phoebe already very wet. She did so enjoy her power. At the feel of a harsh hand on the back of his head, however, he began again.
Soon his tongue pressed against her clit, and the hand on his head lessened its force. Gratified, the demon stayed where he was, sketching out a pattern with his tongue. Another low moan from Phoebe: then she gripped his head again, and pushed him slightly lower.
The demon’s tongue slipped inside her cunt, and he began to taste her, to lap up every drop, trusting that would please the Queen. Hoping.
Another moan, and her hips bucked forward, pushing against his face, his lips: the demon gasped, surprised, and his breath made Phoebe moan again.
Maybe she’d keep him around, when this was done. It would be a shame not to make use of such a talented tongue. Then again, there were hundreds of other demons she could get to perform the same task.
A shiver ran through her, and Phoebe ran her second hand over her chest, cupping her own boob: pinching a nipple through her dress.
She kept her legs apart, seeing what the demon could do uninstructed; and he was doing well. A tongue flicked her clit again, and again, and she shuddered on her chair, and gasped. Phoebe looked up for a moment, away from the head between her legs, meeting the gazes of the gathered audience.
Maybe it was something that came with Source-territory, maybe it had always been there and it was only her new shamelessness bringing it out. Either way, she felt those looks as though they were caresses in their own right. After just a few seconds of meeting their eyes, of a tongue on and near her clit, and a hand on her breast, Phoebe came.
She shuddered, and moaned surprisingly softly, grinding against the demon’s face. Still, by the speed of her breathing, and her shaking, it was obvious to all what had just happened.
Phoebe shifted in her seat, pushing the Gressil demon back with one hand, while using the other to brush against her cunt, and bring to her mouth to idly taste herself.
“Good job,” she said, non-committal, before looking up at the rest of the crowd. “Now, you can all go. Any questions or requests, come to me alone, in a few hours’ time. I have some business to deal with, with my sister.”
Watching as the demons departed, Phoebe crossed her legs, appetite only just whetted. Oh, but it was good to be Queen.
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Long Live the Queen