She smiled. Her dark hair was lovely and tousled, her breasts high and well rounded. Oliver followed her inside.

They passed through several rooms, all decorated in scarlet and black and silver and containing armorial bearings, arms, and dark portraits of stern-looking elders. In each fireplace a fire sparked and glowed gaily. They walked through six rooms altogether. In the seventh a table was set with a gleaming white cloth and silver service.

"Oh, I say, this is rather decent!" Sir Oliver said, rubbing his hands together. There were wonderful-looking foods before him, goose pate and gooseberry jam, eggs and seed bread, and a great variety of drinks. The table was set for two, and Oliver began to wonder if the table were not the only thing that had been set up for him.

"Do take a seat," Alwyn said. "Make yourself comfortable."

A white kitten came under the archway and pranced and danced its way into the room. Alwyn gave a merry little laugh and bent to play with it. As she did so, Oliver seized the opportunity and exchanged plates with her. The two plates were almost identical, the only difference being that his had two radishes on the side and hers but one. He quickly placed one of his radishes on her plate to disguise his substitution. When she straightened up, Alwyn appeared to have noticed nothing.

They ate, and Alwyn poured two glasses of Burgundy from a great bottle on the damask-covered table.

Oliver found a moment when Alwyn's attention was taken up by a small foxhound that came into the room with a definite gamboling motion. Seizing the moment, he switched glasses. She didn't notice a thing.

Congratulating himself, he now turned to his assault on the provender, his favorite sort of a battle by far. He ate greedily and drank deeply, for the food was of a luscious perfection. This was fantasy food, magic food, just nothing in the world like it. Soon he felt the unmistakable sensation of some opiatelike drug attacking his sensorium and making him dizzy and faint.

"Is anything wrong, sir knight?" Alwyn asked as he slumped low in his seat.

"Merely a moment of fatigue," Oliver said.

"You've switched plates!" Alwyn said, staring at the knight's grimy thumbprint on her plate—proof enough of what he'd wished concealed.

"No offense intended," Oliver said sleepily. "Old custom of my people. You take this stuff on purpose?"

"Of course. Without my sleeping potion, I have a devil of a time dropping off at night," Alwyn said.

"Damned sorry I took it," Sir Oliver said through rubbery lips and eyes that seemed already to be rolling back into his head to reveal that passage into dreams that he would rather not take. "How long before it wears off?"

Her reply was lost in a crashing wave of sleep that broke over Oliver's head. He struggled in it like a man caught in raging surf; then he was out of the surf and falling deep into the black pool that lapped around him like a warm bath. He struggled to keep his head above the soapy marble waves sent by Morpheus. He wrestled with strange thoughts, unaccountable insights. And then, before he even knew it, he was gone.

When he came to again, the woman was gone. The castle was gone. He was in a different place entirely.

Chapter 7

When Ylith returned to the pilgrimage, she found all in a state of confusion. Sir Oliver had vanished suddenly during the night, leaving no trail. His valet, Morton Kornglow, was at a loss to explain his disappearance except through magic.

Ylith looked around the area and finally went to the room Sir Oliver had occupied. The faint smell of prussic acid could be taken almost as proof positive that a Moronia spell had been used here within the last twenty-four hours.

That was all Ylith needed. She waited until she was alone in Oliver's room, then quickly performed her own enchantment. She used ingredients she always carried in her witches' kit—a thing she had never abandoned, despite her conversion—and soon, taking on a vaporous form, she was off and away, passing through the great forest into which Oliver had disappeared.

Presently she came across the knight's trail and followed it to Alwyn's castle. Ylith knew Alwyn slightly from the old days. Alwyn was another witch, of the old, un- reformed kind, and Ylith knew she was probably doing a job for Azzie.

It was time to scry out the immediate future. She had gathered enough evidence to direct the scrying instruments; now she set them to motion.

The results were as she had hoped. Sir Oliver was currently going through an adventure with Alwyn. Azzie had set it up as simple enough to get through fairly quickly; afterward, Sir Oliver would have a longish walk. Then he would be out of the forest and on his way to his goal, which lay on the southern slope of the Alps in Italian territory.

The logical place to interrupt him was somewhere before he emerged from the forest. She could intercept his path. But what then? She needed a way to stop him, but a way to do that without harming him.

"I've got it!" she said. She packed up her scrying equipment and conjured an afreet of her acquaintance.

The afreet soon appeared, large and black and with an ill-tempered look. Ylith explained briefly what was going on, and how Sir Oliver had to be stopped or delayed.

"He must be stopped," Ylith said to the afreet.

"I'll be happy to oblige," said the formerly evil being who had recently converted to the side of Good. "Shall I strike him dead?"

Creatures like this still had a certain propensity toward violence, which was looked down upon in quieter times when a certain liberalism was allowed to reign in Heaven. But this was not a quiet time, and the feelings of the intellectuals in Heaven could no longer be worried about.

"No, that's going too far," Ylith said. "But do you know that roll of invisible fencing we took from Baal's magicians some years ago?"

"Yes, madam. It was declared an anomaly and stored in one of the warehouses."

"Find out which warehouse and get yourself a good- sized piece of it. Here is what I want you to do with it."

Chapter 8

Oliver sat up slowly and said to himself, "Wow, what was that all about?" He clutched his head where a precursor to a migraine was tapping busily. Something had gone very wrong. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was bad.

He stood up and looked around. The place was almost perfectly featureless, and even though there was plenty of light he couldn't see a thing. All he could ascertain was that there was grayness on all sides.

He heard a whir of wings and a little owl settled on his shoulder, peering at him with an unfathomable expression that went well with the impenetrability of everything else.

"Could you tell me where I am?"

The owl cocked his head to one side. "Difficult to say. It's rather a sticky wicket, old boy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's plain you've gotten yourself surrounded by an invisible fence."

Sir Oliver didn't believe in invisible fences. Not until he walked up and poked gingerly at its supposed surface.

His finger didn't go through it.

There seemed to be no way around it.

He mentioned this to the owl.

"Of course," said the owl. "That's because it's a sidetrack."

"A sidetrack? Where does it lead?"

"Sidetracks only go around in circles. It's in their nature."

"But that's not right. I can't get sidetracked now. I need to find a magic horse."

"Nothing like that here," the owl said.

"Actually, I'm looking for a golden candlestick."

"Sounds nice," said the owl, "but I don't have one."

"Even a magic ring would be nice."

The owl gave a guilty start. "Oh, the ring! I've got it right here."

The owl burrowed in his feathers, found a ring, and gave it to Oliver.

Oliver turned it in his fingers. It was a pretty ring, with a large sapphire in a plain gold setting. He thought he could see shadows move in the gem's depths.

"You shouldn't stare at that for too long," the owl said. "It's meant for doing magic, not for looking at."

"What magic? What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Haven't they told you?"

"No."

"Well, then," the owl said, "someone has been very remiss. I think you have every right to complain."

Oliver looked around, but there was no one to complain to. Only the owl.

"That's a Hell of a note," Sir Oliver said. "How am I supposed to have fine adventures if I'm stuck here?"

"We could play a hand or so of patience," the owl suggested. "To pass the time."

"I don't think so," Oliver said. "I don't play card games with birds."

The owl took a small deck of cards out from under his wing and began to shuffle them. He gave Oliver a quizzical look.

"Go ahead, deal," Oliver said.

Soon Oliver was engrossed in the game. He had always liked patience. It helped to pass the time.

"Your deal," said the owl.

Chapter 9

Back at the inn, Azzie wiped his crystal ball and gazed into it. It remained cloudy until he remembered to say, "Show me what Sir Oliver is up to." The crystal ball flashed to acknowledge the message, and the cloudiness was replaced by a scene of Oliver in a gray foresty place, playing patience with a screech owl.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Azzie said to himself. He needed Aretino here to lend a hand. "Where's my messenger?" the demon inquired.

The door opened and a small person walked in.

"Take this note to Aretino at once." Azzie scrawled a note with his fingernail on a parchment pad: "Come at once." He folded it twice and handed it to the messenger.

"Where will I find him?"

"In Venice, no doubt, carousing on my money."

"Could I have a spell to get there with?"

"You're supposed to have your own spells," Azzie grumbled. "But take a general one off the table there."

The messenger pocketed several from a cut-glass bowl. "To Venice!" he said to the spell, and he was off.

In his rush, Azzie had not recognized Quentin, who had taken this chance to get himself into the action.

Chapter 10

In Venice, meanwhile, Pietro Aretino had found that Azzie's cash advance had come in very handy. Aretino had always wanted to throw a really good party, one that would stand the dear old city on its ear and demonstrate yet again what a wonder Pietro Aretino was. This party had been going on for several nights and days — ever since Azzie had left.

Aretino had imported a German band for his festivities. The men had loosened their doublets and were drinking rather a lot. It was a gay and friendly time. Too bad it had to be interrupted by a messenger.

The messenger was quite young. A child, in fact, dressed in nightclothes, a handsome young boy with a full head of blond curls. It was Quentin, still slightly breathless from hanging on while the spell he had taken from Azzie whirled him over the Alps and down to Venice.

When the servant brought him to Aretino, he made a sweeping bow and said, "Aretino, I bring you a message."

"I really don't need it just now," Aretino said. "This is all turning out quite amusing."

"It's from Azzie," Quentin said. "He wants you to come at once."

"I see. And who are you?"

"I'm one of the pilgrims. You see, when my sister Puss, that's short for Priscilla, went to sleep, I decided to poke around a little myself. I wasn't really asleep, you see. I hardly ever am. So I went up to the second floor. I saw a door and I peeked in, and the next thing I knew, I was in the messenger business."

"But how are you able to get around?" Aretino asked. "You are a mortal like me, aren't you?"

"Of course. I took a handful of spells from Azzie."

"I hope that's true," Aretino said thoughtfully. "What does Azzie require of me?"

"Your presence, immediately."

"Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him. By magic spell," Quentin said.

"Are you quite sure those spells are trustworthy?"

Quentin didn't dignify this with an answer. He had gotten quite accustomed to spells in a short time, and he could hardly wait to tell Puss that traveling by domestic spell was no big deal.

Chapter 11

Azzie had planned to celebrate when Sir Oliver was finally on his way through the passageway, for it meant that his immorality play was well begun. All Aretino had to do was observe Oliver's progress and then record it. But no sooner was the knight launched than it became obvious that he was experiencing difficulties.

Azzie lost no time looking into what had gone wrong. He traced Sir Oliver's journey into the realm of faery, utilizing those telltale signs by means of which Evil is able to follow the progress of Innocence. And so Azzie went to the strange realm in the forest in which the lands of reality and those of faery were commingled.

