When I awake, Samael and I have fused into marble statues.
He is completely feral, cryptic - of the mounds, as us Irish say, a Fairy King.
The distance between us is a hair's breadth. I can taste the salt on his skin, heady with exertion. He smells like woodsmoke and temptation. We stand in the bowels of Hell, in a garden fed by underground springs and earthly fires that burn like rivers aflame. A cavernous shaft wends its way to morning above our head, letting slicing blue sky pierce the heart of the inferno. It is a place of great unbeauty, with asphodel and pomegranate trees, the fruits of Persephone's garden.
