Folk & Demonological

Commands seventy-two legions, one for every spirit in the book. He is the Asmodeus of Tobit, who killed Sarah's seven husbands and was driven into Upper Egypt by Raphael, and behind that the Avestan Aeshma-daeva, the demon of wrath — one of very few Goetic spirits with an ancestry that can be traced.

The Canaanite goddess Astarte, three thousand years on, made a male duke of hell with her name intact. The Goetia has him discourse willingly on the fall of the spirits, and warns the operator to hold a ring to his face against the stench of his breath.

'Lord of the Flies' — a Philistine god of Ekron whose name was almost certainly deformed as a Hebrew insult, then inherited by Christian demonology as the second power of hell.

In the Hebrew Bible beliya'al is not a name but a word meaning worthlessness; by 2 Corinthians it is a person, and by the Goetia a king in a chariot of fire handing out senatorships. The text says he was created next after Lucifer and fell among the first, and will not answer truly without gifts.

Hesiod has Zeus honour her above all others. By the medieval period she presides over witchcraft instead, a demotion with no wrongdoing attached to it anywhere.

The morning star of Isaiah 14. Christian tradition reads the phrase as the devil's own name; the passage itself makes no such claim.

God of plague, war and the underworld, consort of Ereshkigal — and one of the few Mesopotamian gods the Bible names directly.

First of the seventy-two and, by the Goetia's own account, chief among them — a three-headed thing on spider's legs, ruling in the east and granting invisibility. The name is the Canaanite storm god Baal, three thousand years and one demotion later.

The deity of the Tophet child sacrifices in Kings and Jeremiah — or, on a long-running scholarly reading, the name of the sacrifice itself rather than a god.

Wealth personified. The gospels use the word for money itself; demonology turned the metaphor into an officer of hell.

The scapegoat's destination in Leviticus, and the Watcher who taught weapons and cosmetics in 1 Enoch. Translators cannot even agree whether the word is a name, a place or an abstraction.

The Moabite Baal of Peor, reassigned by demonology as the demon of sloth and of ingenious inventions. A god turned into a joke about laziness.

A major grain deity of Syria and Philistia. A Hebrew pun on *dag*, 'fish', turned him into a fish-god in medieval illustration, and de Plancy finished the job by making him a demon.

The sea-dragon of Job and Isaiah, drawn from Canaanite chaos myth, and later assigned the sin of envy and the office of admiral of hell.

The Latin class term for a spirit that lies on a sleeper, mentioned in passing by Augustine as a common report and turned by the Malleus Maleficarum, a thousand years later, into a doctrine with a procedure attached.

A god of Sepharvaim who received child sacrifice, promoted by early-modern demonology to chancellor of hell.

A Greek word for the avenging spirit of a household's blood-guilt, taken up by demonologists as hell's executioner.

'Lord of the covenant', a god of Shechem — reassigned by demonologists as the notary who countersigns infernal pacts.

Job's land-beast, paired with Leviathan — presented there as a creature of God, not an enemy of him.

A night-demon of Mesopotamian ancestry. The famous story that she was Adam's first wife comes from a satirical medieval text and has no basis in Genesis at all.

The Aramean storm god Naaman bowed to in 2 Kings, given a diplomatic posting by nineteenth-century demonology.

Both an archangel and an adversary. Jewish tradition makes him the accusing angel, the angel of death and the guardian prince of Rome; all three are offices he was assigned, not verdicts on his character.

An old man riding a crocodile with a goshawk on his fist, credited with teaching every language and with hauling back anyone who has fled. The same entry has him causing earthquakes and stripping men of office, temporal and spiritual alike.

The book's arsonist: cities, castles and great houses set alight, by a three-headed spirit carrying a firebrand and riding a viper. The same entry has him making men clever and answering truly on private matters.

Speaks loudly and hoarsely from a great horse, red-faced and flaming-eyed like a lion — an alarming delivery for a spirit whose subjects are astronomy and the liberal sciences.

