The demons had invented love. There needs to be said no more. — Tanith Lee

And in the manner of this ideal we strive, though even that not too onerously. For piety itself may be used to make a chain about the soul.

“Your beauty leaves me breathless,” said Pereban.

“Yet you find the breath to say so.”

Of the rest, nothing further is said, save that lovers love and live and, in due season, as all men must, they also die. And so with Ezail and Chavir who had been Sovaz and Oloru, Azhriaz and Chuz. For such was and is mortal life, mortal death. But for love, who can predict or measure, plot, ascribe, or declare an end. Love is one of the immortals.