“A fount of tears and blood I spill,” said the demon suddenly one lovely morning, “But love, but love, is meaner still!”

“Look here at my scarf,” the angel said,“It is woven with gold, and the one who sewed it for me worked miserable work until her lovely fingers split. And she smiled all the while at the thought of me wearing it. Love is the tormenter of torment.”

The demon spat and snorted, “Toil and grind and broken will! And love, and love, is cruelest still!”

And so the angel and the demon toured the mortal world in the hopes of convincing one another. And for every joy the angel showed the demon it would refute it with an equal wickedness. So it went for many days, until the demon forgot a time that it knew not the angel, and the angel forgot a time it had known peace. All the while the angel’s heart grew darker, and the demon noticed this, and all the while the scarf grew worn, and the demon noticed this too. And it could not help itself but to think it a shame, and wonder at making a new one…