“How do you intend to prove your claims about this young lady?” Marcone asked, clearly unperturbed by my developing crisis.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Jerry answered brightly. “Sora?”

“Hm?” I startled, whipping my gaze up and around to face him as the sound of my name drew my attention.

“Would you like to demonstrate your divinity for us?”

“Sure,” I said slowly, my tone dubious and leading. “Any idea how?”

“You could broadcast something on angel radio, as Castiel calls it,” he suggested breezily with a shrug of one shoulder, “If he picks it up, he’ll know you’re a divine entity.”

“Okay,” I said in that same leading tone. “How do I do that?”

“Just think,” he said, clipped with patient irritation. “It’s telepathic.”

“Okay,” I said again, rolled my shoulders, closed my eyes, furrowed my eyebrows in concentration, and thought.

‘Testing, one, two. Testing. Test. This is a test of the emergency broadcast system.’ I played that horrible rattling beeping noise in my head. Then I thought, ‘Tune in Tokyo! Can you hear me, Cass?’

“Yes, I can hear you,” Castiel said, out loud. Then he made a confused expression. “What does the capital of Japan have to do with a test of angel radio?”

Someone snickered.

I opened my eyes.

“What frequency did her message come in on, Castiel, if you please?” Jerry asked.

“The frequency used by God to communicate with all of His angels simultaneously,” he answered seriously, then to me, “I have never received a broadcast on that channel. It has been dead for millennia.”

There was an awed silence. 

I knew that couldn’t possibly satisfy everyone, but evidently so did Jerry, since he seemed to have planned for another demonstration. “Sora,” he addressed me, gesturing for me to stand again. I didn’t want to, but found myself doing it anyway.

He pretended to pat himself down in search of something and finally produced a small black box with gold inlay around the top. It was a simple border, and the box itself was unremarkable and decidedly non-threatening, but it stopped my heart all the same. My breath caught and I stared openly. I had seen this box before, and I knew what was in it.

“Where did you get this?” I whispered, slowly reaching out to lift the lid.

He shrugged. “A friend had it laying around.”

“Tch,” I scoffed, stroking the smooth surface of the polished wood with my gloved fingers. “You and Michael aren’t exactly friends, are you?”

“The Archangel Michael?" Sam clarified dubiously.

I lifted the lid of the box, saw its contents, and gasped. “May I?” I asked, my gaze flicking up to ask Jerry’s permission.

“It’s yours,” he said by way of giving it.

“I know…” I breathed, picking up the black and gold fountain pen. It fell into a writing position in my fingers as I held it aloft, admiring it in the light. The cap was already off and secured on the end, the silver nib gleaming. It was heavy, but perfectly balanced. I could write with it effortlessly. I looked to Lucifer again, and he was already holding a few sheets of paper out to me, as if he’d read my mind.

I beamed. “Thank you,” I said with feeling, and I took the clipboard.

“Write something,” he said, “Anything. Your word is law. Absolute. Prove it to them.”

Goosebumps trickled down my arms as the implications of what he was suggesting dawned on me. “I don’t know…” I confessed warily. “I’ve had a… block lately. What do I even write about?”

“Something outlandish,” he encouraged, “Something that will convince you, and some of them, that I’m telling the truth.”

“Even if I wrote the moon crashing into the Earth and it happened, that wouldn’t really prove anything,” I pointed out. 

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “We wouldn’t be able to see that from here,” he added, as though that were the largest problem with the suggestion.

I peered around the room for inspiration, tapping the end of my pen on my chin. Then I began to scribble furiously.

‘A pot of petunias appeared in front of Arthur Dent. They sat indignantly where his dinner plate had been a moment ago, staring at him with seething rage and a malignant hatred. He recognized the petunias as Agrajag, his accidental nemesis.’

I looked up from the page.

“Hello, there,” Arthur said to the petunias in a placating tone used for very angry children on the verge of a violent tantrum. “Look,” he said, finding some genuine humility, “I’m very sorry about what’s happened. Er, what’s going to happen.” His brain twisted around the problem of apologizing for both future and past events for a moment, then he let it go. “I’m very sorry,” he said again, leaving out the complicated bits. “I know it might be too late, but do you think you could forgive me?”

The petunias stared in silent shock as the rest of us looked on, some more confused than others.

