Cyrus scraped the straight razor across the thin leather of his neck tearing at his coarse black hairs. He cleaned and carefully dried the razor, examining his aging skin of his mortal coil and the tarnished cross his father had given him. His father was a great man of God. He built the church Cyrus inherited with nails he had forged himself and trees felled by his own hand.

He draped himself in a crisp white shirt that he'd carefully ironed and folded and left in his chest for these past forty days and covered his shamefully tarnished cross. Cyrus had his son drop him with a bit corrugated steel sheeting a half day's ride from town, here at this crossroad, just after the July 4th celebration. Cyrus figured the Devil would most likely show himself in the hot southern summer when he surely felt at home.

He built a lean-to after felling a few small trees with the ax his father forged. He'd fasted these forty days except for hardtack he'd nibble on. The rest of these days and nights he'd spent in prayer. He washed himself in the creek once a week on each Sunday just as he had an hour ago before donning his nicest church shirt. His spirit had been weak in those first two weeks. Summer storms pounded and the sun burned but his soul had since hardened into a mighty blade prepared for its sacred duty to the Lord, his God. His body reflected his soul, hard and lean.

He was ready. He knew Old Scratch would see to him tonight -- he felt it. A soul like his called to Satan, Cyrus knew. His will was strong for the Lord and that kind of Godly strength was a tempting morsel for the King of Lies. He kept not only himself on God's path but his whole flock on the straight and narrow path to Heaven. No one dared sin. Their numbers may dwindle, but those that remained where as devout as Cyrus himself. And Cyrus was their iron rod, their Champion for the Lord. He grabbed his ax and stepped to the edge of the crossroads.

He dropped to his knees and prayed.

"Oh Lord! Hear your humble servant, Lord! I am ready! Lend me your strength tonight! Lead our enemy to my feet that I may stomp him. Guide my blade that I may cut him, O Lord! He that has taken so many from us. My children of the church." He grew quiet and sobbed. "My wife, the sinner." He strained his voice and lifted his face full of rage to heaven "Let me stop him, O Lord, through your strength! Let me be your axe Lord my God!" he screamed as he shook the polished axe with the laquered handle over his head.

He let the ax fall to the ground and he was on his hands and knees.

The air was hot and still. Cyrus, who'd been judging the time by the sun, realized that it had been twilight for well over two hours. There were no stars in the sky. The moon hung thin like a sickle over Cyrus and a black distant stormwall hung motionless deep to the South, the direction Cyrus faced.

The air cracked down the South road. He heard the thunder and saw the angry red lightning at the same moment. It washed his retinas with a slowly fading glow.

The road came into focus, illuminated by the colorful reflections of the just faded sun off of the clouds stuck in place, eerily unmoving, as the air and the fields around Cyrus.

On it was a crisp shadow, a shade walking confidently in the middle of the road.

Cyrus scrambled to his feet, ax in hand, blinking away the remaining afterglow of the lightening and trying to focus on the figure. His rage, for a moment, was replaced by cold fear.

"There can be no bravery without fear." He said to himself; A phrase his father admonished him with when Cyrus, at age 8, scoffed at his fathers stories of his fellow soldiers shitting themselves during battle just before charging up a hill into enemy bayonets.

The man, in an immaculate white suit, stopped just inside the edge of the crossroads. It was hard to focus on his face. His suit, his skin, seemed to glow. Or was that still the afterimage of the lightening?

"Cyrus." the man nodded.

Cyrus held his ax up defensively. "Are..are you Him?"

"Of course. Who else would I be?"

Cyrus looked at the brilliant white suit and the golden face which seemed to be made clear for a brief second. He was smiling with disarming kindness.

"You...aren't what I expected."

"Aren't I? I am an angel. You know that. Perhaps, you expected something more sinister?" Cyrus saw the man's face darken and crack with blood red crevices wave across his face but quickly replaced with flawless, composed skin. He waved a dismissive hand and began circling the crossroads. "That would just get in the way of our conversation. A chat between two colleagues."

"Colleagues? I ain't got nothing to do with what you're about, Devil!" Cyrus spat, rediscovering his rage.

"No? Oh. Here I thought you were the Lord's servant. Was I mistaken?"

