Tiras took a step closer. Having just crawled out of the mess of the semi-destroyed world below, he smelled like one of Lucifer’s more pungent farts. The angel didn’t say anything, partly because he was too polite and partly because he was holding his breath.

“Sounds like you’re here to wipe out what’s left of us,” Tiras said.

“That’s it in a nutshell. I wanted to speak to a representative who could pass the word along that—let me get this right—you’re all awful, God is sick of you, and you should—what was it?—say your last prayers, beg for forgiveness, and all prepare to die horribly.” The angel smiled at Tiras, proud of himself for remembering everything.

“The truth is,” he said, “I wish we’d met a couple of days ago. Now I’m behind schedule.”

Tiras nodded, glanced down the mountain and back at the angel.

“So, you’re the angel of Death?”

The angel shook his head, a little embarrassed.

“I don’t have that honor. In Heaven, I’m the celestial who bears the great golden quills, the silver Chroma, the holy vellums upon which the Lord God inscribes the fate of the universe.”

Tiras’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re in charge of office supplies. You’re the angel of office supplies.”

The angel looked at him.

“That’s a little reductionist, don’t you think? Disrespectful, too, when you get down to it. You do understand that I’m a living representative of God on Earth, right?”

“What’s your name?” said Tiras.

“I’m called Qaphsiel.”

“And you’re here to finish the rest of us off.”

“Hopefully by tonight. As I mentioned, I’m a little behind schedule,” said Qaphsiel brightly.

“Then let me give you a kiss from all of us left slogging around in the mud and dead things.”

Tiras balled up his hand. Qaphsiel watched, fascinated. He’d read about this kind of thing. There was a word for it.

Tiras pulled his hand back and punched Qaphsiel in the nose. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Fist. Yes, that was the word.

“What’s wrong with you?” shouted Qaphsiel. “Hitting a celestial who sits at God’s right hand?”

“Guarding the cabinet where they keep the quill sharpeners hardly makes you God’s right-hand man.”

“Well, it’s a pretty big cabinet. And who are you to judge one of the holies?”

Qaphsiel took a step back when Tiras balled up his fist again.

The man said, “I should wholly kick your ass all the way back to Heaven for what you did.”

Even though Qaphsiel’s nose still hurt, he squared his shoulders and spoke in the loftiest tone he could muster.