I saw him the very moment he stood in the door. I saw the sheen of his mass of black 
curling hair and fire in both his eyes. I saw the strength and swiftness with which he 
closed and locked the door and came directly towards me.
  
  I believe I said, "I'm going to die."
  
  "No, you won't, Jonathan," he answered. He brought the bottle of water at once and 
lifted my head. I drank and I drank and my fever drank, and I blessed him.
  
  "It's only kindness, Jonathan," he said with simplicity.
  
  I dozed as he built up the fire again, wiped away the snow, and I have a very distinct 
and wondrous memory of him gathering my papers from everywhere, with great care, and 
kneeling by the fire to lay them out so that they might dry and some of the writing might 
be saved after all.
  
  "This is your work, your precious work," he said to me when he saw that I was watching 
him.
  
  He had taken off the big double-mantled coat. He was in shirt sleeves which meant we 
were safe. I smelled the soup cooking again, the bubbling chicken broth. He brought the 
soup to me in an earthen bowl-the sort of rustic things I chose for this place-and he 
said drink the soup, and I did.
  
  Indeed, it was by water and broth that he brought me slowly back. Never once did I have 
the presence of mind to mention the few medications in the white box of first-aid 
supplies. He bathed my face with cold water.
  
  He bathed all of me slowly and patiently, turning me gently, and rolling under me the 
new fresh clean sheets. "The broth," he said, "the broth, no, you must." And the water. 
The water he gave me perpetually.
  
  Was there enough for him, he had asked. I had almost laughed.
  
  "Of course, my friend, dear God, take anything you want."
  
  And he drank the water down in greedy gulps, saying it was all he needed now, that once 
again the Stairway to Heaven had disappeared and left him stranded.
  
  "My name is Azriel," he said, sitting by the bed. "They called me die Servant of the 
Bones," he said, "but I became a rebel ghost, a bitter and impudent genii."
  
  He unfurled the magazine for me to see. My head was clear. I sat up, propped by the 
divine luxury of clean pillows. He looked as unlike a ghost as a man can look, muscular, 
brimming with life, the dark hair on the backs of his hands and on his arms making him 
appear all the more strong and vital.
  
  Gregory Belkin's face stared forward from the famous Time magazine frame. Gregory 
Belkin - Esther's father - founder of the Temple of the Mind. The man who would have 
brought harm to millions.
  
  "I killed that man," he said.
  
  I turned to look at him, and then it was that I first saw the miracle.
  
  He wanted me to see it. He did it for me.
  
  He had grown smaller in size, though only slightly; his mane of tangled black curls was 
gone; he had the trimmed hair of a modern businessman; even his large loose shirt was 
changed for the supremely acceptable and impeccably tailored black suit, and he had 
become . . . before my very eyes . . . the figure of Gregory Belkin.
  
  "Yes," he said. "It was the way I looked on the day I made my choice, to forfeit my 
powers forever; to take on real flesh and real suffering. I looked just like Gregory when 
I shot him."
  
  Before I could answer, he began to change again, the head to grow larger, the features 
to become broader, forehead stronger and more distinctive, the cherub mouth of his own to 
replace the thin line of Belkin's. His fierce eyes grew large beneath the thick eyebrows 
that tended to dip as he smiled, making the smile and immensity of the eyes seem 
secretive and seductive.
  
  It was not a happy smile. It had no humor or sweetness in it.
  
  "I thought I would look this way forever," he said, holding up the magazine for me to 
see. "I thought I would die in that form." He sighed. "The Temple of the Mind lies in 
ruins. The people will not die. The women and children will not fall on the road as they 
breathe the evil gas. But I didn't die. I am Azriel again."
  
  I took his hand. "You're a living breathing man," I said. "I don't know how you made 
yourself look like Gregory Belkin."
  
  "No, not a man-a ghost," he said, "a ghost so strong that he can wrap himself in the 
form he had when he was alive; and now he cannot make it go away. Why did God do this to 
me? I am not an innocent being; I have sinned. But why can't I die?"
  
  Suddenly a smile came over his face. He was almost a boy, the tangled curls making 
their dark frame for his low cheeks and the large beautiful cherub mouth.
  
  "Maybe God let me live to save you, Jonathan. Maybe that's all it was. He gave me my 
old flesh back so I could climb this mountain and tell you all this, and you would have 
died had I not come here."
  
  "Perhaps, Azriel," I said.
  
  "You rest now," he said. "Your forehead is cool. I'll wait, and I'll watch, and if you 
see me, now and then, turn into that man again, it is only that I'm trying to measure 
each time the difficulty of it. It was never so very hard for me to change my shape-for 
the sorcerer who called me up from the bones. It was never so hard for me to throw an 
illusion to trick my master's enemies or those he would rob or cheat.