Preceded by trumpets and every kind of instrument playing with nobody visible to play them — one of the more theatrical entrances in the Ars Goetia. He makes music heard where he goes, bends trees to the operator's will, and gives excellent familiars.

This marquis of the Ars Goetia procures feuds between friends and then reconciles the quarrels he started, which is the whole of his office and runs in both directions at once. He comes as a flame-vomiting wolf with a serpent's tail, or else as a man with a raven's head.

Recovers the particular class of treasure that other spirits are guarding, which is a narrower promise than the plain treasure-finding around it. He arrives as a flaming fire before taking human shape.

Marked in the Goetia as dangerous to the operator himself, which almost nothing else in the book is: handle him carelessly, the text says, and he will kill the man who called him along with his assistants. He arrives raven-headed on a black wolf with a drawn sword.

Teaches geometry and every kind of measurement exactly, makes men subtle in astronomy, and turns them into birds. He announces himself as a peacock making a great deal of noise, and is ranked marquis in the Ars Goetia.

For all the apparatus — three heads, flaming eyes, a bear to ride and a goshawk on the fist — his offices are modest: true answers on past and future, invisibility, and quickness of wit.

Comes only while the Sun stands in Sagittarius, and comes with four kings and their companies behind him. What he gives is comprehension: the song of birds, the voices of other creatures, and treasure hidden by enchantment rather than by hand.

Moves people bodily from one country to another without warning, and knows the virtues of herbs and precious stones. He rides a pale horse in the shape of a strong man with a serpent's tail.

The Goetia's instructions here are unusually anxious: hold a hazel wand, and be courteous. He arrives in a fury on a pale horse with every kind of music sounding ahead of him, and he causes all the love that may be until the operator's desire is met.

Turns any metal into gold, and is in the same breath called a great liar unless the operator compels him with the ring. He rides a red horse as a soldier in red crowned in gold, and is ranked duke in the Ars Goetia.

Commands six legions, fewer than any other spirit in the seventy-two. What the entry is remembered for is not the astrology or the geometry but the graveyard work: he shifts corpses between plots and sets what look like candles burning on the graves.

The arrival is fearsome — an ugly viper, then a horned man with great teeth and a drawn sword — for a spirit whose actual work is telling the past and the future and making peace between enemies.

Appears under Sagittarius as a lion's head with five legs radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. His teaching is medical: moral and natural philosophy, the virtues of every herb and plant, and the cure of all distempers.

A spirit of the graveyard: he moves the dead from where they lie and gathers other spirits onto their tombs. He speaks with a high and comely voice from three heads — dog, griffin and man — on a dragon's body, and gives riches and eloquence.

Answers out of burning ashes or coals rather than speaking directly, which is unusual even among the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia. What he gives is comprehension of things that do not speak: the voices of birds, oxen and dogs, and the sound of running water.

Given a territory rather than a subject: the Goetia has him ruling every spirit in Africa. He also teaches grammar, logic and rhetoric, finds lost and hidden treasure, and makes men valiant in war.

Makes a great noise like the rushing of many waters, and speaks darkly of hidden things in the shape of an angel. His oddest credited power is domestic: he warms water, and finds baths.

Appears first as a star inside a pentacle. His office is birds — their virtues and those of precious stones, and the trick of making them fly before the operator and stay, singing and drinking exactly as real ones do.

Consulted chiefly about war — the Goetia credits him with knowing how a conflict will end before it does. He appears as a goodly knight with lance, ensign and serpent, and secures the goodwill of lords and knights.

Has power over the winds and the sea, drowns men and overturns ships of war — and will harm nobody at all, the Goetia adds, if he is commanded otherwise. He appears as a man with a griffin's wings.

One of the most broadly credited entries in the book — herbs and stones, logic and ethics, invisibility, lost property, hidden treasure, and, alone among the seventy-two, long life. He arrives in plain human shape, which is itself unusual here.

His gifts are entirely social: languages, rhetoric, a good reputation, and the affection of enemies as readily as friends. The Ars Goetia makes this marquis a great sea-monster, which fits none of it.