“I’d like us to make peace. Maybe become friends.” Arthur smiled nervously, suddenly aware of his audience. He pressed on, though, in spite of the self-consciousness nagging him. “I’m not all bad, you see. And you make a lovely pot of petunias, if I may say.”

“Arthur,” Ford whispered, leaning surreptitiously toward his hapless companion, “You’re talking to a potted plant.”

“Oh,” he started, as if reminded of something he’d forgotten. “Agrajag, this is Ford Prefect. Ford, this is that fellow I was telling you about. The one with the persecution complex.”

“Oh,” Ford said flatly. “Pleased to meet you,” he told the petunias with a polite, if bemused, nod.

“What do you say?” Arthur proposed, “I’ll water you and make sure you get plenty of sunshine and plant food, and I won’t drop you out of any spaceships. Do you think… maybe you could stop trying to kill me?” he finished, wincingly pleading and uncertain.

The petunias seemed hesitant.

“And I swear I’ll never swat or step on another insect again as long as I live,” he vowed solemnly. “Friends?”

The petunias didn’t speak, because of course petunias can’t speak, but one of its leaves did come around to offer a sort of handshake. Arthur accepted, gingerly, and with a look of profound relief.

I looked around the room, beaming both happily and expectantly. There were some lingering confused expressions, and Arthur had a goofy smile for me, but the general consensus was that no one was particularly impressed. 

I went back to scribbling, this time my brow furrowed in concentration.

‘Lightning flashed in the distance overhead.

‘The writer counted to six before the answering thunder rumbled.

‘The story she recalled from childhood said that meant the storm was six miles away.

‘Physics said that while imprecise, the measurement was sound.

‘Physics then politely reminded the writer that lightning didn’t strike in dining halls.

‘The room was, in fact, not large enough for lightning to strike in it and be visible from six miles off. The dining hall, however extravagant, was simply too small for such an impossibility to occur.

‘Never mind that, Physics said, weather happens out of doors!

‘Then it began to snow softly, catching on the noses and eyelashes of the dinner guests, and Physics threw its hands up in consternation and stormed out of the room.

‘This left the writer with no choice other than to conclude that the pen was PFM.’

“PFM?” Jerry asked, reading over my shoulder.

“Pure f—” I cut myself off, remembering the virgin ears in the room and attempted a save, “freaking magic.” I held out the pen with a smug triumph. “It’s a magic pen. Or you’re just reading over my shoulder and making shhh…tuff happen,” I saved inelegantly again.

He sighed heavily, shoulders slumped, eyes rolling. “Christ, you’re difficult,” he muttered.

“I aim to frustrate and bemuse,” I agreed cheerily. When I looked around and noticed that it was still snowing, I added, ‘The snow stopped, melting quickly, so no one would guess that it had ever happened, though, no one would be liable to guess that it would have snowed indoors at all, anyway.’ I screwed the cap onto the pen and gave Jerry an expectant look.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed gently, despite his evident and mounting frustration.

I swallowed hard, nervous again, but closed my eyes.

“What do you see?” he prompted.

“A typewriter,” I said, describing the vivid image behind my eyelids, “It’s sitting on a desk, facing a window. The sun is setting, and there’s a breeze moving the curtains.” I licked my lips. “I don’t understand. What —”

“Touch it,” he prompted, cutting me off.

I raised my hand to run my fingers over the metal keys. I felt them, as though physically there and in such stark detail that the raised letters were clear enough that I could have begun typing by feel. A smile tugged at the sides of my mouth. “Cool,” I murmured, grinning dumbly for a moment. Then my brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “What’s it for? Is it even real?”

“As real as you need it to be,” he answered cryptically. “It’s for you, naturally.”

“Thanks?” I said uncertainly, shrugging without opening my eyes.

“I didn’t make it,” he corrected, still cryptic. “It’s your mind’s interpretation of your divine creativity.”

“I still don’t —”

“Tell us a story,” he breathed.

Suddenly self-conscious, I cleared my throat, my brow furrowing again and more deeply, then set my shoulders, my hands floating just above the home row. Then I began to type.

‘Once upon a time…’

I shook my head, even as my voice, louder than human, drifted through the room, apparently without source. It read my words aloud. I let out a breath and started a new line.

‘No. Too trite.’

‘In the beginning,’

‘No. Too big.’

I paused for a long minute, thinking. I didn’t understand what I was supposed to be doing. With a small chuckle, I shrugged and typed.