"Of course I am! But you ain't! You're damned! You are the King of Sin! I'm not going to listen to your snake's tongue!" Cyrus shouted as he raised his axe and rushed the man. "God help me!"

At the last moment, the man in white seemed to blink to the side. The ax's downward momentum carried the head through the air and into Cyrus's shin with a wet crunch. He tumbled to the ground with an inhuman scream.

"Oh. Cyrus, I'm sorry." The man knelt and looked at the ragged bloody hole in Cyrus's trousers. "I was hoping you wouldn't get hurt."

"DAMN YOU." Cyrus growled. "DAMN YOU!"

"Cyrus. Will you allow me to heal your wound so we may continue with some hope of civility?"

"Go to Hell!"

The man in white chuckled. "Ok. Well, that's a no I take it." Cyrus glared at him as he reached for his ax. "I don't know why I expect these things to go any other way. I am going to help you, Cyrus." There was another lightning crack behind the man. "There, Colton Smith is a good man. He's sitting on his porch right now enjoying some tea. When he sees his fields afire he will come out to save some equipment that's in the shed about a quarter mile that way. If you're still alive, he'll get you help. You may survive if you don't go into shock."

"I don't want your help, Devil!"

"No, you've made that clear. But I'm not here to hurt you, or to take your soul, Cyrus. I am here to deliver a message from the One we both serve. And now you've rushed me. I hate being rushed." The man seemed to glow even brighter and the shape of wings took form behind him woven in light. His voice was echoed and layered with a thousand sonorous voices. "Cyrus Felix Platt, son of Everett Felix Platt, you have failed your Lord. You have stripped Men in your care of their Will. You have kept them from Choosing Me. You have done this in My Name. Through Pride you seek not to rid the world of Sin but purge the Sinners themselves. My children under Heaven. You must Repent for this Sin. Free your flock so that they may come back to Me. Minister no more!"

The brightness receded and the man in white was back to normal. Cyrus was sobbing. "No, no, no."

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry Cyrus. If it means anything, I was a fan of the work you were doing. Now you'll have to find a more personal path to Salvation."

The field behind the man started to send flames high into the air. The man looked down the road and back to Cyrus. The flame's light danced on the Devil's face, casting grotesque shadows across his angular, perfect features. "Colton is on his way. I really must be going. Farewell, Cyrus."

He crunched his way toward the gravel road heading south. The wind began to blow and the warm August rain began to fall.

"No, no, NO!" Cyrus cried as he grasped the handle of the ax. He pushed himself up to his knees and grasped the angled end of the handle with both hands. Through the searing hot pain of his shattered leg he leaned back, arching with the head of the ax nearly touching the road behind him. With all of his strength Cyrus pulled the ax behind him and over his head and released. The flames and sky danced with darkness across the polished axehead as it spiraled through the air. The heavy metal axehead buried itself into the back of the man's head. He fell forward hard and lay still.

Cyrus laughed. "Thank you! Thank you, Jesus! I've done it! He's dead!"

Cyrus turned his head toward the sound of a horse drawn cart coming from the West. It was Colton, an old man who liked to keep to himself and barely spoke to anyone when he came to town to sell his crops or pick up supplies.

Colton jumped off of the cart and ran to the man in white.

"I killed him!" Cyrus beamed and cried in joy. "I killed him!"

Colton looked at Cyrus and walked to his cart and returned with a pitchfork. He didn't walk toward the dead man but toward Cyrus, the pointed end jabbed toward his throat as Cyrus, confused and afraid, backed away on his backside.

Colton had tears in his eyes Cyrus could see despite the rain. "Why did you do it. Why did you kill my boy."

"What?" Colton looked over at the man in white. It was not the angelic Lucifer he'd been talking to, but a fresh faced young man in a linen suit.

"Noo. That's not him! That's not your boy! He's the Devil! It's not him!"

"You're the Devil, you son of a bitch!" and Colton thrust until the steel tines were buried through his throat and into the road.

"And now you can go to Hell!" Colton screamed as he pulled Cyrus by his legs into the burning field.

Just before the flames took him, Colton saw a flash of red lightening. The peel of thunder sounded like laughter.