The only spirit in the seventy-two ranked as a Knight. He appears as a cruel old man with a long beard and hoary hair, armed on a pale horse, and teaches philosophy, astrology, rhetoric and logic alongside palmistry and divination by fire.

Lies unless he is confined to the triangle. Held there, he raises thunder, lightning and great tempestuous winds, settles love between husband and wife, and answers on divine and secret things; he appears as a hart with a burning tail.

His powers run in opposed pairs: love and hatred, philosophy and induced ignorance. He comes with four great kings before him while the Sun stands in the southern signs, and carries men between kingdoms.

Teaches every art and science in an instant, and is named in the same entry as the author of bloodshed and manslaughter. The Goetia sets that beside causing love and conferring invisibility without appearing to notice the company it keeps.

A beautiful woman in a duchess's crown riding a great camel, and among the very few female forms in the seventy-two. She tells past and future, finds hidden treasure, and procures the love of women young and old.

Asked a question, he explains what the question means — the Goetia credits him with showing the sense of whatever is put to him, which is a stranger gift than mere foreknowledge. He takes the shape the text calls a xenopilus, a creature of strange face.

Turns every metal into gold and water into wine, and the wine back into water. The Goetia adds, without elaborating, that he also makes men wise; he appears as a winged bull, then as a man.

Entirely military logistics: he raises towers, stocks them with ammunition and weapons, and sends men of war where they are ordered. The Ars Goetia has this earl deliver all of it as a hoarse-voiced stock-dove.

Lies about everything until he is commanded into the triangle, which is the Ars Goetia's standard remedy for a demon that will not answer. Compelled, he gives true answers on past and future, burns and destroys the operator's enemies, and discusses the creation of the world and his own fall.

What he confers is nerve. The Goetia says he makes men witty and bold, and gives them knowledge of what has been and will be; he appears as an angel assembled from a lion's head, a goose's foot and a hare's tail.

An archer dressed in green with bow and quiver, ranked marquis among the demons of the Ars Goetia, who starts battles and contests. He is also given one precise and nasty speciality: making wounds from arrows go septic.

Builds houses and high towers and gathers the craftsmen to do it, then dismantles an enemy's desires and thoughts before they can be acted on. A president among the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia, he is a crow until he becomes a man, and speaks hoarsely either way.

A great bull with a human face, and among the book's better-equipped teachers: astronomy, the liberal sciences, and the virtues of herbs and precious stones, with a good familiar supplied alongside.

Inflicts disease and cures it — a pairing almost nothing else in the seventy-two is given, and one that makes his entry read less like a demonology than a physician's. A lion until he chooses to be a man, he also teaches the mechanical arts and changes men's shapes.

The Goetia records something of him that it records of nobody else: he told Solomon he hoped to return to the seventh throne after twelve hundred years. Otherwise he is a fire-breathing wolf turned man, a strong fighter, and a truthful answerer.

Compels the souls of the dead to appear and answer, which few demons in the Ars Goetia are given outright, and teaches philosophy perfectly besides. He rides a griffin in a ducal crown behind trumpeters.

His work is the restoration of standing — he makes men eloquent and gives back the honours and offices a man has lost. Among the demons of the Ars Goetia he is one of the least alarming to look at: a black crane fluttering about the circle, speaking hoarsely.

Teaches the virtues of the stars and the mansions of the planets — the most explicitly astrological brief in the seventy-two. He rides with a great hissing serpent in each hand, lion-shaped with a serpent's tail.

Singled out in the Goetia as faithful and honest — he does not tempt or deceive, and he defends the operator against the other spirits, which no other entry promises. He discourses on divinity and the creation of the world.

He changes a man into any shape, and the man believes he is that thing — the most unsettling transformation in the Ars Goetia, and the only one that alters the subject's mind along with his body. He arrives as a leopard, then takes human form.

Commands two hundred legions, more than any other spirit in the book, and arrives crowned on a dromedary ahead of a host with trumpets and cymbals. The Goetia names him one of the four kings of the cardinal points, and the most obedient of them to Lucifer.

