In the Persian Gulf, there's an island so small and nondescript it appears on no map. Perhaps island is too generous a term for what appears to most eyes as no more than a lifeless bunch of rocks barely rising above sea level.

In truth, this is one of the oldest architectural artefacts on Earth—it is the roof of a ziggurat. The ziggurat itself does not lie in the waters of the Gulf but in the land of the gods.

Thousands of years before the coming of the Christian prophet, the thirteen architects of Uruk—the human settlement that would soon become the first great city in the history of humanity—concocted a plan to ensure that their work in Uruk would outstrip in magnificence any previous human achievement. On the first night of full moon of the new spring, they secretly built a makeshift raft and rowed out onto the Gulf and there dropped into the water a clay model of a temple to the art of architecture. The clay was made with soil from beneath the temple of Ki, mother-goddess of the Earth. Mixed into the clay was their own semen, the menstrual blood of their wives, and the seed and menses of their eldest sons and daughters.

Each architect had built a discrete section of the miniature temple, which stood as high as a man. Its outside was decorated with the most exquisite designs, while the inside was a maze whose solution was known to no single architect. At the heart of the temple was the altar to the god who had yet to be born.

As the miniature temple sank into the water, the architects prayed to Enki, the god of water and fertile soil, that he should sire a son upon the mother-goddess Ki, and that this son should henceforth preside over the profession of architecture.

Thus, the architects of Uruk invoked a new god, whom they called E'e. In Sumerian, that name meant The House of Houses. Their new god would whisper visions into their dreams, inspire their work to new heights of ingenuity and beauty.

The architects went back home to Uruk and fasted, waiting for the god Enki to choose one of their number and speak to him. Nine days later, the god Enki visited the albino architect Galutu—meaning great sun, named for his bright, white skin and fiery red eyes—to announce the birth of the godling E'e, son of Enki and Ki. Their fast at an end, one by one, the architects of Uruk met with Galutu, to reveal to him their section of the maze that led to the altar of the new god E'e.

On the next full moon, the architects of Uruk once more rowed out onto the Persian Gulf and there they found and recognized the roof of their ziggurat, albeit grown thousand-fold in size. Galutu stepped off the raft and onto the ziggurat. He moved the stones in the sequence that would reveal the threshold that led into the bowels of the temple. As soon as he'd descended into the structure and passed into the realm of the gods, the stones above him moved by themselves and resealed the passageway.

Galutu had brought no torch to light his way. He had memorized every step and turn he must take to reach the altar of E'e. In his mind's eye, the entire structure was so vivid it was as if a light as bright as day suffused the narrow tunnels.

When Galutu reached the altar, he found the infant god E'e still suckling on the tit of his mother, the great earth-goddess Ki. The gods' bodies glowed with an unearthly light.

She motioned to the albino architect, enjoining him to lie on the altar, and he obeyed. The goddess reached into Galutu's chest and removed his heart. She fed the heart to the godling. She lay the young E'e into the cavity of Galutu's open chest, closed it up, and used her saliva to heal the wound. She kissed Galutu's cheek with motherly tenderness, and then left.

And so Galutu became the first avatar of the god E'e. His divine visions became the dreams and inspiration of all the architects initiated into the mysteries of the cult of E'e. But Galutu's flesh was still mortal flesh and, thus, could not host the god forever. After one century, a new avatar, chosen by E'e, was sent down into the bowels of the god E'e's ziggurat. His name was Dagan, and the darkness unnerved him. He was young, lusty, and full of life. He loved the sun and the fresh air. But Dagan knew better than to disobey the god of his guild.

At the altar, the young architect was surprised to find that the old avatar's body glowed. This godly light was more beautiful than the bluest of sunny skies, and this soothed away the young man's anxiety. The body itself, though, was far from beautiful: the flesh was desiccated, the hair long and wispy, the nails of the toes and fingers grown to monstrous lengths. As E'e had instructed him in a dream, Dagan used a knife to cut open Galutu's chest, so as to remove and eat his heart. When the god thus entered Dagan's body, the flash of godlight burned away the fragile remains of the previous avatar.

