Then he found the flowers - piled in a corner of a clearing, swept aside by the large gesture of a passing breeze - and since no one else wanted them, he did. That was always his way. 
He got some watered sand dyed purple and, mixing it with the flowers, made a peoplesand - or was that a sandpeople? he could never remember... and she was very pretty - prettier even than the dreams he'd lost. 
FlowerFace he called her. 

He built a moat around her, and a pedestal she could stand upon = and he would look up at her and think how pretty she was. When he felt like it, he even talked to her sometimes - though he had to shout the words to be sure she could hear him and, when she answered, he couldn't understand her anyway...  So he thought her an echo and was very pleased she had nothing to say for herself. 
But she wanted to play . . . 
She wanted to spray green glitterdust on trees, grow puppy bushes that would scamper and play hidegoseek and keep berry cows that would drip with magenta milk. . . She wanted color for the saying and sounds for painting - 
and she didn't want to die... 
What she wanted was to be human and he had made her to be a god. 
All she was was a god. 
She couldn't change because she wasn't alive. - and because she couldn't live, she knew she was dead. She became hard and fixed and demanded sacrifices: sunbeams and raindrop beads and a dress made of starlight. . . and he gave them to her because he was so delighted with himself for having made a god. 

Eventually, she wanted blood. 

That's when he put an apple in her hand - and walked away. . .