After a long tramp through the gloomy corridors of the forest, Azzie came to a clearing. At the end of it he saw Sir Oliver, sitting on a log, with an owl perched opposite him. They were playing cards with a small, narrow deck, one just the right size to permit the owl to hold them in his claws.

Azzie didn't know whether to laugh or cry; he had intended Sir Oliver for great deeds. Azzie hurried over, saying, "Hey, Oliver! Stop kidding around and get going!"

But his words weren't heard, and he was unable to get closer than about twenty feet from the pilgrim. Some sort of rubbery invisible wall blocked his path. The wall seemed to be soundproof as well, and perhaps was even able to block or distort vision waves, for Oliver was unable to see him.

Azzie walked around the invisible circle until he came to a point exactly opposite where Sir Oliver's gaze would have to fall if he chanced to look up. Azzie poised himself at that place and waited. After a moment, Oliver's eyes raised, and he seemed to look right through Azzie. He soon returned to his card game.

Azzie knew something uncanny was going on, something beyond the usual tomfoolery of which he was a master. He wondered who had taken a hand here.

His first suspicion was of Babriel, but this seemed to be beyond the angel's mental powers to conceive and execute. Who did that leave? Michael? It somehow didn't have Michael's finely polished touch. It was not Michael's sort of thing —but driven to desperation, Michael might be capable of anything.

That left only Ylith. He wouldn't put it past her! But what, specifically, had she done?

A moment later, she was standing beside him. "Hi, Azzie," she said. "Unless I miss my witch's guess, you were thinking about me." Her smile was simple and beautiful, and it gave away nothing.

"What have you done here?" Azzie asked.

"I thought up a bit of mischief I could do you," Ylith said. "It's standard-gauge invisible fencing."

"Very cute," Azzie said. "Now take it down!"

Ylith walked up to the invisible fence and felt around. "That's odd," she said.

"What's odd?" Azzie asked.

"I can't find the anomaly that powers the fence. It was supposed to be right here."

"This is just too much," Azzie said. "I'm going to Ananke."

Chapter 12

Ananke had invited her old friends the Three Fates over for tea. Lachesis had baked a cake for the occasion, Clotho had hunted through the souvenir shops of Babylon until she found just the right gift, and Atropos had brought a small book of poems.

Ananke generally didn't let herself appear in human form. "Just call me an old iconoclast," she was fond of saying. "I don't believe that anything really important should be capable of being pictured." But today, just to be social, and because she liked the Three Fates, she had gotten herself up as a rather large middle-aged German woman in a tailored suit and with her hair in a bun.

Ananke and the Fates were having their picnic on the slopes of Mt. Icon. Thyme and rosemary perfumed the air of the upland meadows. The sky was a deep blue, and occasional little clouds gamboled by like albino rats.

Ananke was pouring tea when Lachesis noticed a dot in the sky. It was coming toward them.

"Look!" she cried. "Someone is coming!"

"I left word I was not to be disturbed," Ananke grumbled. Who had dared disobey her? As supreme principle in the world, or at least very close to that, Ananke was accustomed to people cowering at her name. She liked to think of herself as She Who Must Be Obeyed, although that was a little grandiose.

The dot resolved itself into a figure, and the figure, in turn, could soon be seen as a flying demon.

Azzie made a graceful landing close to the picnic area. "Greetings!" he cried, bowing. "Sorry to disturb you. I hope you are all well?"

"Tell me what this is about," Ananke said sternly. "It had better be good."

"That it is," Azzie said. "I have decided to mount a new kind of play in the world, an immorality play, to act as partial counter to the many morality plays which my opponents unleashed upon the world and whose propaganda value is as insensate as it is senseless."

"You've disturbed my picnic to bring me news of your play? I know you of old, you scamp, and I am not interested in your little games. What does this play have to do with me?"

"My opponents are interfering with my production," Azzie said. "And you are preferring their side to mine."

"Well, Good's nice," Ananke said, somewhat defensively.

"Granted. But I am still allowed to oppose it, am I not? And you are here to make sure I can make my point."

"Well, that's all true," Ananke admitted.

"Then you'll stop Michael and his angels from interfering with me?"

"I suppose so. Now leave us to get on with our picnic."

And with that, Azzie had to be content.

PART SEVEN

Chapter 1

Michael was in his office, relaxing in Plato's original Ideal Form of an Armchair—the archetype of all armchairs, and by definition the best ever conceived. All he lacked now was a cigar. But smoking was a vice he had given up long ago, so he really didn't lack anything.

Contentment is as hard for an archangel to find as it is for a man, so Michael was by no means taking this moment for granted. He was enjoying it to the fullest even while wondering, somewhere at the back of his mind, how long this bliss would last.

There was a knock at the door.

Michael had a sense that whatever came through was not going to please him. He considered not answering. Or saying, "Go away." But he decided against that. When you're an archangel, the buck stops at your office door.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and a messenger entered.

The messenger was small, a child with golden curly locks, clad in nightclothes, with a package in one hand and a bunch of spells in the other. It was Quentin, who was getting on with his messenger business with a vengeance.

"Got a package for the Archangel Michael."

"That's me," Michael said.

"Sign here," Quentin said.

Michael scribbled his signature on the gold-leaf bill of lading Quentin handed him. The boy folded it and put it away, and gave the heavy package to Michael.

"You aren't an angel, are you?" Michael asked.

"No, sir."

"You're a little human boy, aren't you?"

"I believe I am," Quentin said.

"Then why are you working in a supernatural messenger service?"

"I don't really know," Quentin said. "But it's loads of fun. Is there anything else?"

"I suppose not," Michael said.

Quentin turned on his spell and was gone.

Michael scratched his head, then turned to his package. It was wrapped in plain gray paper. He tore it open and removed a large brick made of brass. Turning the brick over, he saw writing. Holding the thing up to the light so he could make out the letters, he read: "Michael! Stop interfering at once with the demon Azzie's play. Go put on your own play if you want, but stop being swinish about Azzie's. Yours faithfully, Ananke."

Michael put down the brick, his mood entirely ruined. Who did Ananke think she was, giving orders to an archangel? He had never really accepted the notion that Necessity, Ananke, ruled both Good and Bad. Who said it had to be that way? Sloppy planning, that's what it was. He wished God hadn't gone away. He was the only one who could really arbitrate this mess. But He had gone away, and somehow this Ananke person had been left in charge. And now here she was trying to tell Michael what to do.

"She can't make laws against me like that," Michael said. "Maybe she's Destiny, but she isn't God."

He decided he'd better do something about it.

A little checking by Research showed him there were several ways of doing something about Azzie's play. Simple delay might be enough.

Chapter 2

Try again," Hephaestus said. "I am trying!" Ganymede said. "I tell you, I can't get through."

All the gods were clustered around their side of the interface, the other side of which was Pandora's box in Westfall's chambers on Earth. This was the route Zeus had taken to free himself, and now all of the gods and goddesses wanted out, but the interface refused to allow them through. Hephaestus, the craftsman of the gods, had tried various tricks to enlarge the passage. He had never worked on interfaces before, though.

It suddenly gave off a faint humming sound, and they all stepped back. A moment later Zeus walked through and stood before them in all his strength and glory.

"So the great man returns!" Hera said. She always had had a bitter tongue in her mouth.

"Peace, woman," Zeus said.

"Easy enough for you to say," Hera said. "You get to play your dirty little games out in the world while we stay imprisoned here in this hateful place. What kind of a chief god do you think you are?"

"The very best," Zeus replied. "I have not been idle. I have a plan. But you must do what I say, for your very freedom depends on it, and upon your cooperating rather than squabbling as you usually do. I understand Michael the Archangel is coming here soon."

"Hah! The enemy!" cried Phoebus Apollo.

"No," said Zeus, "a potential ally. He is going to come here and ask for something. We must speak to him reasonably and do what he requires."

"And then?"

"And then, children, it will be our chance to take over the world again."

"Ah, it's the new fellow!" Zeus said when Michael finally arrived.

The archangel found it hateful, the way Zeus referred to him as the new fellow — as if he were some recently jumped-up deity, rather than a spiritual being of a power equal to Zeus'.

"Mind your manners," he said to Zeus. "We still have powers capable of blasting you and your half-naked crew of sybarites to the deepest Hell."

"We just came from there," Zeus said. "Once the worst has happened, it doesn't have quite the same power over you as before. Anyhow, what did you want to see me about?"

"You are aware, I suppose," said Michael, "that a new power has entered the cosmic stage?"

"The matter has not escaped our attention," said Zeus. "What about it?"

"You know of this immorality play that the demon Azzie is trying to stage?"

"I've heard about it," Zeus said. "Seems a cute idea to me."

"If it has the effect on mankind that I expect, it will serve you no better than it will us."

"How do you figure? We Greek deities don't have much truck with notions of Good and Evil."

"This scheme is beyond Good and Evil."

"Well… So?"

"This scheme is not only amoral, it undermines the idea that Character is Fate."

"What? What was that?" Zeus asked.

"I thought that would gain your attention," Michael said. "But that is not all. Not only is Azzie's play going to prove that Character is not even Fate, but also it will demonstrate that the Unexammed Life is Well Worth Living."

"That is too much!" Zeus said. "How can we put a stop to it?"

"We need to pursue the tactics of delay," Michael said. "There's nothing I can do personally. I have already been warned by Ananke. But if you — or, better, one of your children—would care to do a little favor for me…"

Phoebus arose. He smiled. "I would be delighted to help," he said. "Just tell me what it is you want me to do."

"It would involve the Cyclops," Michael said. "I would have something similar to what Phoebus set up for Odysseus. Only this time better. After that I'll have another little job for whoever among you does storms and rain and high wind."

Athena thought a while, then said, "We divided that function among many gods, including Poseidon and you yourself, great Zeus."

"That's true," Zeus said. "Well, we'll assign the weather job to someone. Ares, how would you like a really natural way of making war?"

"As long as it hurts people, it's okay with me," said Ares.

"Now listen up," Michael said. "There are a few points you need to know about weather making."

Chapter 3

A woman's voice cried, "Found it!" and there followed a click. Moments later came the sounds of a fence falling.

Oliver rose to his feet to explore the limits of his confines.

There were no limits. So he began walking.

He wasn't sure where he was going, but since he had a Moronia spell he figured it would all come out all right. The spell pulled and tugged at him, and there was no doubt as to what direction he was intended to walk. He became aware that he was covering great distances. The spell began tugging him to the left, and he followed it.

Soon he was on a beach. He continued walking, and after a while he saw a great cave. There was something forbidding about that cave, and he thought to give it a wide berth, but then he saw a rustic sign nailed up above its entrance: RINGHOLDERS WELCOME. So he went in.

