As I understood it, all I had to do was tempt this Son of God into a sin, it didn't matter how small it was. So I decided to aim low, to aim for the tiniest sin I could think of--swearing. Probably all I'd need to do was send a mole viper after him. One bite, and my job might be done. Successfully.

On the one hand, I couldn't see how it would work. On the other, how could it not?

So I found him, late in the day, toiling away with his saws and hammers in his carpentry shop--a small wooden structure he'd made himself. It was decent workmanship for a human, but for the creator of the universe? I mean, there was a small gaps between the boards here and there, not the seamless dwelling one might expect. The more I saw of this being I was assigned to, the less I understood him.

I sent my viper gliding along the sand through a small gap in the wall. It slid along the sandy floor, hiding behind six stone jars that covered the length of the back wall as it made its way to the place where he worked.

Before it reached its target, the door opened and Mary, Jesus' Mother stepped into the small shop.

There was something about that woman. Perhaps it was the combined effect of being so close to the Son of God, but there was a sort of special divine radiance about her. Though it was not visible to the human eye, the light that shone from her was not unlike the light that shone from Moses's face after he descended Mount Sinai with the tablets in his hands. Old as she was, there was a beauty to her--something that made one think of the dawn's touch upon the oasis at En Gedi.

The viper bit his foot. Jesus let out a howl of pain and struck my small minion, knocking it senseless his sandal. It writhed, piteously on the ground. Jesus picked it up by the tail, and flung it outside.

So much for biting him a second time.

"Are you all right?" Mary asked.

Jesus lifted his foot and inspected the bite marks on his ankle. "I'm fine. A snake struck my heel."

"Let me look," she said, hurrying over. Two servants who must have been standing behind her followed her in.

"Really, I'm fine."

But a mother is not to be denied such things. The mother and servants peered with concern at the tiny wound. One of the two was a short young woman, dressed in a short brown shift. The other was a boy of average height with shining skin, as if just annointed with oil.

She kissed the injury, which was dark and purple by this time. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but the blood stopped flowing at that moment.

"What do you need, woman?" Jesus asked.

It struck me as odd that he called her "woman" and not "mother" as he usually did. While it could be taken as disrespectful, the small smile on Mary's face suggested she did not take it that way.

"You remember little Chava? She's getting married today and, well, they have no more wine."

He looked up at her and held her gaze for a few long seconds--what unspoken words they shared in that moment, I couldn't guess. It might have been the small amount of venom I'd inflicted on him, but I thought he looked paler, almost fearful.

"Woman, what is that to us? My hour has not yet come."

Woman. My hour.

I was definitely missing a strange subtext in this moment, though I could not guess what it was.

Mary turned to the servants. "Do whatever he tells you. I will see you back at the wedding"

They nodded.

She then turned and kissed her son's brow, then walked outside.

Jesus lifted his gaze to the two servants. "Fill the jars with water."

The woman grabbed one and the boy grabbed two, then they hurried outside. I simply hovered there, watching.

For his part, Jesus knelt and folded his hands. Almost at once, power flowed from him, a radiance that made me cringe and retreat. Until now, I'd suspected he would not use his abilities in any way while in this form.

A short time later, the servants returned. "Look," the short woman said excitedly. "We filled it with water, but it has become wine."

"Very good. Draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet."

With bows, smiles, and thanks, they withdrew.

I did also. I withdrew to the Mount of Olives, drifting between the trees, admiring the clusters of white and yellow flowers adorning their limbs.

What was going on?

Jesus had used his power to make wine for a wedding, but would not call forth bread for himself?

As I meandered among the trees, I saw another mole viper. For a moment, it seemed a picture of the Garden of Eden and the fall.

Woman, what is that to us?

Had I been in human form, a chill would have passed through my flesh.

While I was not an expert on prophecy, even I knew the one contained in the words of the curse issued to the first human woman, Eve.

And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.

When Jesus had said "woman," he had done it after I'd sent a serpent. It had bruised his heel, and he'd bruised its head. Jesus was Mary's offsping, her "seed." It all fit together. That day in the garden so long ago and that curse had marked the beginning of a war between the human and demonic, and today Jesus had performed a miracle--something he'd not done before. All he'd done was turn water into wine, but that was no less difficult than calling fire from heaven.

Wine, in prophecy, was often a symbol for blood. When Jesus said, "my hour," was he referring to the hour of his victory over sin and demonkind? Was the Son of God making a veiled promise that that he planned to bring that war to an end? Was his message directed at me? He'd given no sign he knew of my presence.

Perhaps I was being paranoid and jumping to conclusions. Regardless, though, I felt I was out of my depth in dealing with this God-man. Had he truly shown me mercy that first day, or was this all a long game to prepare me for the smiting I'd feared from the beginning?

Regardless, he'd clearly decided he was willing to use his powers now. The game had changed.

That night I found a cave and cringed in the darkness. Fear had accumulates in demonic spirits much as water does in a human bladder, but I could not relieve myself so easily as a mortal. I writhed in torment as it bled away from me in the long night.

As it did, my thoughts turned to Mikal. To my surprise, much of the fear that poisoned my soul was not for my own safety, but for hers. When the day of judgement came, what would befall this woman I cared so much for? What would happen to this slave who'd been used and driven into prostitution?