The Flight to Lucifer by Harold Bloom

When the sun was directly overhead, Perscors halted. The tract of the Kenoma across which he had traveled had led on to high ground in the north-bleaker heights than any he had seen upon Lucifer. Bare black cliffs rose in most places to form a barrier so sheer as to seem insurmountable. He came up to the base, and after an hour there discerned a way up, long and narrow and zigzagging between switchbacks. Sometime later, climbing with great difficulty along the rock-littered path, he heard his name being called. Unable to locate the woman's voice, or even decide the direction it came from, he kept on.

In the softer light of evening, he reached a more inviting upland, a place of rolling meadows among which wandered a single placid stream. He drank of its cold, dark water, finding it bitter, then lay down to rest, weakened by hunger and by his relentless march. He knew now that to keep on in this way was to become either a beast or a god.