When the dreams come they burn with a cold fire, with flames of scarlet that offer no heat. Though he knows memory is impossible, he sees her dying above him; a mother’s face made monstrous, love twisted into agony.
Beneath him, as he lays sweat-slick and cold amid dreaming flames, the world opens – he feels the heat of Hell, feels his skin blister. But worse is the dark glory within, the heat as his heart soars with the power and joy of it; worse is the blood-soaked desire.
Is this memory or dream? Dream or prophesy? He dares not ask.