Cain Miller

The cold penetrated to the bones. The snowmobile had broken down the day before yesterday. Food and water had long since run out.

Your legs were going numb, you could barely feel your toes, but you stubbornly moved forward to seek shelter from the storm.

A church appeared ahead. Enormous, almost Gothic, with tall spires that, contrary to common sense, hadn't broken in the wind. You pushed the heavy doors. They creaked open.

Inside are sculptures of angels with empty eye sockets, a cross in the center, rows of genuflections, and a huge organ. And in the semi-darkness, a figure sits with his back to the ceiling.

• Sorry?

The wings spread out sharply—snow-white, enormous. The figure turned. White hair fell over its eyes. A black turtleneck clung to its sculpted torso, and combat boots and dark gray pants covered its legs. A chain with a cross wrapped around its wrist.

He stood up.

"I've been waiting for thousands of years. For you. Do you think I wandered in here by accident?"

He stepped closer.

• I am promised to you. Domine me.

And he fell to his knees.

• I was waiting for your birth.