A giant sat on a stool just inside the doorway. "Have you got the ring?" the giant asked.

"Sure do," Oliver said, and showed it.

The giant studied it carefully. "Good, you're the one."

The giant got up and rolled a boulder toward the entrance of the cave.

"What did you do that for?" Oliver asked.

"Orders," said the giant, sitting down again on his stool.

"So what happens now?" Oliver asked.

"Believe me, you don't want to know."

"But I do want to know. Tell me!"

"I eat you," the giant said.

"You're not serious!"

"I am perfectly serious. Did you ever know a giant to kid around?"

Oliver said, "I've never done you any harm."

"It's got nothing to do with that."

"What has it to do with, then?"

"Sorry, buddy, but I've got the work order right here. Eat the guy with the ring. That's what it says."

"What guy with what ring?" Oliver asked.

"It doesn't say. Just 'the guy with the ring.' "

"But that could be anyone."

"Look, buddy, maybe they didn't have time to spell it out any more than that."

"But what if you get the wrong guy?"

"Well, that would be somebody's tough luck, but it wouldn't be my fault if I did."

"Of course not," Oliver said. "But they'd blame you anyway."

"How do you figure?"

"Don't they blame you anyway when something goes wrong, whether it's your fault or not?"

"You got that right," the giant said. He moved back into the cave. He had an easy chair in back, and a bed and a lantern.

Oliver looked around for a weapon, but there wasn't anything he could use. He did see, though, that a piece of paper was pinned to the giant's shirt.

"What's that attached to your shoulder? " Oliver asked.

"It's the dispatch ticket they gave me."

"What does it say?"

"Just that I'm to stay here till the guy with the ring shows up."

"Does it say anything else?"

"Not that I can see."

"Let me look."

The giant didn't think this was such a good idea. He was protective of his dispatch ticket, and he wasn't about to show it to some stranger. Especially not one he was going to eat.

Oliver could understand all that, but now he was determined to get a look at the ticket. The only thing he could think of "was to offer the giant a back rub.

"Why should I want a back rub?" the giant asked suspiciously.

"Because it feels good, that's why."

"I feel okay," the giant said, though it was apparent he didn't.

"Sure," Oliver said, "I can see that you feel okay. But what's okay? Okay isn't much. It's almost nothing at all. How would you like to feel good?"

"I don't know if I need this," the giant said.

"How long is it since you felt good? I mean really good?"

"I guess it's been quite a while. Nobody cares how a giant feels. Nobody even thinks a giant has feelings. No one inquires about his health or his general state of mind. People think giants are stupid, but we're smart enough to know that people don't give a damn about us."

"You got that right," Oliver said. "What about the back rub?"

"Okay," the giant said. "But do I gotta take off my shirt?"

"Not if you don't want to."

The giant lay down on the long slab of rock that he used for a bed. During the day, he made it up into a couch with boulders that resembled pillows.

Oliver pushed up the giant's shirt. He began to pound and knead the giant's back, gently at first, but then with more force as the giant complained he couldn't feel a thing. Oliver pounded and slapped and hammered, all the time trying to get a look at the ticket attached with a bronze staple to the left shoulder of the shirt.

At last he was able to make out what was written on the ticket: "This giant is vulnerable only under the left armpit, which is unarmored due to the need for ventilation. The giant should be careful not to let anything near this area." There was a manufacturer's mark under the writing, but it was blurred.

So that was something, but not really enough, because Oliver had no idea how he was going to get at the giant's left armpit. Even the right one was inaccessible.

A shadow crossed the cave door, and Oliver looked up. Standing there was a tall, well-dressed Italian-looking fellow.

"Hi, there, I'm Aretino," the man said. "Azzie sent me. If you're quite finished with your massage, do you think we could get back to work?"

"Who's that?" the giant asked sleepily.

"Don't be alarmed," Oliver said. "It's someone for me."

"Tell him to go away. After the massage I'm supposed to eat you."

Oliver rolled his eyes and took his hand from the giant's back long enough to make an imploring gesture.

Aretino now became aware of the giant. He walked slowly into the cave, keeping alert in case there were any more giants around. He whispered to Oliver, "Is he armored?"

"Yes," said Oliver. "Everywhere but his left armpit."

"You're going to have to catch him stretching."

"Sure. But how?"

Aretino whispered, "Are there any grapes around?"

"I'll ask," Oliver said, catching on at once.

"Grapes? What do you want with grapes?"

"Last meal before I die. It's the custom."

"I never heard of it. But I guess we could find you some grapes. That was a pretty good massage."

The giant heaved himself to his feet. "Come with me." He led Oliver outside. Quite near the cave was a very tall grape arbor.

"I can't reach them," said Oliver.

"Here, let me hand you down some." The giant stretched out his arm, in a movement that exposed his armpit. Aretino threw Oliver his sword; Oliver caught it. The giant's arm was still up there. But it was the right arm. Oliver hesitated.

"Go for it anyway!" Aretino called out.

Oliver gritted his teeth and plunged the sword into the giant's armpit. It was armored, just as he'd feared, but not very well armored. Aretino's sword passed into it.

"Ouch! What did you do that for?"

"I had to. You were going to kill me."

"I would have changed my mind."

"But how was I to know that?"

The giant fell to the ground. He gnashed his teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Whoever heard of giants winning? By the way, that candlestick you've been looking for. I've got it in the back of the cave." He gave a convulsive heave and was dead.

"Quick!" Aretino said. "Get the candlestick!"

Oliver ran back into the cave and found the candlestick behind a boulder. Now he had the ring, the key, and the candlestick. He took two steps forward and recoiled.

Aretino was gone. An entirely different man was standing in front of him.

Chapter 4

Who are you?" Oliver asked. "Your second-in-command, sir," the man said. "Globus is the name. Serving greatness is the game."

Oliver's peripheral vision kicked in, and he realized he was in a different place. Picking up the candlestick seemed to have done the trick. The beach was gone. He was standing in a large meadow outside a village with mountains to one side and a wide plain to the other. A river sparkled in the middle of the plain; near the edge of the river was an encampment full of men and tents.

"What troop is that?" Oliver asked.

"The White Company," Globus told him.

The White Company was famous. Its original commander, Sir John Hawkwood, had led this group to many notable victories all over Italy. There were about ten thousand of them, fighting men from every corner of Europe — swarthy Letts, pixie-haired Poles, mustached Germans, Italians with rings in their ears, Frenchmen with marcelled hair, Scotsmen with tufted eyebrows. These troops were the finest, the merriest, the bloodthirstiest, yet also the most obedient to orders, of all the troops in the civilized—even in the uncivilized—world.

"Where is Hawkwood?" Oliver asked, inquiring after the company's famous commander.

"Sir John is taking a paid leave in England," Globus told him. "He didn't want to go, but my master paid him a price he couldn't refuse."

"Who is your master?"

"I'll not name him directly," Globus said, "except to say that he's a Hell of a good fellow. He bade me give you this."

From his haversack Globus took a long slim instrument and handed it to Oliver. Oliver recognized it at once as a baton of command, such as a field marshal might carry.

"This is your insignia of command," Globus said. "You will show this to the men and they will follow you anywhere."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"We are situated just now on the south side of the Alps." Globus pointed in a southerly direction. "It's a straight march down that way and along the river to Venice."

"All I have to do is lead the men there?" Oliver asked.

"That's it."

"Then let us go join the men!" Oliver cried exultantly.

Chapter 5

Oliver reached the purple tent that had been reserved for him. Inside, sitting on a campstool and filing his nails with a little silver file, was none other than Azzie.

"Hi, Chief!" Oliver cried.

"Welcome to your command, Field-Marshal," Azzie said. "Is everything to your liking?"

"It's wonderful," Oliver said. "You've gotten me a wonderful bunch of soldiers. I had a look at some of them as I came up here. Real toughs, aren't they? Anybody trying to stand against me is going to be very sorry. Is there anyone I have to fight, by the way?"

"Of course. On your march south, which I expect you to begin immediately after we finish this briefing, you will encounter the Berserkers of the Death's Head Brigade."

"They sound tough. Do you really think I should start out fighting guys who are tough?"

"They're not tough at all. I gave them that name because it sounds good to the press. Actually they're a bunch of disenfranchised local peasants, farmers from the district who have been put off their land for nonpayment of the exorbitant taxes. They are armed only with axes and scythes, have no armor, no bows and arrows, not even proper lances. Also there are only a couple of hundred of them against your ten thousand. Not only are these men poorly prepared, they are also guaranteed to betray their comrades and flee at the first clash of arms."

"That sounds okay," Oliver said. "And then what?"

"Then you'll march into Venice. We'll have the press prepared."

"The press? Surely I haven't done anything to warrant torture!"

"You don't understand," Azzie said. " 'Press' is our name for the various persons who make things known to other people: painters, poets, scriveners, that sort of thing."

"I don't know anything about that," Oliver said.

"You'd better learn if you expect to become famous for your victories. How will you become legendary unless the writers write about you?"

"I guess I thought it just happened," Oliver said.

"Not at all. I've hired the finest poets and writers of the age, headed by the Divine Aretino, to sing your praises. Titian will do a huge propaganda poster of whatever victory we ask him to portray. And I'll hire a composer to write a masque in memory of the victory, whatever it is going to be."

Azzie rose and walked to the entrance of the tent. A few fat drops of rain were falling, and big black clouds had come up from behind the Alps. "Looks like a bit of weather making up," he said. "It'll blow over soon, no doubt, and you can get your men on the road to Venice. Don't worry about how to address them, or in what language. Just tell Globus and he'll make sure everyone understands."

"Good. I was worried about that," said Oliver, who hadn't thought about it at all but wanted to sound alert.

"Good luck," Azzie said. "I suppose I'll see you in Venice by and by."

PART EIGHT

Chapter 1

Darkness held sway over Europe, and nowhere more than in the little inn where Azzie — despite small journeys of reconnaissance and aid—was still busily recruiting people for his play.

"What news, Aretino?" Azzie asked.

"Why, sir, Venice already buzzes with rumors that something strange and unprecedented is going on. No one knows what, but there is talk. Venetians are not privy to the secrets of the Supernaturals, though we certainly ought to be, so special are we among the peoples of the world. Citizens meet day and night in San Marco's Square to discuss the latest marvel glimpsed in the sky. But you did not send for me, sir, to discuss gossip."

"I've called you here, my dear Pietro, so that you might meet some of my contestants at firsthand, the better to assist them as they go about their work for me. It's a pity you missed Sir Oliver. He's a right fine model of a knight, and I think he'll do us proud."

"I caught a glimpse of him as I was riding up," Aretino said without much enthusiasm. "It's a rather unusual way to cast a play, taking the first applicant and giving him the role willy-nilly. But no doubt he'll do. Who's next?"

