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witch on the table seemed infected by madness. She rose from her stringy chair and began to jump up and down, her round breasts jouncing in opposition to her movement. “He’ll blast you, windbag! The Eagle will tear you limb from limb. He’ll turn you into a bright-red leather handbag. He’ll…” and then Saara stopped bouncing long enough to perform an extremely complex and obscene gesture which she had learned in the Italies. When she felt she once more had Lucifer’s attention, she began to curse him in earnest.
    Forbearance was not the Devil’s strongest attribute. Yet his only visible reaction to this torrent of abuse was a momentary tightening of the jaw. “If you didn’t believe I could damage this spirit you claim to hate” (Saara actually had claimed no such thing), “you would not be so eager now to have me kill you.
    â€œYou will just have to be patient,” he adjured the tiny woman, and turned from the table.
    Lucifer looked out each of his windows in turn, wasting not a glance on Kadjebeen, who was still squatting obediently in his corner, feeling his mouth with his spidery fingers and staring ruefully at his stumpy short legs.
    In the Prince of Earth a fierce emotion was rising: a satisfaction which thought itself joy but bore more resemblance to pride. Like a player of some intricate, slow-moving board game, he had plotted out a hundred future moves in this bitter duel with Raphael (more bitter because he suspected that Raphael was not even aware of it as a duel) and had decided that he could not lose.
    Meanwhile the Lappish curses continued from the little witch tied to the model on the table. Only Kadjebeen listened.
    â€œRaphael,” called Lucifer composedly, in a voice no louder than that he had used to call his servant. “Raphael, my dear brother, why don’t you drop by and see me?”
    There was a minute’s silence. Lucifer knew this didn’t indicate that Raphael hadn’t heard him, or that the roads were bad. Sharpening his very flexible voice, the Devil added, “I advise you very strongly to make the visit, brother. You will find you are not my only guest.”
    Suddenly a wind swirled through the windows of the chamber, as though whatever barrier had kept the airs of the world from entering had been breached. It was a confused wind, as the mint dryness of the Alps met the breath of orchids, while sand and sandalwood clashed with pine. But it was very fresh. It made Saara lift her head and sniff, and little Kadjebeen, in his corner, began to burble with worry.
    The air flickered with a light like sun filtered through a net of pearls: a soft radiance which rippled and danced. It was the gleam given off by the white wings of Raphael.
    The face was the same as Lucifer’s, though perhaps there was a greater virility in the high, sharp set of Lucifer’s cheekbones. Lucifer’s hair, too, was a richer color, to match the more-than-ruddiness of his skin.
    But Lucifer’s eyes were a pale and watchful blue, while those of Raphael were summer evening itself, with stars shining through darkness.
    He was dressed very simply, almost sketchily, in a white garment which Lucifer called (under his breath) “the same old undershirt.” He was shorter and slighter than Lucifer. But the thing which distinguished Raphael from his brother was, of course, that frame of enormous, opalescent, galleon-sail wings: wings which seemed to be nothing more than the radiance of his nature taking on form.
    So although Lucifer was striking, Raphael was beautiful, and no creature who had ever had the luck to see him had denied his beauty, or had come away unaffected by the sight.
    Raphael had never seen himself, nor had he ever had any desire to see himself.
    Kadjebeen saw Raphael and his blue eyes yearned forward on their stalks. He regarded the face of light and the brilliant wings— yes, especially the wings—and he thought