Arrives as a phoenix singing sweetly in a child's voice, which the Ars Goetia expressly warns the operator not to heed. Past the singing he is a marvellous poet, willing in obedience, and sound on every science.

A finder — of hidden things, of buried treasure, and of what has happened and what is coming. A king of the Ars Goetia, he arrives lion-faced on a bear with a viper in his hand and trumpets sounding before him.

Robs royal houses and carries what he takes wherever he is told, levels cities, and strips men of rank — and then, in the same entry, causes love between friends and foes. He appears as a crow, then as a man.

Teaches rhetoric well, in the Goetia's phrase — faint praise beside the extravagant claims made either side of him. He appears simply as a monster holding a staff, and supplies servants and the knowledge of tongues.

Fortifies what Vepar sinks — high towers, castles and cities, furnished with armour — and inflicts the same worm-filled sores, over days rather than in three. He rides a pale horse as an armed soldier with a lion's head.

His brief is the shortest of the seventy-two: he causes love between men and women, and the entry stops there. He is a crowned soldier riding a crocodile, and the Goetia describes him as peaceable.

Asked about the souls of those who died in sin, he gives an account of them — an office no other spirit in the seventy-two is given. He arrives as a small horse or donkey, and becomes a man if the operator asks.

Strips sight, hearing and understanding from whoever he is set upon. The Goetia calls him a great deceiver who lies outside the triangle, and gives him one of its strangest promises: money taken from a king's house comes back after twelve hundred years.

A griffin-winged leopard's head that resolves into a very beautiful man. His single office is compulsion in desire, running in both directions, and the Goetia is explicit that it extends to making its objects strip.

His teaching is narrow and exact — astronomy, and the properties of herbs and precious stones — with none of the wars, treasures or transformations that crowd the entries around him. He comes as a mighty raven, then a man.

Speaks Egyptian, and speaks it imperfectly — a detail the Goetia thought worth recording about a spirit whose offices are otherwise love, foreknowledge and reconciliation. He is a mighty dromedary before he is a man.

Offered as a good familiar with an unusual condition attached: he keeps company with the operator until he has tempted him into theft, and then until the theft is discovered. The Ars Goetia gives this duke the form of a lion with a braying ass's head.

His whole office is competence: every handicraft, every profession, and philosophy and the sciences besides, with nothing of war, love or treasure attached — unusual among the Goetic demons. He appears as a lion with griffin's wings.

Guides armed ships, or roughens the sea until they founder. Her other office is precise and grim: wounds that putrefy with worms and kill within three days. She appears as a mermaid.

Holds two ranks at once, and builds and demolishes with equal ease — towers raised, stone walls thrown down, the sea roughened at will. He is also the spirit the Goetia sets to finding witches and wizards.

Knows where serpents are, and delivers them to the operator without strength or force being needed — a gift no other entry offers. He appears as a child with angel's wings riding a two-headed dragon.

Runs liquids through every transformation the text can think of — wine to water, water to wine, blood to wine — and turns metal into coin. He also, the Goetia says flatly, makes fools wise.

His two offices sit badly together: he brings women to love men and brings the two together, and he also makes them barren. A duke of the Ars Goetia in the form of a soldier in red apparel and armour, and the text offers no reconciliation of the pair.

Last of the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia, and the one set against dishonesty: he returns the thief along with what was taken, exposes underhand dealing, and punishes it. He appears as a man holding a great serpent.

Wears the faces of every man and woman at once and carries a book. The Goetia gives him the broadest claim of the seventy-two — he knows the thoughts of everyone alive, and can change them.

Among the most obliging spirits in the book: he comes and goes in the twinkling of an eye, brings abundance of all things, carries goods wherever he is sent, and is described as willing to do what he is asked. A beautiful man on a winged horse, and absent from Weyer.

One of four spirits the Ars Goetia adds to Weyer's older list, and among the handful it calls good-natured. His work is retrieval: what has already happened, what is coming, and whatever has been hidden or lost.

A rebel angel who proposed setting heaven on fire and now tends the furnaces below. No source before the nineteenth century has heard of him.