"We wait and see," Azzie said. "If I am not mistaken, those are footfalls upon the stairs."

"They are indeed," Aretino said, "and by their sound I

judge them to belong to a person of no particular quality in terms of station in life."

"How can you say so? I'd love to know your secret of distant perceptions."

Aretino smiled sagely. "You'll note that the boots make a scraping sound, even when heard through the material of a door and from the distance of half a corridor. That, sir, is the unmistakable sound of untanned leather. Since the sound is high-pitched, one must ascertain that the boots are stiff, and that the one rubbing against the other is like two pieces of metal rubbing together. No man of quality would wear such material, so it must belong to a poor man."

"Five ducats if you're right," Azzie said. The sound of the boots stopped just outside the door. There was a knock. "Come in," said the redheaded demon.

The door opened and a man entered slowly, looking both ways as if unsure of his reception. He 'was a tall yellow-headed fellow wearing a ragged shirt of homespun and boots of cowhide that looked as if they had been annealed to his legs.

"I'll pay you later," Azzie said to Aretino. To the stranger he said, "I do not know you, sir. Are you part of our pilgrimage, or did you come upon us in the dark?"

"In a corporeal sense, I'm one of the group," the stranger replied, "yet in a spiritual sense I am not one of the party."

"The fellow hath a pretty wit," Azzie said. "What is your name, fellow, and your station in life?"

"They call me Morton Kornglow," the man said. "My regular occupation is grooming horses, but I was impressed into the job of valet to Sir Oliver, since I live in his ancestral village and have always been handy with a currycomb. Thus I may fairly claim that I am one of you as far as the physical body is concerned, but a company is generally thought of as composed of like-minded members, and one does not include the dogs and cats who may stray along with them, nor the servants, who are no more than the animals, though perhaps a little more valuable. I must ask you at once, sir, does my lowly station in life bar me from participating in this event? Is your contest open only to nobles, or may a common man with dirt under his fingernails volunteer?"

"In the Spiritual World," Azzie said, "the distinctions men make between each other are meaningless. We think of you all as souls for the taking, wearing a temporary body and soon to give it up. But enough of that. Would you be one of our seekers of the candlesticks, Kornglow?"

"I would indeed, sir demon," Kornglow said. "For though I am but a commoner, there is that which I desire. I would go to a bit of trouble to procure it."

"Name your desire," Azzie said.

"Before you joined our company we took a side trip to visit the estates of Rodrigo Sforza. The gentles ate at high table, whereas common folk like myself sat in the kitchen. Through its open door we could view all of the proceedings, and there it was that I laid eyes upon Cressilda Sforza, wife of Lord Sforza himself. Sir, she is the loveliest of women, with hair of cornsilk yellow lying smooth upon a cheek of damask blush that would put shame to the angels. She hath a tiny waist, sir, and above it doth swell —"

"That'll be enough," Azzie said. "Spare us the rest of your rustic pleasantries and tell me what you want of the lady."

"Why, that she should marry me, of course," Kornglow said.

Aretino gave a great laugh and muffled it forthwith as a cough. Even Azzie had to smile, so ill-matched was the loutish and out-at-elbow Kornglow with any pretty noblewoman.

"Well, sir," Azzie said, "you are not afraid to shoot high in your courting!"

"A poor man can aspire to Helen of Troy if he so desires," said Kornglow. "And in his fancy she may well respond to him above all men, and find him more desirable than delectable Paris himself. In a dream, whatever you want can happen. And is this not a sort of a dream, Your Excellency?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Azzie said. "Well, sir, if we were to grant your wish, we'd have to have you ennobled in order that there be no impediment of station to the marriage ceremony."

"I'd be willing," Kornglow said.

"We'd also have to get Lady Cressilda's consent," Aretino pointed out.

"Leave that to me when the time comes," Azzie said. "Well, it's a challenge, Kornglow, but I think we can swing it."

Aretino frowned and said, "There's the fact that the lady is already married, my lord, that might stand as some impediment."

"We have clerks in Rome to take care of details like that," Azzie said. He turned to Kornglow. "There are a few things you will have to do. Are you ready to go to a little trouble?"

"Why, yes, sir, so long as it be not too strenuous. A man should not be taken out of his native temper even by the most outrageous of good fortune, and my own native temper is of a laziness so extreme that did the world but know about it they'd declare me a prodigy."

"There's nothing too difficult ahead of you," Azzie promised. "I think we can dispense with the usual sword fighting, since you were not educated to it."

Azzie fished in his waistcoat pocket and found one of his magical keys. He handed it to Kornglow, who turned it over and over in his fingers.

"You will go from here," Azzie said, "and the key will take you to a doorway. You will pass through it, and find a magic horse with a magic candlestick in his saddlebag. Mounting him, you will find your adventure, and, at the end of it, your Cressilda of the cornsilk hair."

"Great!" Kornglow said. "It is wonderful when good fortune comes easy like this!"

"Yes," Azzie said, "ease of acquisition is one of the great things of this world, and a moral I hope to preach to men: namely, good fortune comes easy, so why sweat it?"

"It is a wonderful moral!" Kornglow said. "I love this story!" Clutching the key, he rushed out of the room.

Azzie smiled benignly. "Another happy customer."

"There's someone new at the door," said Aretino.

Chapter 2

Mother Joanna sat in her room at the inn. She was more than a little afraid.

Outside, in the hallways, she could hear occasional scuffling sounds. They might have come from anything, natural or supernatural, but Joanna suspected they emanated from pilgrims who had decided to take Sir Antonio up on his offer and were on their way to his chambers.

Despite her holy office, Joanna was not unacquainted with human desire. There were things she wanted for herself, and, not being a moderate person, these desires burned in her immoderately. She was a political mother superior, not a religious one, and had looked upon her job much as the taking on of any other great enterprise. Her nunnery at Gravelines, with its seventy-two nuns and a host of servants and people to look after the animals, was an enterprise similar to that of a small town. Joanna had reveled in it from the very beginning. She might have been made for this. She had never been like other little girls, playing with dolls and dreaming of marriage. Even as a child she had been fond of giving orders to her birds and spaniels—You sit there, and you there — scolding them while she gave them tea.

This practice of giving orders had not left her when she grew to womanhood. Matters might have been different had she been beautiful, but she had taken after the Mortimer side of the family. She had the great white face of the

Mortimers, the short, dry, lifeless hair, the stocky body more suited to laboring with spade and plough than to the languors of the pursuits of love. She wanted to be rich, and feared by all, and service in the Church had seemed the way to get it. She was conventionally pious, but her piety ran afoul of her practicality, which told her that here was an opportunity to get what she wanted rather than waiting forever until the Pope was induced to advance her to some larger nunnery.

She thought and thought, and she paced up and down her little room, taking note of her desires and asking herself which of them was paramount. Each time she heard a sound outside, she started; it seemed that all of the others were taking advantage of Sir Antonio's offer to give them their hearts' desires. Soon the required seven would be made up, and she would have no further chance. Finally she decided to act.

Mother Joanna crept out of her chamber and made her way silently down the inn's dark passageways. She climbed the stairs to the second level and winced when they creaked. Coming at last to the door to Sir Antonio's room, she took her courage into her hands, reached up, and tapped lightly upon it.

Azzie's voice from the other side said, "Come in, my dear. I've been expecting you."

She had many questions. Azzie found her tiresome, but he managed to reassure her. When he came to inquire as to her heart's desire, however, he found her less than forthcoming. A look of sad embarrassment came across her broad white face.

"What I want," she said, "is something I do not even care to speak about. It is too shameful, too demeaning."

"Come on," Azzie said. "If you can't tell your demon, who can you tell?"

Joanna seemed about to speak, then, jerking a thumb at Aretino, said, "What about him? Must he hear, too?"

"Of course. He is our poet," Azzie said. "How else can he record our adventures save he be present? To make no record of these notable adventures were crime indeed, one that would condemn us to the vast unconsciousness of unrecorded life in which most people live out their lives. But Aretino will immortalize us, my dear! Our poet will take our exploits, no matter how slight they might seem, and weave them into deathless verse."

"Well, sir demon, you persuade me," Joanna said. "I confess to you, then, that ever in my dreams I would be a great Tighter of wrong of the public sort, receiving all manner of adulation in ballads for my accomplishments. Something like a female Robin Hood—with lots of time in between exploits for hunting."

"I'll figure out something," Azzie said. "We'll get started right away. Take this key." He told Mother Joanna what was coming up in the way of rings, doorways, magic candlesticks, and magic horses, and sent her on her way.

"And now, Aretino," Azzie said, "I think we have time for a tankard of wine before the next supplicant. How do you think it's going so far?"

"Frankly, sir, I have no idea. Plays are usually laid out beforehand, with everything made clear in advance. In this drama of yours, all is muddy and uncertain. What does this fellow Kornglow stand for? Is he Overweening Pride? Bucolic Humor? Unquenchable Courage? And Mother Joanna—is she to be despised or pitied? Or a little of both?"

"It is confusing, isn't it?" Azzie said. "But very lifelike, I think you'll agree."

"Oh, no doubt. But how are we to find suitable moral dicta in all this?"

"Don't worry, Aretino, no matter what the characters do, we'll find a way of making it represent what we have been speaking about all along. The playwright gets the last word, you must remember, and therefore is in a position to say that his idea is proven whether it is or not. Now pass that bottle this way."

Chapter 3

When Kornglow returned to the corner of the old stable he was more than a little surprised to see a horse tethered where there had been none before. It was a tall white stallion, and its ears pricked forward as Kornglow approached it. How had this noble steed gotten here? Then he saw that he was in a different place entirely from where he'd thought he was. The magic key must have led him through one of those doorways Azzie had been speaking about, and his adventure could already be launched.

He had to make sure. Espying the saddlebags that the horse wore, Kornglow opened the one nearest him and reached in. His hand encountered something massy and metallic, thin, and long. He pulled it halfway out. A candlestick! And unless he missed his guess, it was made of solid gold. He slid it back carefully into the saddlebag.

The horse whinnied at him, as though inviting him to get up and ride away, but Kornglow shook his head, left the stable, and looked around outside. The stately manor house not twenty yards from him was unmistakably the house of Lord Rodrigo Sforza, the selfsame house where Kornglow had had his first and only glimpse of Lady Cressilda.

It was her house. She was inside.