‘In a bright moment of clarity, a thought crystallized in my mind, and I understood the purpose of this typewriter exercise as thoroughly as if the idea had come from me,’ my voice announced to the dining hall, sounding very much the chipper smartass I felt.

I couldn’t contain a small gasp as information flooded into my awareness. I blinked, stunned for several seconds, then I began a new line and typed with a determination and concentration that were equal parts frenzy and calm. There was only one thing I could do to prove beyond any doubt that I had the power of a god, and I was going to give it a shot.

‘Blood and wine alike rose from their glasses on the tables, swirling together, creating a macabre cloud that floated through the air, slithering toward the open space between tables, in front of me. It hovered there in a writhing mass, as if waiting.

‘With outstretched hands, I began to shape it into a form, the morbid mixture responding fluidly to the movements of my palms and fingers.’

Without opening my eyes, I knew that a ghost version of myself had appeared and was doing as I directed. I could almost feel the movement in my limbs.

‘The form began to take shape, that of a human, or something like it. Legs ending in feet, a blocky torso, suggesting the masculine, arms ending in hands, a head resting on a neck. I picked the rose up from its silver tray and placed it carefully within the torso of the construct. The deep red liquid parted to receive the bloom, resting it where a heart would be on a human.’

‘‘Let his flesh be made of wine and blood in equal measure,’ my voice rang out, though my lips never moved, ‘Let his heart be delicate and strong, vulnerable and true, forever the heart of youth.’

‘As I “spoke,” the swirling, amorphous form began to solidify. Bones formed, then muscle and sinew, covering the organs even as they congealed into being. Skin covered all last, starting at the crown of the head and rippling down until it wrapped around his fingers and toes.

‘The young man floated in midair, eyes closed, mouth slack, as if sleeping. A nearby tablecloth slid out from under the settings on it and clothed him simply in white. The fabric seemed to all but blend with the flawless cream of his skin. He was breath-takingly, achingly beautiful, as was only proper.

‘’Let his eyes be the deepest green, so to show him the jealous desires in the hearts of those with them. Let his hair be the red of flame, so to warn those who see him of his quickness to passion.’ Finally, I picked up a single sugar cube from a bowl on a nearby table and placed it carefully on his tongue, closing his mouth when it was done.

‘‘Let his tongue be always one of sweetness, and his words honeyed and kind.’ I took one of his hands gently in both of mine and said, ‘Let his hands be firm and gentle, and let his smile stop the night from falling or the sun from rising.’

‘At last, I reached up with both hands, placing them on either side of his face, pulling him down to earth and bowing his head.’ 

I opened my material eyes, knowing somehow that I would have to do this last bit in person, and the typewriter vanished from my perception, replaced again by my surroundings, though I would hesitate to call them “the real world.” Slowly, I took the place of my proxy, and she faded into mist around me. Carefully, I leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss to my creation’s forehead.

“Live,” I breathed against his skin, and the word sighed through the room on a physical wind.

I released him, and he went back to floating in midair. I felt it when his heart lurched into motion, and a second later, he gasped in air, blinking his eyes open. Slowly, he floated back down, and when his eyes focused, his first sight was my smiling face.

He gasped and fell to one knee. “My Lady,” he cried in a rich, melodious, albeit shocked, baritone.

“Why do you kneel, conception mine?” I asked, amused and ceremonious.

“You are my Maker,” he said, “My Goddess.”

I paused for a long breath. “I give thee a name,” I said, and my voice rang with power, shaking the air like the vibration of a huge bell. I placed my hand on his head, my fingers tangling in his downy soft curls. I watched as a shiver ran through him. “Wilt thou accept this name, and with it, thy purpose?”

“What is my purpose?” he asked, though it had that same certainty to it, almost as though the conversation itself were a formality of sorts, a ritual.

“Thou art passion. Thou art obsession. Thou art ludus, that electric, inextricable bond between lovers. Thou art eros, an unquenchable thirst of desire, of lust. Thou art the poet’s soul.” I paused. “I name thee Ardor.” I paused again. “Dost thou accept this name that I have given thee?”

“Yes, my Lady,” he said, both solemn and grinning.

“Then rise,” I told him, tearful with joy, “and meet life on your feet.”

He stood, more quickly than I expected, and threw his arms around me, scooping me into a dip. I made an eeping sound that he caught in his mouth as he kissed me, fervently, and with abandon. I laughed, and he swallowed that as well. My arms encircled his neck slowly, and I was brought abruptly back into awareness of the room by applause.

