“I won’t come here again,” I tell him. “This is the last time. You’ve made the bed; sleep in it. And before you judge me, consider that in all the history of the world, no maker has ever despised his own creation.” “What of Satan?” A hair-thin whisper from the bed. So he is awake. I suspected as much. “Satan was the destroyer,” I answer. “He created nothing.” “I am speaking of his creator. The all-loving one who imprisoned him in ice in the lowermost circle of the pit. Satan was his, too: ‘If he was once as beautiful as he is ugly now . . .’ ” “Oh, what is it this time, Warthrop?” I moan.
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