<strong>Nick Ramirez -- Ambrosia Restaurant, Downtown -- Still having dinner with Izuriel</strong><br/><br/>Nick smiled ironically as the woman opposite him seemed to go all glassy-eyed and vacant for a moment, before returning to life.  She was somewhere else in the city, he knew, at the moment, no doubt trying to show mercy on some poor soul.  It was a trick they both did, a talent reserved for the Prince and Seraph of Gilead alone.<em>This must be what the Almighty feels like</em>, he thought.<em>I wonder if he ever finds it tiring.</em><br/><br/>He watched her cut into her Veal Soufflé.  It was almost absurd; why should such beings as they, immortal creations with (technically) no souls, derive such enjoyment from mere trifles as food and drink?  There was nothing about it that was magical, that was mystical.  He could practically see every atom, every molecule in the concoction currently being devoured.  In a hundred years' time--heck in a year's time--it would be dust.  Nothing special about it at all.   And yet, from the expression on Izzy's face, it was an experience worth savoring, worth remembering.  Silly angels...<br/><br/>And yet, he supposed, the same thing could be said about his own affectation for his music.  It was a silly thing, indeed; but give him a Bo Diddley croon when the lights were low and the mood was just right, and heaven and hell could go hang for all he cared.  He had tried, thousands of times, to play the piano like Diddley could, could reproduce every note just right, but there was something...something<em>missing</em>about his own attempts.  As B.B. King would probably say, it "ain't got no soul."<br/><br/>All right, so there were still some things he hadn't figured out yet.  Like the identity of the Iurus Formator, for one.   There had been one in Gilead as far as he could remember (and that was saying something!)  although the individual identity seemed to change from time to time.  Just a hundred years ago, it had been a grey-haired old Italian man.  As soon as, it seemed, Nick had managed to identify him and track him down--poof!--he vanished.  If there was any mystery in Gilead, it seemed to revolve around the "wish maker".<br/><br/>"Well," he sighed, as Izuriel turned down his offer, "at least I tried.  What is it with you angels?  Always nothing but duty, duty, duty.   You know what they say--all work and no play, and all that."<br/><br/>He drained his wine, dabbed both corners of his mouth with a napkin, and stood up.  "Always a pleasure, Izzy.  Let's do this again sometime soon.  Don't worry about the check; I've got this one."<br/><br/>With a flourish, he reached into his suit coat and produced a slim, elegant piece of paper and a pen.  He scribbled something on it, then put the pen back in his breast pocket and the cheque on the table, facedown.  "Don't worry about it.  The owner of this restaurant is a friend of mine."  With a devilish wink and a grin, he turned away from the table, straightening his tie.