The Flight to Lucifer by Harold Bloom

Many distances to the west, Olam woke up at midnight of his second day on Lucifer. Valentinus had vanished earlier in the day, while they had moved through the lands of the Manichees. But Olam had no concern for the well-being of his experienced disciple, who would turn up again at the appointed time and place, some days hence, as self-reliant as ever. The Promethean Perscors, Olam reflected, would be of concern only if he died prematurely or went thoroughly bad too soon. Olam smiled formidably, his yellow eyes aglow in the night. All beings-whether demons, sorcerers, or men and women-who came in the path of that quester would be thoroughly scorched for their misdeeds. "I have let a scourge loose among them. " Olam laughed to himself, expecting that even a Demiurge would find this human spirit too much to subdue or contain. But having work of his own to do, Olam turned his will to the night journey awaiting him, a journey toward the place of the being called Horos. This was neither god, demon, nor man, but a living hypostasis, an abstract existence.

The moon would not rise for three hours, but Olam could see in the dark rather better than he could in the day. Sure of foot, he climbed rapidly through heights. Horos spent its existence on a pinnacle in the western mountains. Its presence was shunned equally by the Manichees, living to its east, and by their enemies the Marcionites, living in the valleys to its west. Horos was a voice that neither slept nor ate, a voice that kept watch from its pinnacle. Intruders were met by avalanches.