In the middle of this chamber hums a grey stone disk, revolving at an enormous speed. This stone, harder than adamant or obsidian, was tempered by the Evil One thousands of years ago, tempered and annealed in the fires of hate—long before a single stone of this city stood.
Upon its whirring and whizzing edges the phantoms sharpen their prehensile claws, those claws which their serfs, the day-labourers in the Devil's Vineyard, had used and scratched blunt.
The sparks spurt from the onyx claws of Lust, from the steel talons of Greed.
All, all of them are once more sharpened into points like needles and to edges like razors,—for the Evil One has need of ever-new wounds.
If the sleeping mortal stretches his fingers, then this is a signal for the phantom to rush back into the body. The claws must remain crooked so that the hands cannot be joined in prayer.
Satan's grindstone continues to whirr—ceaselessly—never diminishing its speed—
Day and night—
Until Time shall stand still and space be broken up.
***
If you will but hold your hands to your ears, you will hear the whirring of the grindstone within you.
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