Through the millennia, even long after the death of all the other Sumerian gods, this ceremony has been re-enacted every century. The mysteries of E'e's cult have spread to the architects of many lands, until, finally, the cult reached all the nations of humanity. Never have the architects revealed the existence of their cult to outsiders, never have they disclosed the location of E'e's ziggurat, much less the plan of its maze. Through the millennia, there have always been thirteen guardians of that most precious of secrets, each knowing only their part of the whole.

And yet...

There is no doubt that an outsider has breached the ziggurat and eaten the heart of the previous avatar, an outsider whose visions are more chaotic, more disturbing than any the architects have ever dreamed. In hindsight, the architects realize that, for decades, there has been a gradual degradation in the god's visions. The usurper has been slowly perverting the nature of their god. Now, every night, they are visited by the new avatar's ceaseless visions of a nightmarish, inhospitable city whose inhuman geometry can only lead to madness. Already, too many of their number have been lost to the dreadful oblivions of intoxication, insanity, and suicide.

Although it has not yet been a century since the architects sent one of their own into the ziggurat, and although the new avatar has up till now always been chosen by the god himself, they have decided, in this era that so cherishes democracy, to elect a new avatar, who will reclaim the power of the god and put an end to these terrible visions.

An Iranian architect is chosen: Daryush Enayat. A tall man with broad, powerful shoulders. A strong man to confront the usurper, should physical confrontation prove necessary.

On a small private motorboat, he is taken to the ziggurat, but, once he examines the roof of the millennia-old structure, he is confused. He calls out to his fellow architects, who have remained in the boat. "Are you sure this is the right spot?"

Of course, they tell him.

"It's different. It looks nothing like what it's supposed to."

His companions exchange worried, even terrified, glances. But they say nothing.

Daryush nevertheless tries to arrange the stones in the correct pattern, so as to open the doorway into the ziggurat and, thus, into the divine realm.

But the stones refuse to form the necessary pattern. They're all the wrong shape, the wrong size.

Daryush gets desperate. With his bare hands, he tries to dig down through the rock and clay, but he makes little progress. His hands are now all bloody; tears run down his cheeks. He turns to look at his companions. Their faces are white with fear. They start the motor and shout out to him.

At first, Daryush thinks it is he who is trembling, but, when the ziggurat starts to rise, he realizes that it is the god's house that is shaking. The temple of E'e is passing from the divine realm into the mortal world.

He flattens himself on the roof, so as not to fall. Below, his companions are fleeing.

When the ziggurat has stopped moving, Daryush is several kilometres above sea level. He looks out in the distance to one side, toward Iran, then to the other, toward Saudi Arabia. He finds himself endowed with enhanced sight, able to see great distances. A gift, or more likely a curse, from the usurper.

By the power of the god, the ziggurat floats on the surface of the Persian Gulf. The god's temple is so vast it almost reaches both shores. As far as Daryush can see—in Iran, in Iraq, in Saudi Arabia, and far beyond—giant, monstrous new buildings, more nightmarish even than any vision the usurper had so far spewed out, emerge from the ground, swallowing entire cities. Their ungraspable shapes fill him with dread. Their diseased colours make him nauseous. Their slithering movements horrify him. Yes, these buildings move and breathe, as if alive, belching thick brown smog into the atmosphere.

For a moment, Daryush lowers his head in despair. His enhanced sight, he discovers, enables him to see through the walls of the ziggurat. He focuses his eyes deeper and deeper into the holy structure until he finally espies the altar of E'e.

The god knows that Daryush sees him, and so the god communes with the architect. That is when Daryush discovers the truth: there is no usurper. There is only E'e—alone and abandoned by the other Sumerian gods, who died off as they were no longer fed by worship. Only E'e's cult remains. The god's insanity slithers into Daryush's mind. In vain, the architect struggles against this divine invasion.

E'e, his features distorted by madness, stands on his altar surrounded by the ashes of his final avatar. E'e, the last surviving god of the ancient pantheon of Sumer, is emerging from his millennia of isolation to finally claim the world as his own and reshape it in the image of his delirium.