To start chronologically – from the conception of daemons in Philip Pullman's imagination – they arrived unexpectedly and already partly formed. Sometimes Pullman describes that conception as picturing Lyra, and suddenly realising she had a companion in the shadows behind her. Sometimes he reports suddenly thinking the words 'Lyra and her daemon' for no particular reason, and being fascinated. Whichever of these is the more accurate, one thing remains constant: from that first inspiration, Pullman realised that daemons were immensely important. Not to imply daemons came fully formed, of course; Pullman relates the trouble he had deciding what to do with them in Talking Books: 'In my first draft they were a sort of animal companion which changed shape according to your mood, and adults' daemons changed as well as childrens'.'

Not an altogether original concept in itself. Tamora Pierce, Dianne Duane, C. S. Lewis are but a very few of the writers in Pullman's field who have used talking animal companions in their books. If you expand the idea to talking animals in general, you're looking at thousands of books. In shape-shifting, he had a more innovative idea, but still not exactly new. Again, Tamora Pierce has a main character who can shape-shift to animal forms and dragons whose colour changes according to mood.

It seems that the answer to why daemons soar above all these predecessors lies not in what they do as such – i.e., appear as animals, talk, shape-shift, be companions to humans – but what they are. What they mean. Pullman recognised this as he came to the second draft: 'I thought this daemon concept was very intriguing, but one of the things I now know about storytelling is that if you put something in that doesn't add to the story, it makes it weaker. This wasn't adding to the story, it was just picturesque.' (P.190, Talking Books). He goes on to explain what he decided what daemons should be; should mean. 'So then I thought, how can I use this daemon thing to add to the theme? So by allowing childrens' daemons to change form and having adults' daemons as set, I realised that I could use the difference to symbolise the infinite plasticity… of childhood, and the fixed nature of adulthood… what a daemons eventually became was the human spirit in animal form – integral but separate.'

As a concept – perhaps only as a far less experienced writer than Pullman – it seems a hazy concept, not immediately exciting. Yet Pullman describes feeling 'Profoundly grateful' as he realised he had something 'valuable and rare'. He understood what he had. Understanding it back then, in all its vagaries and specifics, knowing what direction to take daemons in, must be incredibly hard, even for an experience, highly talented author. Understanding it now, even with it written out clearly and explained a lot during the course of the story, is still pretty difficult.

We can say we love it because of the idea of having your own personal shape-shifting companion is so appealing. Or because we are also moved by the relationship between body and soul (etc) expressed. But I feel this does not begin to cover the complexities that go into making daemons such a popular idea among both readers and critics. What is it precisely that makes the scenes in 'The Silver Guillotine', Northern Lights so affecting? It goes beyond feeling for a two characters who we like, and understand love each other very much, about to be taken away from each other. It goes beyond the idea that the girl is about to have her soul taken – that idea is commonly used in horror and fantasy without invoking such a reaction. This is partly because it is an entirely cerebral concept (no one has ever experienced such a thing; the soul is a concept invented by philosophers and churchmen with no physical evidence etc).

Is it simply P's writing which turns an interesting and appealing idea into something so affecting? Partly I think this is so. The skill with which he creates and develops daemons (specifically in Northern Lights) is some of the best writing, in my opinion, in His Dark Materials. Taking daemons' introduction into the imagination of the reader, for instance: 'Lyra and her daemon,' the book opens. No explanation is offered. It is not until a sizeable paragraph of daemon-ignorance later Pullman mentions that this 'daemon's' name is Pantalaimon and he is, 'in the form of a moth.' Oh, and we are shown he can talk. Pantalaimon receives the introduction a human character might on first sighting in the book – brief information about name, appearance, but only what is needed. Mostly the action moves along. However, looking under the surface, a wealth of information is given, and more importantly, questions are asked in those four opening words, and that brief introduction to Pantalaimon. How is Pantalaimon Lyra's? What does it mean, currently in the form of a moth? This is just temporary, then? And what is something moth-shaped doing speaking? Throughout chapter one, we are interested in the plot, but we are also interested in what exactly Pantalaimon is. No more information is given, other than more evidence that he talks, and demonstration of his personality. Just as if Lyra had a human companion with her, information on precisely how he looks, where he comes from and so on isn't gone into. If it were a human companion, he wouldn't feel the need to and we wouldn't feel the need to read it, because, of course, we know all about humans. Pullman forces the reader to treat daemons in the same way. It's as if he's saying: 'oh, of course, you know all about daemons.' We are left with a powerful mixture of intrigue at what daemons are and that they are perfectly natural and only to be expected. By the time chapter two ends, we are ready for Pantalaimon's shift into ermine form. We have had only the barest of hints he might not be in moth form permanently, but more than that, we have been primed to expect daemons to do odd things without really watching for them – or even thinking them particularly odd. It's an effect that's hard to describe, and must be extremely had to write.