But Lord Sforza was also undoubtedly inside. As were his servants, retainers, guards, torturers…

There was no sense in rushing into this. Compunction cast its dark wings over him, and Kornglow took thought. Now, for the first time, he considered his adventure, and found it more than a little daft. It was always nobles who were doing this sort of thing. Well, sometimes commoners were involved in the folktales. But was he the stuff folk- story heroes were made of? He doubted it. He knew he was gifted with a swift turn of fantasy; otherwise he wouldn't have gotten himself into this in the first place. But was he the man to persevere through it? Was the lady worth it?

"Why, sir," said a soft voice at his elbow, "you do bend your gaze on the manor house as if someone very special were awaiting you there."

Kornglow turned. Beside him was a diminutive milkmaid in peekaboo bodice and full pleated skirt. She had tousled dark curly hair, a pert expression, a full and curvaceous figure for so small a person, and a smile that was both gentle and lascivious. An unbeatable combination.

"That's Lord Sforza's house, isn't it?" Kornglow asked.

"That it is," the milkmaid said. "Were you thinking of kidnapping Lady Cressilda?"

"Why do you say that?" Kornglow asked.

"Because it cuts directly to the heart of the matter," the woman said. "There's a game afoot, put forth by a certain demon who is known to friends of mine."

"He said Lady Cressilda would be mine," Kornglow said.

"Easy enough for him to promise," the woman said. "I am Leonore, a simple milkmaid to all appearances, but in truth rather more, I assure you. I am here to tell you that the lady you're considering tying yourself to is a bitch of purest nastiness supreme. Winning her will be like damning yourself to the deepest pit of Hell."

Kornglow was much surprised at this speech. He looked at Leonore with an interest that grew more intense as the seconds passed by. "Lady," he said, "I know not what to do. Could you perchance advise me?"

"That I could," Leonore said. "I will read your palm, and that will tell all. Come over here where we can be comfortable."

She led him back into the stable, to a corner where the hay was piled in soft comfortable heaps. Her eyes were wide and wild and had the color of magic, and her touch was featherlight. Taking his hand, she drew him down beside her.

Chapter 4

All reports seemed to show that Azzie's projected play was exciting considerable attention across the Spiritual World, that there was even betting going on, and that upsets seemed to be happening. The main upset of course was the sudden release of the old gods. Zeus and that lot. These were many matters that needed Michael's urgent attention, and it was with this in mind that he agreed to see the angel Babriel.

Babriel's interview with the archangel took place in the executive boardroom of the Heaven Gate Office Building in downtown Central Heaven. Heaven Gate was a lofty and inspiring building, and the angels loved to work there. Next to the ineffable joy they felt at being close to the Highest, there was also the pleasure of working inside an architectural gem.

It was early evening, and a gentle rain was falling over the City of Good Vibes, as Central Heaven was also called. Babriel hurried down the marble corridors, making little twenty- and thirty-foot soaring flights to save time even though there were signs everywhere saying NO FLYING IN

THE CORRIDORS.

He came at last to Michael's suite of offices in the right wing, knocked, and entered.

Michael was at his desk, with various reference works open on the table around him. A computer hummed softly to one side. The lighting was soft and golden.

"About time," Michael said, with a momentary show of pique. "I've got to send you out again at once."

"What's up, sir?" Babriel asked, sitting in one of the upholstered love seats facing the archangel's desk.

"This situation with Azzie and his play is even more serious than we'd anticipated. It seems our demon has acquired a variance from Ananke herself, giving him express permission to perform miracles in the furtherance of his plan. Furthermore, Ananke has ruled that we of the Light are not to be accorded any more special privileges simply because we are Good. I also have it on authority that Azzie has some scheme that would abstract Venice from real time and set it up as a special entity. Do you know what that means?"

"Not exactly, sir, no, I don't."

"It means that this noisome demon can, potentially at least, rewrite history to his heart's content."

"But sir, an abstracted Venice would have no effect upon the mainstream of human history."

"That's true. But it could be used as a model for those dissatisfied souls who think history ought to be something other than what it is — an account of human tribulation and suffering. The concept of Rewriteability undermines the entire doctrine of Predestination. It releases mankind into a realm where Chance can play an even greater part than it already does."

"Hmm, that's serious, sir," Babriel said.

Michael nodded. "The very order of the cosmos could be at risk here. Our long-established preeminence is being challenged. The principle of Good itself has become moot."

Babriel gaped at him.

"But at least it does one thing for us," Michael went on.

"What's that, sir?"

"It releases us from the galling strictures of fairness. It means we can take off the gloves. This is no longer a gentleman's game. At last we can lay aside our compunctions and get in there and fight."

"Yes, sir!" Babriel said, though he hadn't been aware that too much in the way of compunctions had guided Michael's actions to date. "What, specifically, do you want me to do?"

"We have learned," Michael said, "that Azzie is onto a scheme now involving a magic horse."

Babriel nodded. "That sounds very like him."

"There's no reason we should just let that go on as he has planned. Get you to Earth, Babriel, to Lord Rodrigo Sforza's mansion, and do something about the magic horse that even now waits in the stables for Kornglow."

"To hear is to obey!" cried Babriel, springing to his feet. He flew through the corridors with a great beating of wings. This was serious!

In not much more than a trice he was back on Earth. Taking but a moment to orient himself, he flapped his way to the manor house of the Sforzas and came down lightly in the courtyard.

It was just past dawn, and the count's household was still asleep. Babriel looked around, then went to the stable. From within he heard the unmistakable sounds of a man with a maid, complete, as it was, with giggles and soft squishy noises. He heard a neighing sound, then found, tethered close by, a white stallion with finely wrought saddlebags. He soothed the noble steed and untied its reins. "Come with me, my beauty," he said.

Chapter 5

Kornglow found himself lying on a pallet of straw, caught up in a tangle of arms and legs, only half of which were his. The sun was shining brightly through cracks in the half-finished walls of the stable, and a smell of straw, dung, and horses assailed his nostrils. He untangled himself from the woman with whom he had coupled in such abandon, hastily pulled on his clothes, and got to his feet.

"Why such a rush?" Leonore asked, awakening. "Stay."

"No time, no time," Kornglow said, stuffing his shirt into his breeches and his feet into his boots. "I'm supposed to be on an adventure!"

"Forget the adventure," Leonore said. "You and I have found each other. Why ask for more?"

"No, I must not tarry! I must get on with it! Where is my magic horse?"

Kornglow searched through the stable, but the horse was nowhere to be found. All he could locate was a small piebald donkey tied to a half paling. It brayed at him, its mouth open and its yellow teeth bared. Kornglow looked at it searchingly and said, "Has some enchantment so altered my steed? It must be! If I ride it away, no doubt it will change back in the due course of time!"

He untied the donkey and mounted; he kicked it hard in the ribs, making the creature amble into the courtyard.

The animal didn't like the idea, but Kornglow urged it on. The donkey ambled across the chicken yard, past the kitchen garden, and all the way to the manor gate.

"Hello, there!" Kornglow shouted at the gate.

A man's heavy voice from within called out, "Who is out there?"

"One who would seek the hand of the Lady Cressilda!"

A large balding man in shirt and pants and chef's toque came out. Scowling and unfriendly, he said, "Have you taken leave of your senses? The lady is married! Her husband cometh even now!"

The door opened further. Out stepped a tall nobleman in fine attire, stern faced and haughty, with a rapier at his hip. "I am Rodrigo Sforza," he said in a voice that would have to be described as ominous. "What seems to be the trouble?"

The cook bowed low and said, "This lout says he comes for the hand of Cressilda, your lady wife."

Sforza fixed Kornglow with a steely gaze. "Say you so, fellow?"

Kornglow now perceived that something was wrong. His way was supposed to have been prepared for him. It was probably the loss of the magic horse that had put him in this strait.

He turned and tried to prod the donkey to a gallop. It set its heels and bucked, throwing Kornglow violently to the ground.

"Call my guards!" cried Sforza.

His men came hurrying around the corner, buckling up their doublets and strapping on their swords.

"To the dungeons with him!" cried Sforza.

And so Kornglow soon found himself in a dark hole, his head ringing from numerous blows.

Chapter 6

Well, Morton," Azzie said, "this is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into."

Kornglow sat up, blinking. One moment before he had been alone in Sforza's dungeon, nursing his bruised head and contemplating his unhappiness. The cell had been bare, with no more than a scattering of moldy straw on its earthen floor, and there had been little Kornglow could do to make himself comfortable. But now he was outside again. Kornglow was getting awfully tired of all these sudden moves, and the strange wavelike motions they involved tended to upset his stomach.

Azzie was standing before him, splendid in a blood red cloak and soft leather boots.

"Your Excellency!" Kornglow cried. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Are you, indeed? I'm afraid I must tell you, you have compromised your adventure before it even got properly started. How on Earth did you misplace the magic horse?"

Kornglow fell back on the excuse that all men used in that day and age. "I was tempted by a sorceress, most noble one! I am a mere man! What could I do?"

He then described his adventure with the fair Leonore. Azzie detected a familiar hand in this.

"The horse was there at the beginning of your adventure?" Azzie asked.

"Indeed it was, Your Excellency! But when I looked again, it was gone, and there was only a donkey. Could you bring me another, sir, that I might try again?"

"Magic horses aren't so easily procured," Azzie said. "If you'd known how we had to search for that one, you would have taken better care of it."

"But surely there's some other magical object we could use instead," Kornglow said. "Must it be a horse?"

"I suppose we might come up with something."

"I'll do it right this time, Your Excellency! Oh, but there is one other thing."

"What is it?" Azzie said.

"I'd like to change my wish."

Azzie stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I had asked for the hand of the fair Cressilda in marriage, but I've since reconsidered. She's apt to hold it against me because I'm not gently bred. But fair Leonore suits me to a T. I'd like her as my prize."

"Don't be silly," Azzie said. "We already have you down in tide books as getting Cressilda."

"But she's already married!"

"You knew that beforehand. And what difference does it make?"

"Quite a lot, sir. I would still have to live in the same world as her husband. You couldn't spend all your time protecting me, could you?"

"You do have a point," Azzie said. "But you have already made your choice. Cressilda it will have to be."

"There was nothing in the agreement," Kornglow said, "that said I couldn't change my mind. Light-mindedness is one of my most salient characteristics, my lord, and it isn't fair to ask me to change my changeability."

"I'll look into it," Azzie said. "I'll let you know my decision soon."

With that he vanished, and Kornglow settled down for a nap, since there seemed nothing else to do.

But he was rudely awakened yet again; Azzie had arrived with a new white horse that anyone could tell had to be magical, so beautiful was it.

An interview with Leonore had confirmed what Azzie had suspected all along: she was not a woman of Earth at all, but rather a large elf disguising herself as a human being.

"Elves are mean-spirited," she told Azzie. "Since I am taller than most of them, they laugh at me for being a giantess, and none will marry me. As a human woman I am considered petite, and I am much beloved. If I marry a human, it is certain I will greatly outlive my husband. But I'll show him a good time while he's on Earth."

