This one took the form of a fractal fever dream spun from Mammon's avaricious lies.
Genesis found himself in an M.C. Escher-sculpted realm where every surface crawled with treasures - golden arabesques and jewel-encrusted paintings overlapping in dizzying repetition of immaterial indulgence.
Everywhere Genesis turned, new strikes of brilliant wealth presented themselves in vulgar exhibitionism.
Dunes of gemstones shimmered in the moiling light like hyper-liquefied prisms.
Coasts of platinum woven into intricate fabrics flowed, capturing his eye and attracting sin.
Jezebel slid from the fog, then her taloned grip captivated Genesis's chin, forcing his awe-slackened gaze up to meet her grandeur.
"Even your prophets and kings choked on their cravings for such fortune, lamb..." Her tongue slicked along his clean shaved face in an obscene tasting. "Why avert your covetous senses from Greed's grandest constitutions?
Surely your God would shower you with earthly materials befitting your spiritual station as a servant of God..."
For Genesis's only reply, he recited the verses that proved his guiding light.
"Whoever loves money never has enough, whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income. This too is meaningless..."
In a scattering of gemstone shards, the Greed-realm faded into illusion.
For several moments, Genesis existed in a long free-fall...
When eventually he found corporeal land once more, the unmistakable smell of arousal and pheromones hung in the air suggesting levels of debased perversion awaited below.
Displaying around him in ribbons of satin was a burlesque - a Bacchanalian fantasia of silken-swathed sexy temptresses.
Some danced around him in a hypnotizing manner, while some rubbed their naked goddess-like bodies in a spellbinding seduction.
Razored crimson sharp nails grazed indecent topographies on his whole body.
Then, Jezebel's wings captured Genesis' naked body with the temptresses, and he could smell the strong suffocating odor of desire and sanguine arousal.
"Enough of these denials and empty lectures..." The voice dripped from every obscured corner inside Jezebel's wings prison. "Unless the flesh itself is surrendered freely, its temple stands in perpetual obscenity before God's sight..."
Without shifting his gaze from the burning, soft-fleshed sirens, Genesis answered with one final Scriptural safeguard.
"Enough with your games Jezebel.
Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.
Amen."
A cry of outrage split the environs of lust like an axe cleaving melons.
With a thunder of shackles, Jezebel's form consumed the panoramaof lust in waves of viscous dissolution.
At last, only Genesis remained - naked, his face striped with sigils of torment.
He steeled himself, awaiting whatever final abomination her perverted pageantry was conjuring from the flensed wounds of his subconscious...
"I will break Genesis, I will break you.
Whatever it takes..."
Jezebel kept digging into Genesis' subconscious until she found an interesting traumatic event.
The next scenario was brought quickly, robbing his defense and courage.
This was no fever-scape sculpted from the seven deadly sins, but something far more visceral and raw - an evocation of tormented memory sharpened like a sword.
He found himself thrust back into that nostalgic dimly-lit, little chamber from his childhood.
The reeking odor of smoke-cured sadism hung in, awakening associations of dried blood and piss-stenched nightmares.
Before him stood the unmistakable silhouette of the Monsignore - a hunched, predatory outline composed of angles rather than curves.
Even with the limited illumination, Genesis could make out each pebbled wart and microscopic point dotting the man's brutal contours.
The Monsignore's shadow swelled to fill the room, a monstrosity rearing above Genesis's old form - a child of no more than eight chained in the corner and shuddering in primal fear.
Whatever Jezebel had unearthed from his subconscious's deepest volts, this torment bloated into gargantuan dimensions, labored respirations underscored by exsanguinated bubbles of pure distress.
"Little Genesis..."
The Monsignore's graveled voice was frost-sheathing bare branches - each syllable stripped away all warmth, leaving only the cold precision of a scalpel's edge.
He was a man who believed in The Old Testament ways...
"You know what task is set before us this eve, mm?
You have sinned again...
And you must be punished.
After all, pain makes you remember and makes you more obedient to me and God."
His meaty palm extended, veined and punctuated with calloused rings from decades of unmerciful immunity.
In its center lay a cat o' nine tails, a whip - the chains still glossy with ancient sanguine residue.
The child's whimpers heightened to a dissonant telepathy of horror that Genesis could feel scrabbling across his own consciousness like daggers.
He may have been older, wiser, tempered by realities no child should ever have to witness...but that terror was still an adamant shard keening through his core, an unmedicinal and permanent scare of his psyche.
Finally, Genesis found himself transported out of the nightmare memory and hovering in a dimensionless plane of shadow and mist.
Whatever malignant psychomancy Jezebel was working threatened to reduce him back to those trembling childhood agonies.
He struggled to distance himself from the whimpering emanations, focusing every erg of will on the task at hand - withstanding this onslaught of recidivist torment.
Jezebel, undeterred, continued her relentless search. She unearthed another memory, one far more disturbing.
The stench of copper flooded Jezebel's nostrils as the memory took shape.
In this memory, an adolescent Genesis stood before her in the same chamber.
His smile was grotesque and sinister, stretching from ear to ear and his hands and boyish face smeared with blood.
At his feet, a corpse lay crumpled like a broken doll.
Genesis was not powerless in this nightmare, he was sentient and filled with bloodlust.
Genesis's head whipped around, his eyes locking on Jezebel.
In a blink, he was upon her, fingers coiling around her throat with terrifying ease.
She tried to cry out, but his grip was unbreakable.
Genesis's laughter was a guttural, rasping thing as thick rivulets of blood streamed down his forearms. "Madness?" he sneered, leaning so close Jezebel could see the flecks of crimson speckling his lips. "You don't know the first thing about madness."
His fingers tightened around her windpipe with agonizing slowness.
Jezebel's hands clawed futilely at his wrists, her breath coming in shallow, strangled gasps.
Panic surged through her veins like icewater as black spots began crowding her vision.
Up close, his eyes seemed endless pits of depravity, emptier and colder than the void itself.
Any semblance of innocence or humanity had long since been scoured away, leaving only an insatiable, primal hunger behind.
Genesis drank in her terror, savoring each wheezing inhalation, each desperate buck of her hips as she writhed in his grasp. "Is this what you wanted, Jezebel?" he rasped against her ear. "To gaze into the abyss?"
A tremor rocked Jezebel's frame, an involuntary spasm born of pure, animal fear...and something else—a perverse sense of exhilaration at having finally encountered something darker and more depraved than herself.
Her struggles became feeble, her resistance crumbling beneath the weight of Genesis's impenetrable malice.
Warm moisture trickled down her thighs, the unmistakable tang of pee hanging ripe in the air.
Genesis only grinned wider at her debasement, at the sight of the great Jezebel cowed at last.
"That's it," he purred, giving her throat one final, crushing squeeze as he kissed her forehead. "Bow before the new madness."
Jezebel's skin sheened in a cold sweat, utterly defiled...yet still ravenous to plumb the depths of Genesis's psychosis further.
Because for the first time, she had met her master.