The noise seemed to surprise him also, because he broke the kiss to stare bemusedly around. I laughed some more, and marveled aloud, critical only for the joke, “I didn’t know you’d be such a ham.” 

He noticed me in his arms again, looking down before righting me and setting me gently on my feet. He didn’t let go, however, but pulled me close in an embrace. “Thank you, my Lady,” he murmured, “for my life and my name.” I didn’t have to struggle to hear him, even with the dying applause.

I pulled out of the hug and reached up to touch his cheek with a gloved hand and a smile that was a whole mess of emotion. A moment later, my brow knit. “Do you know why I’ve created you?” I asked.

“To serve you,” he answered, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“No,” I all but snapped. It came out more harshly than I’d intended, so I repeated more softly, “No. I created you because you already existed inside of me. I gave you life, a name, and a will, so you could be free to act upon the world. I gave you a voice so that you could speak your own truth, and help me to see things through your eyes.” I paused. “You are beholden to no one,” I went on sternly, largely mockingly so. “You may serve me, if you so choose, but it must be your choice, as all things must be your choice.”

“I will serve you,” he said without hesitation, “for as long as I draw breath, as long as you’ll have me,” He knelt again, taking one of my hands beseechingly in his, “my Goddess,” he finished, his voice that of a reverent murmur. Goosebumps erupted all over me as every hair on my body stood on end, and I stared down at him for a stricken moment.

“Okay, okay,” I joked, hauling him up by the hand of mine he’d taken, “We get it. Stand up, you goof.”

He stood, smiling eagerly at me the whole way.

Stunned silence descended.

After a few moments, other people began to rise from their seats and join us in the space between tables, I supposed emboldened by the precedent we’d set in shaking off the constraining norms of observing orderly dinner decorum and remaining basically at our tables, in or near our seats.

“Is it… alive?” Dresden asked, breaking the silence, taking a turn around Ardor to look him up and down as one inspects merchandise.

“He is,” I corrected without emphasis. “Immortal, but not invulnerable.”

“How do you kill it?” This from Dean, and wholly expected.

“You don’t.” I folded my hands primly in front of me.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he pressed.

“Hypothetically, I’m not telling you,” I pushed back stubbornly.

“Very clever,” Jerry interjected to congratulate me. “Creating a life should be sufficient proof of your divinity to any witnesses.” It was a statement, but it hung in the air like a question.

No one spoke, and he went on to ask, “Why this?” He gestured vaguely at Ardor, clarifying the question somewhat.

I shrugged. “I worked with what I had for one,” I said, “I like him, for another. And he just seems right, given the circumstances.”

He nodded. “An embodiment of lust for a game of lust. He might come in handy, too.” He glanced pointedly at Thomas, then at Jean-Claude and Anita.

I lit up excitedly with a gasp. “I didn’t even think of that,” I cried, delighted, then rolled my eyes at myself with some good-humored head bobbing. “So, of course, now I feel like an idiot, but it’s fine, cause I just made a person.” I gestured toward said person emphatically with both hands.

“Is it really a person?” Dresden pointed out, clearly unconvinced, “How can we be sure it’s alive?”

“I have consciousness,” Ardor said with a dismissive shrug of one shoulder, “Is that not enough?”

“No offense, but anything can say it has consciousness,” Dresden regretted to inform the alleged “person,” his eyes narrowed and lip curled in a sardonic sort of wince. “Doesn’t really mean anything,” he clarified with a little shake of his head.

Ardor and I had the same dubious expression for the wizard. The exact same.

I narrowed my eyes at him for a thoughtful moment before inhaling sharply and turning to Ardor, smiling warmly again. “Will you permit tests, my dear?” I asked. “Some of these folks are the suspicious, scientific type. You don’t have to allow it, and I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you,” I explained, confident in my ability to uphold my word only because of the sneaky little “let” in there, but it allowed me to hold my head up with a dignified shake and be reasonably sure that it would be enough to deter at least some people from calling my bluff. For the rest of them, I’d just have to hope.

“I don’t fear pain,” Ardor assured me, returning the confident head shake and an even wider half-smile, “nor death.” Then he went more serious. “I dislike the idea of these people, or anyone, doubting you.” He turned to address the rest of the room with a captivating confidence and determination that inspired both in me. “I’ll take your tests.”