Just then, Kornglow rode up on the magic horse.

The elf-girl was suddenly shy. And who would not be when the powers of Evil had suddenly intervened to ensure one's happiness?

"My lord," Leonore said to Azzie, "I know our happiness was not your intention or concern, but I thank you for it anyhow. What do you require of my man?"

"Simply that he take you and get promptly to Venice," Azzie said. "I have a great deal for you to do once you're there, and I don't know if I'll have time to devise any adventures for you along the way."

"We will go directly, as you wish," Leonore said. "I will get Kornglow to stick to business."

And so the lovers departed, both mounted on the magic horse, on the high road toward Venice.

Azzie shook his head as he watched them go. Things weren't working out at all as he had expected. None of the actors seemed to be doing what they were supposed to. It's what came, he supposed, of not having their lines written out for them.

Chapter 7

Lady Cressilda sat in her carved rosewood chair in the deep bay window of her second-floor sitting room, a needlepoint tapestry on her lap. She was pricking out the Judgment of Paris in rose and lavender, but her mind was elsewhere. Presently she put down her work and sighed and looked out the open window. Her ash-blond hair was pulled straight back and framed her face like a dove's wing. Her small features were pensive.

It was early in the morning, but it felt already as if it would be another hot day. Below, in the courtyard, a couple of chickens were scratching at a corncob; Cressilda could also hear singing from the shed to the left where the women were doing the month's washing. The distant neighing of a horse came to her ears, and she thought she might go hunting a little later. She thought it without much enthusiasm, though, for the larger game animals, the boars and stags, had been hunted out of the surrounding woods by the generations of Sforzas who had owned this property since time out of mind. She herself was a skilled huntress; a veritable Diana, the court poets called her. But she was not interested in their silliness, any more than in Rodrigo's forced pleasantries when they met at the breakfast table from time to time.

Something white moved in the courtyard below, and Cressilda looked to see what it was. A white stallion was picking its way slowly across the hard-packed earth. It moved alertly, its proud head held high, nostrils flared. For a moment it seemed as if the shimmering outline of a winged man moved at its head, leading it. She stared at it, perplexed. She could remember no such horse in the Sforza stables, and she knew every one of them, from the newborn colts to the old warhorses put out to pasture. She also knew most of the better horses in the area, and this steed was none of them.

There was no sign of a rider about. Where could this steed have come from, with its glowing white mane and its uncanny eye? This horse was magic…

She ran to the stairs, hurrying down them, through the big dusty receiving rooms, and out into the courtyard. The white horse had come up to the door. It seemed to recognize her and nodded its noble head as she approached. Cressilda stroked its velvety nose; the stallion whinnied and nodded its head.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Cressilda asked. She opened the saddlebag closest to her, hoping to find a clue to the animal's ownership. Within she found a tall candlestick that to all appearances was made of purest red gold. A note was inside, written on parchment and rolled into a screw. She straightened it out, and read, "Follow me, and wish for what you will. It will be granted."

Her wish! It had been many years since she had even thought of it. Could this noble steed be the means of accomplishing that dream? Had it been sent by Heaven itself? Or was it perchance a gift from Hell?

She cared not. She vaulted into the saddle. The stallion shivered, laid back its ears, then calmed to her touch.

"Take me to whoever sent you," Cressilda said. "I would get to the bottom of this, no matter where it takes me."

The horse broke into a smart trot.

Chapter 8

A warhorse? You say my lady departed on a warhorse?" Lord Sforza was said to be a little slow on the uptake, but he understood horses — and he understood people riding away on them, especially his wife.

The Court thaumaturge went through it all again. "Yes, my lord. It was a horse such as no one has seen before in these parts. Pure white it was, noble of aspect, fiery of manner. My Lady Cressilda saw it, and without a moment's hesitation she vaulted to the saddle. We know not where she has gone."

"You saw all this yourself?"

"With my very own eyes, lord."

"Do you think it was a magic horse?"

"I do not know," the thaumaturge said. "But I can find out."

The interview was taking place in his alchemist's studio in the high tower. The thaumaturge lost no time stoking up the fire under his alembic; when it was roaring he poured in various powders, and the fire flared up green and then purple. He watched carefully as variously colored smokes arose. Then he turned to Sforza.

"My spirit familiars signal me that it was indeed a magic horse. We have probably seen the last of our Lady Cressilda, for ladies who ride away on magic horses rarely return, and if they do, to be frank, sir, there's no living with them."

"Damnation!" Sforza said.

"You can lodge a complaint through my familiars, sir. There may still be a chance of getting her back."

"I don't want her back," Sforza said. "I'm more than happy to be rid of her. She's no fun anymore. I'm glad Cressilda is gone. What annoys me is that she got the magic horse. They don't come around very often, do they?"

"Very seldom," he admitted.

"And she had to grab it. Maybe this horse was meant for me. How dare she take the only magic horse that's been seen in these parts since time immemorial?"

The thaumaturge spoke soft words, but Sforza would not be consoled. He stamped out of the tower and down to the manor house. He was a scholar, in his own view anyhow, and it galled him that a matter as interesting as this had come and gone before he'd had a chance even to see it. What irked him most, though, was that magic horses usually carry with them the fulfillment of a wish, and he had missed that, too. It was a chance that would never come again.

Believing so, he was utterly flabbergasted when, an hour later, he went down to his stables to loiter, he saw there was another white horse there, one he had never seen before.

It was a stallion, and it was white. Though not quite as imposing as he thought a magic horse ought to be, it looked enough like a magic horse for him. Without another thought, he swung into the saddle.

"Now we'll see!" he cried. "Take me to wherever you take people under these circumstances!"

The horse broke into a trot, then into a canter, and then a full gallop. Now we're in for it, Lord Sforza thought, hard-pressed just to hang on.

Chapter 9

It was early morning. The remaining pilgrims were in the inn, getting ready to eat their morning porridge and wholewheat bread while their servants were getting the horses ready for the day.

Azzie was brooding up in his room, Aretino with him. The turnout of volunteers for the play had been rather disappointing.

"Why are the others holding back?" Azzie wondered aloud.

"Maybe they're frightened," Aretino suggested. "Do we really need a full seven?"

"I suppose not," Azzie said. "We'll use what we get. Maybe we should stop here."

Just then there was a knocking at the door.

"Aha!" Azzie said. "I knew we were going to get more participants. Answer the door, my dear Pietro, and we'll see who has come to us."

Aretino arose somewhat wearily, crossed the room, and opened the door. In walked a beautiful young woman, blond, with a pale complexion and grave, finely shaped lips. She wore a sky blue gown, ribbons of gold in her hair.

"Madam," Pietro said, "is there something we can do for you?"

"I think there is," the woman replied. "Are you the ones who sent the magic horse?"

"I think you want to speak with my friend here, Antonio," Pietro said.

After he had found a seat for her, Azzie admitted that yes, he had had something to do with magic horses, and yes, fulfillment of a wish did go along with each horse—and that acting in his play was the only condition for these gifts. He explained further that he was a fiend, but not a fearsome one. Quite a nice fiend, he had been told. Since this didn't seem to put Cressilda off, he asked her how she had acquired the magic horse.

"It just walked out of my stable and into my courtyard," Cressilda said. "I mounted and gave it its head. It brought me here."

"But I didn't send him to you," Azzie pointed out. "This horse was intended for someone else. Are you sure you didn't steal him, my dear?"

Cressilda drew herself up indignantly. "Dare you accuse me of horse theft?"

"No, of course not," Azzie said. "You're not the type, is she, Pietro? It must have been our friend Michael, having his little joke. Well, Cressilda, this horse does indeed introduce its owner to a world in which his or her dearest wish can come true. I happen to be short one or two players, so if you'd like to volunteer — seeing as how you have the horse already—"

"Yes!" Cressilda said. "Indeed!"

"What is your wish?" Azzie asked, expecting to hear the usual gushy nonsense about a fine young prince and a long lifetime of married bliss.

"I want to be a warrior," she said. "I know it's unusual for a woman, but we do have the example of Joan of Arc, and Boadicea before her. I want to lead men into battle."

Azzie thought about it, turning it over this way and that in his mind. It was not in his original plan, nor did

Aretino seem too eager about it. But Azzie knew he had to get his play moving, and he had already accepted the premise that he'd take more or less anyone who came along.

"I think we can do something for you," Azzie said. "I'll just need a little time to set it up."

"That will be fine," Cressilda said. "If you should see my husband, Rodrigo Sforza, by the way, you don't necessarily have to mention that I'm here."

"I am the soul of discretion," Azzie said.

When the lady had departed, Azzie sat down with Aretino to plot out a sequence. Before he could even begin, though, there was a darkening shape at the window and an insistent tapping at the pane.

"Aretino, get it, will you, there's a good fellow," Azzie said.

Aretino walked over and raised the window. In flew a small, long-tailed sprite, one of the imp family used by the Powers of Dark to carry communications back and forth. It fluttered inside when Aretino opened the window.

"You're Azzie Elbub?" the imp said. "I don't want to make any mistakes here."

"That's who I am," Azzie said. "What message have you brought me?"

"It concerns Mother Joanna," the sprite said. "And I'd better pick it up from the beginning."

Chapter 10

Mother Joanna had been riding along the high road toward Venice. She had taken a shortcut through the forest, planning to rendezvous with Sir Oliver and then proceed in his company. She was in good spirits, it being a fine day, and all the woods alive with birdsong. A soft Italian sky hung overhead, and little brooks sparkled and invited leaping over. Mother Joanna did not permit herself any such nonsense, however. She guided her magic horse at a sober pace and went on, deeper and deeper into the forest. She had just come to the darkest and gloomiest part of it when she heard an owl hoot. Mother Joanna had a sudden presentiment of danger.

"Who is there?" she cried, for the woods ahead of her suddenly seemed filled with menace.

"Stop where you are," a gruff male voice said, "or I'll put a crossbow bolt through you."

Joanna looked around wildly, but there seemed no place she could retreat to; the woods were so dense here that she couldn't even get her horse up to a decent canter. Deciding on discretion, she reined up and said, "I am a mother superior and you risk damnation if you so much as touch me."

"Glad to meet you," the gruff voice said. "I am Hugh Dancy, and I am known as the Bandit of Forest Perilous."

The branches parted, and a man stepped forward. He was a strongly built fellow in the prime of life, black haired, wearing a leather jerkin and knee boots. Other men also came out of the tangled underbrush, about a dozen of them. From the leering expressions on their faces, Joanna could tell that they had not seen a woman in a long while.

