The frame of the entrance he erected at night during a thunderstorm while the mountain was drenched in darkness, dragging the massive boulders that would become the great blocky pillars flanking the cave mouth. As lightning rent the sky and thunder crashed, he broke apart these rocks until they were a size manageable for a man to chisel into their final form, if said man had an inhuman patience and all the time in the universe. He could sense the fear and confusion from the pilgrims down below huddled in their beds, for many of them could tell that the terrific cracks shivering the night were not just from the raging storm, but as he suspected none would work up the courage to investigate what was happening high on the mountain of their dread god.

Zogrusz worked for a month undisturbed before someone dared approach. He was carefully shaping the mouth-tendril of one of the statues when he was startled by an unexpected voice behind him.

“Greetings!”

Zogrusz fumbled his hammer, nearly dropping it. He had been so lost in his labors that he hadn’t felt another mind ascending the slope.

“I’m sorry!” the man said as he turned, pressing his hands together and dipping his head in what Zogrusz guessed was a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” This stranger was in the middle of his life-span, with a dusting of grey in his black hair, and though worry lines were etched deep in his face he was grinning broadly.

“It’s fine,” Zogrusz said, returning the smile as he set aside his tools and ran his fingers through his sweaty curls. “I was surprised, not scared.”

The man nodded at this. “It must be difficult to frighten someone who would build a temple to our dread lord here on his sacred mountain.”

Zogrusz shrugged. “I suppose so.” He couldn’t help but feel pleased about how naturally this conversation was flowing – the long sessions with Cozotl and his spying on the craftsmen of the stoneworker’s village had done much to improve his ability to interact with humans.

“My name is Izel,” the man said, extending his hand. Zogrusz stared at it for a moment before realizing this was a greeting he hadn’t seen before. He mirrored the gesture, and the man clasped his forearm warmly and gave it a small shake. “And what is your name, friend?”

“Ah . . . Napuatl,” Zogrusz replied, hoping his slight hesitation went unnoticed. It apparently did, as the man’s friendly expression did not falter. Izel took back his hand and used it to shield his eyes as he surveyed the work Zogrusz had done so far.

“It is remarkable,” he said. “We’ve been watching your progress from down below, and now that I’ve seen it up close it looks even more impressive. These details . . .” He stepped closer to the statue Zogrusz had been carving and ran his fingers along the gentle slope of its skull. His skull. “Do you think this is what our lord truly looks like? There is certainly some resemblance to what the Prophet Cozotl described, but this depiction of yours is almost . . . noble? I see little of the horror Cozotl claims he experienced when our god appeared to him.”

Noble? Zogrusz decided he liked this human. He had been trying to capture the beauty and majesty of his true form in the stone, and it seemed he had been at least somewhat successful.

“Thank you,” Zogrusz said, pride swelling inside him. He found the enjoyment he felt looking upon his creations was heightened even further when there was an appreciative audience.

“May I ask, Napuatl, why you are building this temple? You are the topic of much discussion among the others. And now that I come here and see you are so young – yet also so skilled – I am even more taken with this mystery.”

“I . . . had a vision,” Zogrusz said slowly. “I wanted to make something worthy of our . . . our god.”

Izel nodded his head again at this, even more enthusiastically. “Of course. You have been divinely inspired. Most of us believe you must be a holy man who had experienced the dark touch of our lord on your soul.”

“I suppose you could say that,” Zogrusz murmured. He felt his own curiosity rising as he stared at this man who had climbed the mountain to meet him. He briefly delved into Izel’s mind and was immersed in a flood of memories and thoughts. Zogrusz saw a woman, young and laughing, and a small child with dimpled cheeks. His wife and his son. Both gone, dead, and their memories were heavy with sorrow . . . but there was something else as well, something that blunted this pain, an emotion he could not quite understand.

“And what has brought you here, Izel? Why have you made this long journey to pray at the foot of this mountain?” He paused, then gave voice to the most important question. “Why have you chosen to devote your life to Zogrusz?”

The man’s smile returned, but there was an edge of sadness this time. “He saved me,” he said. “I owe Him my life.”

