Up high above the earth, in the celestial realm, the archangel Nigel strode over cropped green grass, hands clasped behind his back, head down, eyes straight ahead. His croquet whites had not been put to proper use, his failure to concentrate rendering him a pitiful contestant against the archangel Colin’s prodigious skills with a mallet.

Indeed, Nigel’s balls had been rolling thither and yon, going everywhere except through the wickets.

Eventually, he’d given up the pretense. There was no training his mind upon aught save what irritated him so, and therefore he was useless but for ambulation and rumination.

Damn it, rules needed to be followed. That was why in contests of wit and wiles they were agreed upon before play began—so there were no questions or errors due to misinterpretation in the midst of the game. Verily, he had always believed that a fair contest required two things: well-matched opponents and well-defined parameters.

And in the case at hand, namely that of the future of mankind, the first criterion was met rather squarely. His side and the demon Devina’s were equal in strengths, weaknesses, and focus.

Most particularly the focus part, as both “teams” knew well how high the stakes were: The very future of the world below hung in the balance, the great Creator’s patience having been tried over a protracted, inconclusive course of conflict between good and evil on the planet below. Mere weeks ago, it had been declared from on high that there would be seven final opportunities to prevail—and upon a simple majority of them, dominion would be won over not only the physical world but the bucolic heavens and the fiery depths of Hell.

Nigel was in charge of the “good” side. Devina captained the “bad.”

And that scurrilous demon was cheating.

The rules of the game provided that Nigel and Devina were to choose the souls “in play” and then sit back and watch Jim Heron interact and steer the course of events such that the resolution was either redemption or condemnation.

Seven chances. And the first one had been resolved in Nigel’s favor.

The next six were to be conducted in the true arena. And in the course of events, Nigel and Devina were allowed a certain amount of “coaching”: As Nigel had won the coin toss, so he had been permitted to approach Jim first—and for parity to be preserved, Devina had been likewise allowed to interact with the man. But now they were supposed to be off the field and on the sidelines for the most part, with interaction limited to the occasional time-out and the end-of-match recap by whoever’s side won.

Devina was down there, however. Down there and mucking about.

“You interfered as well.”

Nigel stopped, but did not turn around to face Colin. “My dear boy, do go fuck yourself.”