"Get down off that horse," Hugh ordered. "You're coming back to the camp with me."

"I shall do no such thing," said Mother Joanna, and she flicked the reins. Her magic horse took two slow ambling steps forward, then stopped when Hugh seized it by the bridle.

"Get down," Hugh repeated, "or I'll pull you down."

"What do you intend?"

"To make an honest woman out of you," Hugh said. "We hold not with your churchly celibacy. We'll have you married by the end of the day to one of us."

Joanna dismounted. "Over my dead body," she said quietly.

"It matters not how," Hugh said, just as a loud crashing sound emanated from the brush.

The men blanched, casting frightened glances in all directions. The sounds grew louder as something seemed to draw nearer. "Ah! We're done for!" one of them cried. " 'Tis the great wild boar!" shouted another. "Doomed," said a third.

Mother Joanna leaped from her saddle to the ground. It was not only with hawks that she had hunted.

Snatching a spear from one of the bandits, she faced herself in the direction of the crashing sounds.

Moments later, an enormous black boar burst from the brush into the clearing. She positioned herself before it, ramming the butt of the spear deep into the earth.

"Come on, you stupid pig!" she called. "We dine on pork chops tonight!"

It rushed toward her and she leaned heavily upon the spear. It impaled itself and lay flowing blood amid snuffles, twitches, and grunts. After a time, it grunted its last grunt and expired.

Placing her foot upon the carcass, she wrenched the spear free and turned toward Hugh.

"We were talking of dead bodies," she said.

He drew back, as did the others.

"We were thinking of such a delightful pastime as this," he said. "We do hope you will join us for dinner shortly."

"Aye!" cried the men as they set to butchering the boar.

"Perhaps I shall," she said.

"Thou art a veritable Diana," Hugh said, "and thou shalt be treated as such."

Chapter 11

Azzie was annoyed at the news. He was just about to ride off to rescue Mother Joanna when there was another sound at the inn door and in came Rodrigo Sforza.

"Are you the one who sends out magic horses?" Sforza asked boldly.

"What if I am?" Azzie asked.

"I've got one. I want a wish granted."

"It's not quite as easy as that," Azzie said. "There's some work you have to do first."

"I am quite prepared for that. But tell me, can you, will you, grant me my dearest wish?"

"Yes," Azzie said. "I can. What is it?"

"I want to be known far and wide as a scholar," Sforza said. "I want to be better known than Erasmus, and looked upon as a model of learning."

"Nothing simpler," Azzie said.

"I should mention that I can neither read nor write."

"That need not impede us."

"You're sure? I thought literacy was a prerequisite for great learning."

"So it is," Azzie said. "But what we are after here is the reputation, not necessarily the real thing. Listen carefully. You will have to undertake an adventure."

"Not a dangerous one, I hope."

"I hope not, either," Azzie said. "But first I have an errand to run. Wait for me here. I'll be back presently."

Azzie shed his cloak, freed his wings, and leaped into the sky with the sprite along to show the way.

Azzie found Mother Joanna at the bandits' camp. She and Hugh were seated at the table, going over a map and discussing what sounded like the hijacking of a caravan two days hence. As Azzie reached out to dismember a drunkenly merry man, she stayed his hand. "Hold, Azzie," she said. "These are my men. I am in charge here."

"What?" Azzie responded.

"My wish was granted even sooner than I'd anticipated," she stated. "For this I owe you considerable thanks."

"Think nothing of it," Azzie said. "Just be in Venice for the ceremony."

"Of course. And I do get to keep my soul?"

"Certainly. That was a part of the bargain."

"Good. I'll be there."

Shaking his head, Azzie sprang into the air and was gone.

PART NINE

Chapter 1

The first hint that the Hellenic gods had broken out of Afterglow en masse came at 013.32, Universal Sidereal Time, when the chief of Demonic Studies at Hell's Brimstonic University noted that one of his subalterns had failed to return from an expedition. The subaltern's assistant reported that a pack of loose deities had seized the researcher while he was poking around old bones at an archaeological dig near Mt. Olympus.

The chief called the Limbo underworld prison to see if anything had happened recently.

"Hello, who am I talking to?"

"Cicero, keeper of the Unwanted Deities Sector of the Limbo Life-Forms Penitentiary."

"I'm inquiring about the old gods of Greece. Zeus and that lot. Are they still safely under lock and key?"

"I'm sorry to say there's just been a breakout. They're free."

"When do you expect them to be rounded up?"

"I'm afraid it's not so easy. These old Greek gods are quite powerful, you know. It's going to take some action on Ananke's part to pen them up again."

"Thanks. I'll be in touch."

Chapter 2

Back in the real cosmos!" Phoebus cried. "I could bend down and kiss the Earth," Hephaestus said.

The first thing they did was have a celebration, a reunion dinner roasting Zeus. They sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow"; they did comic imitations of his elaborate and portentous style. They sacrificed the usual animals and got the blood all over everything because servants, not the gods themselves, usually did the dirty work of sacrifice; they got drunk and acted in a bawdy fashion.

Zeus rapped on the table for attention. "I want to thank you all. It was very good of you to put on this celebration for me."

"Three cheers for Zeus!"

"Thank you. Thank you. Now then, on to something a bit more serious. I've been looking into what we might do with ourselves, now that we're out of Afterglow. I'm talking about all of us together."

"Do something together?" said Athena. "But we never do anything together!"

"We need to this time," Zeus said firmly. "Lack of cohesiveness is what brought on our defeat the last time. We're not going to make that mistake again! We need a project we can all work on, something that will serve our common good. It has come to my attention that the biggest thing going on now out there in the world is a certain play that a young demon of the modern persuasion is trying to mount for the edification of the world. This demon, Azzie Elbub, is planning to award seven players glorious prizes for no reason at all. Did you ever hear of such a thing?"

Zeus paused for comment. The gods and goddesses made none, but sat on their golden folding chairs and listened attentively.

Zeus went on. "The first thing we need to do is put a stop to this sort of vague and purposeless moralizing by upstart spiritual powers like the aforementioned demon. Didn't we ancient gods say that Character is Fate? Isn't that as true today as it ever was?"

"If we take action," Hermes said, "the Powers of Evil aren't going to like us putting the kibosh on their plans."

"I am indifferent to their feelings," Zeus replied. "If they don't like it, they know what they can do about it."

"But should we be getting into trouble so quickly?" said Hermes. "Wouldn't it be better to arbitrate? I'm sure we can find something to arbitrate. Meanwhile, perhaps we should lie low, or even hide."

"That would do no good at all," Zeus said. "The others, the Powers of Light and Dark, will try to put us back on the Limbo reservation. Anyway, where would we go? There's no place in the universe where we can hide. The powers that be are going to come for us sooner or later. Let's have some fun while we may, and strike a blow for our usual way of doing things—godlike trickery!"

They all cheered godlike trickery. It was a hallowed doctrine among them.

They gazed far out from Olympus and saw Sir Oliver's troop riding through some low hills.

"What's the story?" Athena asked as she and the others watched the great band of armed riders. Hordes of pilgrims, too, seemed to have joined the host.

"What happens when they reach Venice?" Hermes asked.

"Their leader gets what he most desires," Zeus told them. "Maybe, by extension, they do, too."

"Well, we can't have that happen, can we?" Athena demanded.

Zeus laughed and summoned the various wind gods, Zephyrus and Boreas among them. They whipped around Europe, Asia Minor, and parts of Asia collecting stray breezes. They stuffed these winds into a large leather bag and presented the bag to Zeus. Zeus loosened the leather thongs that held the mouth of the bag, and a west wind poked her head out and asked, "What's going on? Who goes around capturing wind?"

"We're Greek gods, and we capture winds when we please," said Zeus.

"Oh. Sorry I asked. What did you want us to do?"

"I'd like you to blow up a good storm."

The west wind looked more cheerful than before. "Oh, a storm! That's different! I thought you wanted one of those mild breezes people are always talking about."

"We don't care what people want," Zeus said. "We're gods and we want dramatic weather."

"Where do you want this storm?" the west wind asked, rubbing together her transparent hands.

"Ares," Zeus said, "why don't you go along with the winds and show them where we want them to blow? You could also direct the rain, while you're at it."

"Delighted," said Ares. "Especially since I consider weather to be war by other means."

Chapter 3

It was the worst weather that portion of Europe had seen in God knew how long. Storm clouds rose like swollen purple bladders blown up to monstrous proportions in the sky, and swept in filled with a rain that seemed to possess a living malevolence. The wind blew the lances out of men's hands. When the wind caught a shield from behind, it converted it into a sail, and if the holder of the shield happened to lose his balance it could blow him halfway across the countryside. Rain lashed at everything. Whipped by the wind into ultratiny drops driven with extraordinary force, it managed to penetrate every crack and crevice of armor or clothing.

Sir Oliver had to scream into his assistant's ear in order to be heard. "We'd better take shelter!"

"Aye, sir, it seems the only course. But how are we to pass the order? Who will hear us in this racket?"

"Something is amiss," Oliver said. "We'd better inform Antonio." For thus he still referred to Azzie.

"He's nowhere around, my lord."

"You must find him at once!"

"Yes, sir. But where?" The two men looked at each other, and then at the wide gray rain-soaked plain upon which they stood.

Chapter 4

Zeus wasn't content with simply serving up foul weather. He and all his children began working on separate schemes to let mankind know they were back.

Zeus left the company of the gods. He wanted to check out the human condition in its current state.

First he visited Greece. As he had feared, Greek strength of arms had slipped downhill badly since the grand old days of Agamemnon.

He looked around to see what other armies might be available. The rest of the forces of Western Europe were all engaged in one struggle or another. What he needed was a new force of men. He knew now just where he wanted to send them—barreling right down through the heart of Europe into Italy. He was going to start a new kingdom for himself there. His army would conquer, and they would make sure everyone worshiped him'—or they would make war on those who did not. As their reward, he would deal them out glory and treachery. It was the old way, and the old way was always best, especially when it was bloody.

But first he had to find a pythoness who could tell him where there was an unoccupied army. A quick consultation of the Prophets' Directory helped him locate the Pythoness of Delphi, currently disguised as a washerwoman in a restaurant in Salonika.

In Salonika he withdrew the cloud of darkness into a large bladder and corked it so that it would be ready if he wanted to use it again. Then he went to the central agora and inquired for the washerwoman on the Main Baths. A fish merchant pointed the way. Zeus went past the ruined coliseum and the decayed horseracing ground, and there she was — a careworn old lady with her large tortoise shell that washerwomen used for wash buckets.

The pythoness had to take a disguise and do her prophesying in secret because the Church didn't allow pythonesses to continue in their familiar trade. Even owning a constrictor-type snake was against the law as "tending toward forbidden magical practices in the old outlawed style." But this pythoness still did private readings for friends and certain disaffected aristocrats.

