He wore the scarlet doublet and purple cape of a Renaissance philosopher, and his horns protruded from within the sleek black mass of his hair. When he smiled, a pair of fangs were revealed at the corners of his mouth. No doubt he had trouble in mind. “‘Now tell me,’” Danzig said, “‘what saith Lucifer thy lord?’” Mephotostophilis’s red eyes glittered. “‘That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives, so he will buy my service with his soul.’” “‘Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee,’” Danzig replied, reading aloud the lines which scrolled upward from the carpeted floor of Faustus’s study. Mephostophilis walked closer, his cape billowing out from behind him. “‘But now thou must bequeath it solemnly and write a deed of gift with thine own blood, for that security craves Lucifer. If thou deny it I must back to hell.’” “‘Stay Mephostophilis and tell me … ’” He was interrupted by a disembodied voice. “Sorry to interrupt your play,”
