[ WP ] Every year the gods pick one person that has created something they deem true art and gives them immortality for as long as they wish . You are going to be executed in one week , and must create something great to save yourself .

Feverishly Michael worked. He had no tools but the rusted dinner spoon gifted by a careless guard to make his carving, but still he beat it into the hard rock of his cell wall as if it were the chisel in the hand of Michalangelo. 
 
 For a time they had thought he meant to escape, and let him work on with detached, curious amusement. His cell was locked above the spire of an island a dozen miles out to sea, and the sight of a desperate man's futile escape prompted nothing more than entertainment. 
 
 As he worked on, however, it became clear that he had no fool dreams of breaking through that wall. No, instead an image was beginning to take form, and one so vivid and heart wrenching that the men destined to be his executioners began to sit outside his cell and watch, some even to be led to tears. 
 
 When the moment came that they were to drag him away, he threw himself upon his art. `` Look,'' he cried, `` look, you ca n't. It's finished. It my masterpiece.'' 
 
 There on the wall was an image of mother Mary watching over the proud prisoner who suffered in darkness in silence. The demons of despair and temptation called to the prisoner from the dark, but he stood with Christian dignity and purity. From the eyes alone, to which Michael had dedicated three days work, one could plainly see the martyr's defiance that lived in this man, who would not now down to persecution. 
 
 `` You ca n't kill me,'' Michael said. `` God grants immortality to those who create great art. I shall live on for all time.'' 
 
 The guard watched him pityingly. There was a honest firmness in Michael's stance, and in seeing it, he realized that Michael truly believed his words. 
 
 `` You do,'' the guard began, `` I mean,'' and then, `` you know that's *symbolic*, right?'' 
 
 `` Great artists are immortal,'' Michael affirmed. 
 
 `` But -- *symbollically*. You get that, right?'' 
 
 `` Sir,'' Michael said, his hand firmly on his chest, `` I do n't know what the word means.'' 
 
 `` It means people will remember you. But you still *die*.'' 
 
 `` Oh.'' 
 
 Michael's heart sank to his stomach. As the guard took him by the arm, he took one last look at his masterpiece. He gazed at the proud image he had created, at the dignity in his stance, at the bravery in his eyes and at his willingness to die in purity and innocence. A sudden flash of inspiraton overcame him. 
 
 He turned to the guard once more, stood firm, and spoke. 
 
 `` I'll suck your dick if you let me go.''