The rest of the book carries on in much the same vane, i.e. treating daemons as if they are a perfectly natural thing that everyone will know about. Sometimes a direct fact is given, such as, 'As people became adult, their daemon lost the power to change and assumed one shape, keeping it permanently.' (C.3, Northern Lights) but only after this idea has been planted beforehand anyway. For instance, with this statement, given time, we would probably have been able to deduce as much from what we see. By the time Pullman makes this remark it has been established that Lyra's and Roger's daemons change, while we have never seen adults' daemons do so. In fact, it seems that Pullman only wishes to drive home a point, and bring it to importance since it is probably the most important idea about daemons throughout the trilogy. Similarly, in chapter nine, Pullman points out that humans may not touch another person's daemon. It's an idea that's probably been at the back of many readers' minds, since we've never seen such contact, but Pullman reinforces it because it will be important later on.

There is another variation in the build up of daemons, which is drama involving them. In chapter five, the golden monkey attacks Pantalaimon and Lyra feels the pain as if it were her own. It is a dramatic, tense scene, and the lesson that humans and daemons feel each other's hurts is expressed without seeming to be. In chapter six, the kidnappers with throwing nets keep her and Pantalaimon apart, and in that fraught moment we see that Lyra's first concern is with her daemon. Chapter twelve sees Pantalaimon straining at the link between he and Lyra, and the intense feelings that result. The drama that follows – Tony Makarios, the daemons cages, the guillotine, Roger's death – all play on the lessons we have been taught in the earlier drama. If it had been expressed more matter-of-factly, in would most likely have not been ingrained on the readers' memory so powerfully. On the other hand the lesson never stand out baldly. The drama is incorporated into the plot. We never realise that underneath the alethiometer, the north, the gyptians and so on, what we're really learning most about is daemons. When it is revealed in chapter thirteen exactly what intercision is, it is both unexpected and horrifying.

But is this all there is to it? Writing good enough to create an idea and then play on the readers' thoughts and emotions until that idea is so powerful? I think there is more to it. After all, it does not explain many things about daemons or readers reactions to them. Pullman demonstrated his skill in combining a vague intellectual idea with a picturesque image. I think his skill in combining goes further. What I mean by this is that daemons seem to connect with powerful images, emotions and ideas outside daemons themselves. To take for instance the scene at Bolvangar where Lyra and Pantalaimon are discovered captured and nearly separated: the power of emotion generated seems to come not only from what I have already talked about - the reader's developed feeling for daemons and the human-daemon bond. It seems to come from the connotations of the language. When the scientists first grab hold of Pantalaimon, we know that this is a taboo in Lyra's world. But the emotion attached to the moment doesn't come from that knowledge which hasn't been previously explored), it comes by evoking connotations of another disturbing concept: sexual abuse or rape. 'It was as if an alien hand had reached right inside where no hand had a right to be, and wrenched at something deep and precious.' If the idea of using language in this way seems complicated or unlikely, think of it as a sort of metaphor. Pullman says one thing is something else to invoke the desired reaction.

Less intensely, this is used in other ways to describe daemons. In chapter one, Pantalaimon speaks like an older sibling, but it is also clear it is Lyra who calls the shots; in chapter three and especially five we see him as a fierce defender, and a best friend; at other times he seems like a parent, a child, a bodyguard, a pet. Pullman never actually compared him to these things, but in the language he uses, the emotions relating to each of these relationships is evoked so we understand that Pantalaimon is all of these things.

There is much more I could say on the subject of daemons. Despite their simple arrival in Pullman's head they are immensely complicated. I somehow feel there is a core of daemons popularity that I have not reached, because while I believe all I have said it doesn't seem to touch the very centre of it. All the time I come up with a new thought as to what makes daemons so great, and for a while think I have the final explanation. But maybe there isn't one. Maybe it is something that cannot be fully explained.

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