And there it was. Yigael's Wall. Bugenhagen's headlamp flashed over the work of an artist who had been driven to madness—and genius—when confronted night after night by the terrible and ever-changing face of Satan.

In the largest picture, Satan was in his awesome maturity, having already been cast down into Chaos. He was shown clinging to the side of a precipice, his muscular arms and legs straining from the terrible effort, his enormous batlike wings spread wide to protect him. His face was chipped away and not clearly defined.

There was a second portrait, full-face with forked-tongued serpents writhing out of the scalp instead of hair. This face, too, seemed oddly undefined and vague.

But there was yet another portrait, a smaller one—Satan as a child. In this picture, the face was as clear as could be. It was a face as beautiful as that of a Renaissance cherub. It was also the face of the boy in the newspaper photograph. It was the face of Damien Thorn.

‘This will convince you,' Bugenhagen said, but Morgan was already convinced.

As he moved toward the wall, fascinated, pulled by the power of the portrait, a sound like the crack of a bullwhip suddenly shot down the tunnel, followed by a deep and terrifying rumble. Morgan stumbled back toward Bugenhagen. The two men stood absolutely still and waited. An eternity of seconds ticked by.

And then the tunnel roof in front of them suddenly gave way and began crashing down in an avalanche of stone and dirt. The dust rose in thick, swirling clouds, and Morgan started to choke. Bugenhagen remained calm. When Morgan's racking coughing had subsided, he turned to Bugenhagen and asked, 'Is there another way out?'

Bugenhagen shook his head, and it was then that Bugenhagen began to feel terror. He understood why this was happening, and in the same instant he knew there was nothing they could do about it.

There was another earsplitting crack, and another rumble, and the roof behind them caved in. The space in the tunnel was now no more than five feet wide. It had become their tomb.

In the deathly silence that followed, Morgan looked at Bugenhagen in horror. The old man's eyes were already closed in resignation. He was preparing to die.

And then there came a new sound: quiet, sinister, as persistent as doom. At first, Morgan didn't recognize it, but then he saw a steady stream of sand trickling down from one tiny hole in the ceiling. And then there were two holes. Then four. Then twelve. Soon it was raining sand. The sand sifted into their eyes and their mouths; it piled up over the tops of their boots.