Now this was indeed intriguing. Zogrusz adopted the expression that he thought best conveyed how interested he now was in the man’s story. “But Zogrusz is a terrifying god. An avatar of the void. Why would such a being bother with the life of a mere human?”

The man spread his arms wide. “You have answered your own question, friend Napuatl. The revelations in the Book of Zog that the universe is uncaring is what kept me from throwing myself under the waves after . . . after what happened.” His expression turned more somber and Zogrusz sensed he was pulling old and painful memories to the forefront of his thoughts. “It was the Whispering Death. My wife . . . my child . . . I could not protect them when it came to the isles. They died in my arms. I was a fisherman on the Pearl Sea, and like the rest of my people I followed the Reborn Goddess Anecoya. As the Burning Scrolls taught, the goddess would protect us if we were worthy. She cared for us. Loved us. And as I clutched my son’s body to my chest I thought I must have failed the goddess. That She had turned away from us, and it was my fault for being an imperfect man. And so I went down to the docks and stood staring down at the jade water and began working up the courage to join my Ome and Mictlan. But then . . .” Izel swallowed, and Zogrusz realized the human was blinking back tears. “I heard the word of Zogrusz. A man had come to our village, and he was standing in the fishmonger’s square behind me reading from the Book of Zog. Somehow I heard him over the waves and the wind and the shrieking of gulls. ‘The cosmos does not care about you.’ Those words . . . they pierced my breast and lodged deep in my heart. And I stepped back from the edge of the docks and went to listen to what the disciple of the dread lord was preaching.”

“You felt saved . . . because the gods did not care?”

“Yes!” Izel cried, and the fervor in his voice sent a thrill through Zogrusz. “If the gods truly loved and cared for us, then it was my fault that my wife and son had died. Because I was not worthy, they had suffered terribly! I had failed, and this was my punishment! But if the universe was uncaring . . . then I was not to blame. The words of Zogrusz untied the blindfold from my eyes. I saw that there is nothing greater that will descend to save us . . . if we wish to live in a better world, we must strive to create it ourselves! Zogrusz is my god because He is the only one who presents the truth of the universe honestly. All the others lie for our devotion . . . but not Him!”

A numbness had been spreading through Zogrusz during the man’s passionate speech. He had wanted their worship, their fear . . . but this was something else entirely. He swept out his arm to indicate the distant tents.

“Are there . . . others who believe as you do?”

Izel nodded enthusiastically. “Many. The ones who have come to this mountain . . . they were lost like me, consumed by guilt for things they could not control. Zogrusz taught us that these tragedies were not due to the action or inaction of the divine. They just . . . happened. And this revelation liberated our souls from grief.”

Zogrusz stared at the man, shocked into silence. He realized suddenly that there was no terror flowing from him. Izel did not fear him . . . in truth, in his own strange way he loved his new god. Zogrusz had always wondered if he could derive some sustenance from worship when it was twined with other emotions . . . but apparently not. So while he was pleased that this man had risen above his personal tragedies through his interpretation of the Book of Zog, if everyone in the world thought similarly then he would quickly find himself starving again. Luckily, from the delicious river flowing into him at this very moment – even from some of the devout pilgrims just down the mountain – not many shared Izel’s perspective. And perhaps that was why this man had been the one to finally climb up here. Still, it was an intriguing – if slightly unsettling – development. He would have to find ways to reinforce the dread horror of his faith, lest his followers grow too comfortable and he find himself starved by their loving devotion.

Izel must have interpreted his silence to mean that Zogrusz wished to return to his labors because he took a quick step back.

“Goodbye, friend Napuatl,” he said, again pressing his hands together, and in his mind, Zogrusz saw that this could be as much a gesture of respect as well as apology. “I will leave you to your sacred task. Thank you for listening to my ramblings, it was . . . good to unburden myself. Especially to such a holy man.”

“Wait,” Zogrusz said hurriedly as the man began to turn away. Izel hesitated, glancing back at him in curiosity. “Perhaps . . . perhaps you can return again . . . friend Izel. It is nice to have some company.”

The lines on the man’s face deepened as he smiled broadly. “I would like that. See you on the morrow, then.”