Free There But For The Grace by A. J. Downey, Jeffrey Cook

the obstacles, some seemingly naturally formed out of the hostile terrain and some likely crafted intentionally from the dark stone, became more numerous. The ground would give way with ill-placed steps, and a few times, I nearly fell through. Cave mouths offered only narrow passages between stalactites and stalagmites, and those stones were jagged, tangling in my clothing, tearing bandages open, and even cutting shallowly into my flesh as I squeezed between a couple of them.
    In other caves, loose rocks and the occasional stalactite fell from the ceiling at my intrusion. My wings took the brunt of the former in places, while I evaded the second, if barely in a couple of cases.
    Vents in the floor caused rooms to fill with toxic smoke that stung my eyes and burned at open wounds. In the first two such chambers, the smoke was bad enough. In the third and most beyond, the smoke also served to hide other obstacles.
    The smoke finally gave way to steam vents, just as irritating to open injuries, and my eyes, and just as capable of hiding other hazards. Worse, the floor was slick with moisture, and the walls and ceiling dripped with caustic liquid.
    My only comfort, as I forced myself to slow down, despite the maddening sting of the acidic droplets against my injuries, was that the terrain would be just as hard on anyone pursuing me. Some of the natives were likely more resistant to the local terrain, or had magics that helped them tolerate the hostile territory, but I wouldn’t want to be anyone responsible for trying to drive a pack, or a horde of Demons, through here in pursuit.
    Moving through the caustic fog, I nearly missed it. My foot slid, almost going out from under me. I crouched, trying to get a better sense of it. Unlike the thick liquid pooling on the walls as the steam condensed, this water was cold, to the point it still had ice crystals within it, slowly melting off amidst the heat of the cavern. Very slowly, in fact. Even at my touch, the ice resisted melting off. I kept moving, careful of the floor, and needing to get out of the almost blinding fog of the steam-clouds.
    The next open area was much larger, with a few steam vents, but open enough that the steam formed only a slight fog. Moving through the room, even hugging the wall to avoid notice as much as I could, I was pelted with more of the ice water, occasionally raining from above. I noted more small rivulets of it on the floor, dropping down and running to the nearest crack in the stone, each trail sparkling slightly with remnants of the ice it had been.
    I finally knew where I was. On one hand, any kind of frame of reference offered a hint of hope. On the other, I now had some idea how truly far I was from the gates, even if I could find a way further up. I fought, climbed, and stumbled my way through the obstacles, looking for any sign of a way up. Each time I thought I saw a possible new tunnel, cave, or slope up, it would either dead-end, or drop right back down.
    I almost missed seeing the next cave entrance, some distance up the wall, through thick steam. The way up was slick both with the acidic steam-condensation, and in other places with the tenacious ice, left behind as colder water trickled down the wall. Finally, after two attempts, and two falls, I successfully made my way up a precarious climb to the cave. By the time I pulled myself into the yawning entrance, my hands were slick with it, and my wounds were burning worse than ever.
    This was a passage up from the pits into the circles of Hell, out of the homes of most of the Demons, the packs, and many of the denizens, and into the punishing grounds for mortal souls guilty of particular sins. There was only one place above the supernaturally cold water could have come from, the lake most often compared to Cocytus from Grecian myth and Dante’s accounts—one part of the circle holding those who had been condemned for sins of treachery: the Ninth Circle.
    Focused on that, I tried to make my