'It amuses me no end, you understand. Here I have been all my existence, and here I shall remain throughout all eternity, and all those images of me are wrong in one small detail.'

The woman sitting before me is tiny. Slender. Almost the picture of a china doll, except for the very knowing expression on her face. An expression that says that she knows all the dark thoughts running through my mind, knows every curse I've called down on my parents, every time I've coveted that which belongs to my neighbours, every time I've taken the name of my god in vain. An expression which says that she glories, both in the knowledge and in the misdeeds themselves.

She says that her name is Lucifer, but she asks that I call her Lucy. It fits better in our current environment, she explains.

I am supping with the Devil in (of all places) a small suburban snack bar. Around me, I can see clerical workers, labourers, secretaries, hairdressers all queuing up to purchase their lunchtime sandwiches. I have no idea why she chose this place.

This thought gets me an amused look.

'I chose this place because it is a good place for me.'

I must have looked doubtful, for she takes a sip of her tea (peppermint - 'good for the digestion,' she tells me) while smiling at me in a very knowing, condescending way.

'Think on it. In this place, there are any number of people who are being tempted in little ways to take that first step down the road which leads to me. The customers who are being tempted to anger, the staff who are being tempted to sloth, even that man behind you who sees me and is tempted to lust. No, do not turn around,' she tells me. I had been curious to see the man. 'He watches me, lusts for me, and envies you. He is mine, I think.'

Her face gains a look reminiscent of a cat playing with a mouse. While I am not an ardent believer in the doctrines of heaven and hell, I find myself repressing a shudder. She looks to be without mercy.

'Oh, I have mercy enough. At times, I even find myself loving you humans. But it is a love without pity, a love of hard decisions. A love of decisions that you must make yourselves.'

The comment startles me. I keep forgetting that this is no ordinary woman before me, but rather one who can read my every thought as though it were written on a page.

'Why did you summon me?' I ask, wishing to turn the conversation to my own ends. After all, if one has the opportunity to interview the true font of all evil (rather than the businessmen, politicians and scoundrels who perform to her piping) one may as well make the most of the opportunity.

She laughs. At the counter, a customer is disputing with a staff member about their sandwich. I cannot hear the details of the dispute.

'A matter of tomato or no tomato. The girl behind the counter missed one crucial word.'

I look again at my companion at the table. She is looking in the other direction, presenting a profile which seems perfect. I wonder whether she heard my question, then realise that if she is able to overhear details of a conversation which is occurring at the counter, she is certainly able to hear a question asked from the other side of the table. It seems she is not answering me for reasons of her own.

'Very clever,' she comments. 'I summoned you here because I wish to provide you with the ultimate scoop. An interview with the Devil themselves. Very newsworthy, no?'

I look back at her, meeting her gaze. 'No, you didn't. I would never be able to publish such a story, so that isn't a temptation you can use on me.'

She smiles again. It appears that she is pleased that I circumvented her first trap.

'Nonetheless,' she replies, 'this is what you are obtaining, whether or not you wish to have it. Whether or not it is worthy of publication. Do you not think that I am capable of manipulating the minds of editors and publishers to achieve publication?'

'I think you are capable of manipulating whoever and whatever you wish to obtain your aims,' I respond. 'What I can't believe is that you would want to. What's in it for you?'

'A chance to present my side of the story,' she says. The answer is pat, too pat, too quick. She is playing with me again.

'No,' I tell her. I drain my coffee cup, and stand up. 'You want to be interviewed, lady, you find some other fool to do your bidding. I've better things to do than play mind games against you.'

I walk over to the counter, and pay the bill for both of us. She is still sitting at the table, sipping her peppermint tea. I walk out of the snack bar, back to the office. All the way back, I find myself wanting to turn around, to walk back to the snack bar, to complete the interview. Visions of fame, of glory dance in my head. I push them away. She is tempting me, I know it.