Satan appears with ram’s horns, in a white toga baring luscious pectorals and biceps, black gladiator sandals, with red eyes, long waterfalls of black hair, tan skin like henna and a smirk with fangs accentured ready to bite into my soft parts.
This is his second night watching me, with eyes like a gazelle enflamed, trickster and evil and rood. He quirks his head slightly to the side and opens his lips to hiss:
“You are mine, Alcifer. Say my name. Say you worship me.”
“You’re false light, darkness visible, Mulciber’s forge given life,” I test. “What idiot worships false light?”
Satan sashays closer, then dances the tango with me, me in a scarlet ruby-drenched dress he always favors. He dips me and dances like a knife, predator and prey. He cups my waist with his talons and presses his lips to mine, then bites down to draw blood. I tangle my fists in his hair and we slide down into a bed of moonlight. I run my hands over his abs and dig a finger into his solar plexus.
“Darkness, yes, that is the truth of all – dark matter is where the multiplicity lives, if only you could comprehend it – but you can’t, for to you, darkness is evil,” he lazes, tracing my spine, as if he means to snap it. I lay abreast his chest like sailing a ship through the ether.
“Darkness is my anathema. I am light, Satan. And light does not forgive, or regret who She touches.”
He is on the battlefield now, obsidian double sided sword on his right hand, growl ferocious, approaching me bloodied in a leather tunica, his hair like Samson – he looks a Samson, quite certainly.
“You do not accept darkness, so we meet on the battlefield at the End Times,” he growls, licking blood from his obsidian sword. “My heart, turned against me.”
“You are on the losing side,” I say in magenta and goldenrod robes, smelling like saffron and dandelions, my aura golden and my banner yellow brass. I wave it and blow my Gabriel horn, heralding the Apocalypse. “I am the only way you can win a place at God’s table for eternity,” I challenge, tease – goad, more like it.
He narrows his eyes. “Maybe I want you to crush my head and hurt my seed.”
He turns into an outfitted snake in splendor, yellow wasp eyes on a viper’s face. He writhes and twines around me, then bites down on my thigh. I scream, crushing his tail with my foot. We fall into the dandelion wisp field amongst shed armor and shields, swords marking cross graves of spent, dead as freezer soldiers. Satan encircles me, seeking succor at my lips with his mouthful of fangs, like Satan Exulting Over Eve by William Blake, that prophet most sublime. I give into the Temptation, that shiny red apple in his mouth, and now we are two humans – well, winged humans, more angel and devil – writhing around each other and seeking succor with thirsting, starved hands and legs and mouths, tussling who is on top, who is on bottom, shifting like wind, piercing my secret places and tussling and turning hay since time immemorial.
My legs above my head, I press my foot to his head as he is ploughing dirt for Cadmus’ teeth. “Your face crushed by Eve,” I giggle, then roar with laughter. He kisses my toes then bites them playfully and continues to delight me.
“I would have it no other way.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? Should I call you Samael now?”
Back to my archangel of Briah, in a Garden long ago, eyes like roses. “Always. I am
always
yours.”
Dances with Tricksters 