You know death when it touches you. It's a ghost that's been hunting you for years. Some months ago it finally found you and it breathed a sigh of relief. So elusive and mysterious a thing to it you were.
To it's utter dismay, upon finding you it discovered that taking you meant being faced with its first nightmare in a very, very long time.

You will not die.
Like absolute divine royalty, like hellish blood-dripping woman, you refuse Death.

I saw it happen once. You looked down your leg, an immortal Lion, long mane flowing in midnight wind, your silent rage greater than God's own.
And there it was, a ghost with its pride weakened, its body strewn hopelessly at your feet. Its hand on your thigh, pleading.
Death begs to take you now. You've crushed its dignity so.
You only stare it down, the glint of your fang scaring it into submission once more. It loosens its grasp on you, and when its hand falls, so too does its vacant eyes. Death stares at the cracks on the floor.

And you?
You are Lucifer victorious, standing with his foot on the defiled corpse of God.