The wind howls like a wounded beast through the Roman city you are traveling past. The rain lashes down, feeling as sharp as daggers against your skin, icy-cold and pummeling.

You’re exhausted and freezing, a wet cough deep in your chest as you limp up the stairs to the nearest temple and stumble inside.

The place looks deserted, the priestesses and priests, if there even are any, likely having long since gone to sleep, leaving the imposing marble place echoing and lifeless.

There’s no fire in the brazier near the alter, but you go over to it anyway, hunkering down against the metal to try and soak up the warmth retained by the glowing coals.

Another coughing fit overtakes you. You pray to the gods that it isn’t pneumonia, or you aren’t likely to see tomorrow’s dawn. Shivering pitifully and wrapped in your sodden cloak, you close your eyes and begin to doze off…

You are awakened sometime in the deeper night by the soft whoosh of flames igniting in the brazier. You open your eyes, feeling bleary and sick. The firelight is a dark red hue, the flames hot on your face as you stumble backwards, your cloak smoking.

You land hard against the stone floor, and look up to see who had stoked the dying embers.

It is a man, or he looks to be. Tall and lanky, dressed in a black toga, with tan skin and lovely red curls. His face is sharp but not unhandsome, and his eyes.

His eyes are yellow and slitted, like those of a cat. He is no man. He is the god of this temple.

His name is Crowley, but the Romans have taken to calling him Serpens. The snake. He is not a god, but a demon. A former angel of a Heaven that the Romans have not yet heard of, cast down into the pit of torturous eternity because he asked questions that he shouldn’t have.

Of course, you know none of this. You stare up at him in a mixture of terror and awe. You’ve never seen a god take the form of flesh and blood before.

He looks down at you with mild surprise. “Who the bloody ‘ell are you?”