During the next day, I sat in the wilderness and pondered what had happened. Why hadn't Cassia betrayed me? I was near the desert, with very little vegetation nearby. The barrenness of this region reflected the way I felt.

If our situations were reversed, I would have given her up without hesitation. It was what our kind did. We are the fallen.

As I sat on the hillside, a bird alighted on a rock nearby. It was brown with wavy stripes across its breast and pecked at the ground--looking for small insects to kill and grind in its beak. As it proceeded along its murderous little feeding activity, a shining black snake reached out and bit it. The bird struggled wretchedly for its life.

I smiled.

Part of the reason we fallen are the way we are is philosophical. If God is going to allow evil in the world, then as a protest, we would make the most of it. Earth and hell, we vowed, would become bastions of pain. The goal, of course, was to make him see the error of his ways and get him to put an end to suffering.

For thousands of years we had kept this up, never losing faith in our plan or patience. We expected it to take a long time, of course.

Somewhere along the line, though, pain and evil had become part of our identity. We'd all come to take pride and solace in them--the receiving and inflicting of pain had become, in their way, comforting.

The bird had stopped struggling, and the snake was working its mouth over the creature. I remembered a day some years ago when Cassia had dressed herself in black snakes for me. They'd flowed around the body she possessed, giving enticing glimpses of her body as they moved.

Cassia.

Beautiful Cassia.

She had broken that ancient compact by not betraying me. In a way, she'd betrayed all of our kind by keeping my secret.

Grateful as I was for her silence, it was as maddeningly confusing as anything Jesus had done.

After being alone and meditating, I realized I needed something, anything, to take my mind off recent events. They bothered me too much, so I fled to a leper colony.

There I saw suffering at its worst. People with open sores living away from the civilized world, some of them with little more than bandages for clothing. They carried bells, all of them, to announce what they were and to let others know they should keep their distance.

Living conditions among these people, if "living" was the right word, were as bad as I hoped. Not one of them had a decent piece of clothing. All were on the verge of starvation. I watched as a man of about twenty years, his body bent and his skin white with disease, carried a flagon of water toward the camp.

A few lepers turned in his direction. The ones that could, got to their feet and walked toward the man. He waved and smiled. As they approached, he handed the flagon around letting each drink--then the ones who had walked to him parted and allowed him to bring sips to the ones who could not rise.

I frowned. This was not what I wanted to see. I'd hoped to observe dying people reduced to animalistic savagery, fighting for scraps of bread. I tried whispering to a woman that she hadn't gotten her fair share of the water, but she gave no sign she'd even heard me. It was like the disease had made her immune to selfishness.

Certainly, there was pain and wretchedness in this place, but there was kindness and compassion, too. So much so, in fact, that it angered me. How were we to show God his error if leper colonies were like this? He might even come to think that suffering brought out the good in his creation.

"It's my turn," said another man, though with less white on his skin than the first. He was taller and older, too--perhaps in his early thirties. His skin was wrinkled and his nose hooked, almost like the beak of a bird.

The first man handed him the flagon, and he set off toward the water. I floated off to hover beside him as he went to get more water.

When we were a few steps from the colony, I whispered. "You could cover your illness and blend in with ordinary people if you wanted to."

If he heard me, he gave no sign.

Annoyed, I flew ahead of him and found a merchant, alone, riding a donkey along the dusty path. I drew my sword and drove it through his chest, pouring my rage and fury into the blade as it blossomed in flame.

The man could not see me, my weapon, or his own wound. He felt his life going out from him, though. He clutched at his chest, gasping, his eyes bulging. For a brief instant, before his soul sank into sheol, he saw me.

I smiled and waved. "Ta ta."

His body fell to the ground, but the donkey kept walking. At once I went to it and whispered, "stay." It obeyed.

I went to the merchant's body and kicked his pouch open, revealing the gleaming coins within. Hah! The man had actually polished them. It was perfect.

My trap set, I went back to the leper and nudged him off his regular course, giving him the intuition that he should vary his path. To this, at least, he listened.

When he found the merchant, he ran to the man at once and asked if he was all right. Of course, there was no answer.

"Look at the coins," I whispered.

He did, but only for a moment. He turned back to the merchant and slowly, little by little, advanced on him--finally checking to see if he was breathing.

"Take the coins," I urged. "This man doesn't need his former wealth. You could go to town, hide your illness by wrapping your arms. Perhaps you could hire a prostitute. Imagine what it would be like to lie with a woman again."

I could see my little fantasy blossom in his head for a moment, feel the shiver of longing along his back and limbs.

Then, to my horror, he dismissed it. He buried the man, working in the hot sun to cover him with stones, then led the donkey by a good length of rope, coins stowed in its pack.

When he was almost to town, he encountered Jesus. For some reason, the Son of God was alone. Why his followers weren't with him, I couldn't guess. Perhaps he sought the solitude of prayer?

Regardless, seeing him here surprised me. I'd done nothing to bring this meeting about. Indeed, I'd planned to stay away from my charge for a little bit to clear my head of his mysteries and strangeness.

The leper fell to his knees facing Jesus. "Lord, if you want to, you can make me clean."

"I do want to," Jesus said.

Jesus came closer and the man rang his bell.

Jesus hesitated, then smiled and approached. He laid his hands on the man's head and power flowed out of him. The air shimmered. The world became brighter. The whiteness on the leper's skin fell away in little flakes.

I stepped back, not wishing to be too close.

"Don't tell anyone about me, but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer the sacrifices Moses prescribed for cleansing," Jesus said.

A puzzled frown came over the man's face. With his hooked nose, he resembled a hawk.

"But, my lord, why?"

"It is not yet my time," Jesus said.

As if those words explained anything.

The two parted. All along the road back, I whispered things to the man that he could do with his health and the coins he carried. Many of my suggestions took hold, flourishing in little bits of color in his mind--but all of them faded.

When he got to town and showed himself to the priest, he also explained where he'd gotten the money. When he found the merchant's family, the former leper told them about Jesus and his cure.

That made me laugh. I didn't even need to suggest that he betray Jesus' request, and yet he'd done so.

Good.

What made me less happy was when the family of the merchant donated all the coins returned to them to provide food for the lepers. It didn't even surprise me at that point that the former leper did as he promised, buying food and clothing and taking it out to those who were still diseased.

This was not a good day for me--not that any days were good since I began the task of tempting Jesus.

Despite my efforts, all the people I'd encountered had done the right thing. Normally, I had more success with humans. A small push, and they'd be selfish and sinful. Today, I'd seen only a chain of kindnesses.

Kindness sometimes did that, begetting other good deeds like some virulent disease.

What had made Cassia fail to betray me? Why had she helped me keep my Mikal safe?

It was then that a horrible realization fell on me, all the more painful because it was so obvious. Had my sheltering of Mikal and the kindness I'd shown her somehow inspired Cassia?

Hellfire.

Until then, I'd not even realized that I, too, had broken faith with our ancient compact. I should forget Mikal, stop worrying about her, stop caring. All I was doing was undermining my own cause.

Firmly, I resolved to do just that--rid myself of this feeling of love.

The flame of anger blossomed around my spirit--anger at myself. How had I let myself make this mistake?

"No more," I promised myself.

With firm resolve, I went to find the Son of God.