Zeus went to her well wrapped in a cloak, but she recognized him at once.

"I need a reading," he told her.

"Oh, this is the finest day in my life," the pythoness said. "To think that I would ever meet one of the old gods face to face… Oh, just tell me what I can do for you."

"I want you to go into your trance and find out where I can get an army."

"Yes, sir. But since your son Phoebus is the god of prophecy, why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"I don't want to ask Phoebus or anybody like that," Zeus said. "I don't trust them. Surely there are other gods you ask questions of, not just us Olympians? What about that Jewish fellow who was around when I was?"

"Jehovah has gone through some interesting changes. But he's not available for prophesy. He left strict orders not to be disturbed."

"There are others, aren't there?"

"There are, of course, but I don't know if it's a good idea to bother them with questions. They're not like you, Zeus, a god anyone can talk with. They're mean and they're strange."

"I don't care," Zeus said. "Ask them. If a god can't ask another god for a little advice, I don't know what the universe is coming to."

The pythoness took Kim to her chamber, lit the sacred laurel leaves, and piled on the sacred hemp. She took a few other sacred things and strewed them about, got her snake out of its wicker basket and wrapped it around her shoulders, and went into her trance.

Her eyes soon rolled back into her head, and she said, in a voice Zeus could not recognize but which set the hair on the back of his neck to rise, "O Zeus, go check out the Mongol peoples."

"Is there anything else?" Zeus asked.

The pythoness said, "End of message." And then she fainted.

After she had recovered, Zeus asked her, "I thought oracular answers were usually couched in strange and ambiguous terms. This one just came out and said what I was to do in a flat and straightforward manner. Has there been some change in operating procedure?"

"I believe," the pythoness said, "there's a general dissatisfaction in high circles with ambiguity. It wasn't getting anyone anywhere."

Zeus left Salonika wrapped again in his cloud of darkness, and turned to the northeast.

Chapter 5

Zeus visited the Mongols, who had recently conquered the southern Chinese empire. Viewing themselves as invincible, they were ripe to listen when Zeus came riding in.

Zeus found the Mongol chief at his headquarters.

"You and your men have done a fine thing, conquering this vast country, but now you lie around doing nothing. You are a people in search of a purpose, and I am a god in search of a people. What if we put our needs together and come up with something that will be good for us both?"

"You may be a god," Jagotai said, "but you're not our god. Why should I listen to you?"

"Because I'm offering to become your god," Zeus said. "I've about had it with the Greeks. An interesting and inventive people, but disappointing to a god who was only trying to bring them good things."

"What do you offer us?"

It soon came to pass that Mongol outriders, holding high their yak-tail banners, came riding hard through the Carpathian passes onto the flat plains of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, and riding through time into the sixteenth century. Zeus had to use all his powers to pull it off. It would have been easy to time-and-place-transport them directly, but it would have spooked the horses.

Panic spread through each resident population long before the Mongols arrived. The word was out everywhere —the Mongols were coming!

Whole families took themselves to horse, or to donkeys, or to oxcarts. The vast majority put what they could carry on their shoulders and streamed out in search of a place of refuge far from their pursuers, the flat-faced fiends with narrow black mustaches. Some people in their flight went to Milan, some to Ravenna. But for the most part, the refugees made for Venice, a city believed to be secure from invasion behind its marshes and lagoons.

Chapter 6

The Mongols were coming, and extraordinary measures were decreed to protect Venice. The Doge called a special session of the Council and laid certain proposals before it. It was agreed that the main bridges into the city proper should be cut; after that, the Venetians would raid the shores that surrounded them, confiscating all boats in the vicinity capable of carrying ten or more soldiers. These boats were to be taken up to the city itself, or sunk if they proved too heavy to carry away.

The problems of defense were rendered all the more complicated by a serious shortage of provisions. Normally, a constant stream of foodstuffs arrived daily on ships sailing from ports all over southeastern Europe and the Near East. But the recent storms had whipped the Mediterranean into a frenzy and put a halt to seaborne commerce. The city was already on short rations, and conditions promised to get worse.

The Venetians also faced a threat of widespread fires. People were trying to keep dry and warm, and they were often careless while lighting their stoves; the number of destructive fires in the city was greater than anyone had ever known before. Inevitably, there was talk that some had been set purposely, by agents of Venice's enemies; citizens were ordered to keep a close watch on strangers and to suspect the presence of spies in their midst at all times.

The rain came down in an incessant chatter that was like moist wind gods talking to each other with loose windows for tongues. Droplets dribbled off mantels and cornices and anything else that ended in a point. The wind drove the rain and broke big drops into little drops.

The water level rose steadily throughout Venice. Water overflowed the canals and flooded out into the squares and piazzas. It filled San Marco's Square to a depth of three feet, and it continued to rise. It was not the first time Venice had been bothered by rain and floods, but this was by far the worst anyone had seen.

Strong winds out of the northeast, laden with Arctic frost, blew steadily for days, and showed no signs of letting up. The republic's chief weather forecaster resigned his well-paid hereditary post, so distasteful had his work of predicting disaster become to him. People were praying to saints, devils, effigies, whatever they could think of, hoping to get some relief. Just to make matters worse, plague had been reported in some parts. And there were claims that Mongol outriders had been seen just a day's ride away, and there was no telling how quickly they were advancing.

The Venetians were exhausted by their constant worries, frightened by the huge forces shaping up outside of the republic, and suspicious even of each other. The usual ceremonies in honor of certain saints had fallen into abeyance. Churches were taken up day and night with prayers for the salvation of the city, and with anathemas delivered against the Mongols. Church bells tolled incessantly. This in turn spurred an air of desperate gaiety.

It was a brilliant season of parties, masked balls, and fetes. Carnival reigned constantly, and never had Venice shown herself to greater advantage. Despite the storms, candles gleamed brightly in the mansions of the rich, and music could be heard up and down the canals. People hurried through the rainswept streets in cloak and half mask, on their way from one parry to the next. It was as if one last fling was all that remained for the proud old city.

It did not go unremarked that there was something extraordinary about what was occurring, something that seemed to surpass Earthly logic, something that smacked of the supernatural and of the coming of the last days. Astrologers searched through old parchment manuscripts and found predictions that the world was due to end soon, just as they had suspected, and that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would soon be seen riding across the flaming sky at the time of the final sunset.

A strange incident occurred one day. A workman sent out by the city to assess storm damage discovered a hole in one of the dikes near the Arsenal. No water was coming through it, however. Through the opening there came a blinding yellow light, and the workman could see something indescribable in silhouette on the other side. It appeared to have two shadows. The man ran away and told others what he had seen.

A group of scholars came to study the phenomenon. The hole in the dike had grown larger; the brilliant yellow color had faded. Now the hole showed a clear and unearthly blue, even though stormy rain clouds and dun- colored earth should have been visible through it. This hole was like an opening through everything, earth and sky alike.

The scholars studied it with trepidation. Little fragments of earth and sand on the edge of the hole were being pulled into it. As an experiment, they tossed a stray dog into the hole; the dog disappeared as soon as he broke the invisible plane of its surface.

One of the scholars said, "From a scientific point of view, this hole seems to be a rent or tear in the fabric of existence."

Another objected on a quibble. "How could the fabric of existence tear?"

"That we don't know," the first replied. "But we can infer that something tremendous is happening in the Spiritual Realm, something so enormous that it is having its effect on us down here on the physical plane of mundane existence. Not even reality is to be trusted any longer, so strange has life become."

More reports came in of other holes in the fabric of reality. The phenomenon was called the Anti-Imago, and examples of it seemed to be springing up everywhere, even in the interior chapel of San Marco's, where there was a hole almost three feet wide pointing obliquely downward and leading to where nobody could ascertain without taking the oneway trip into it.

A church sexton reported a peculiar occurrence. A stranger had entered the building, and something about him seemed either more or less than human. Perhaps it was his ears, or the strange tilt to his eyes. This being walked about the church and its immediate area, looking at outbuildings and making notes on a roll of parchment. When the sexton demanded to know what he was doing, the stranger said, "Just taking some measurements, so I can report the situation to the others."

"What others?"

"The others like me."

"But why should you and the others be interested in the state of our buildings?"

"We're provisional life-forms," the stranger said, "me and the others like me, so new we haven't even gotten a name yet. There's a chance we'll get to take over — reality, that is—and in that case we inherit what you leave behind. We thought it would be best to be prepared, so we are doing an inventory."

The report of this strange occurrence was investigated by learned doctors of the Church and judged to have never happened. The sexton's report was ascribed officially to an unaccountable hallucination. But this judgment came too late, the damage was done, people had heard and believed the story, and the sense of panic increased throughout the city.

Chapter 7

The pilgrims huddled in the common room in the inn, taking turns stoking the fire while they awaited their next orders. They should have been triumphant, happy, for they had finished their contest. But the weather trivialized their victories.

They had gone through hardships to get here, and now they were here and things were lousy. It wasn't the way it was meant to be. And none felt this more keenly than Azzie, who was being cheated of his story, though he couldn't figure out how it was happening.

That evening, as Azzie sat near the fire and tried to think what to do next, there was a rap at the inn door. The landlord called out, "We are full up, please go elsewhere!"

"You have someone within I would talk with," a pleasing female voice called out.

"Ylith!" Azzie called out. "Is that you?" He gestured peremptorily to the landlord, who threw back the door with bad grace. A few bucketsful of rain blew in, and with them came a beautiful black-haired woman whose features were balanced between the angelic and the demonic, making her look very appealing indeed. She wore a simple yellow dress covered with appliqued violets, and over it a sky blue cloak with a silver lining, a saucy red wimple about her head.

"Azzie!" she cried, crossing the room. "Are you all right?"

"Of course," Azzie said. "Your concern touches me.

Have you perhaps changed your mind about a spot of dalliance?"

"Same old Azzie!" Ylith said with a chuckle. "I came here because I believe in fairness in all matters, especially those concerning Good and Bad. I think someone is doing you a disservice." Ylith then told how she had been captured by Hermes Trismegistus, who had given her to a mortal named Westfall. She told how she had been shut up in Pandora's box, and how with Zeus' help she had escaped.

"I know you think of Hermes as a friend," Ylith said, "but it seems he is plotting against you. The rest of the Olympians may be in on it, too."

"There's nothing much they can do from Afterglow," Azzie said.

"But the old gods are no longer in Afterglow. They've escaped! And I'm afraid I'm responsible, albeit unwittingly."

"It could be those guys who are screwing everything up," Azzie said. "I had thought it was all Michael's doing — you know how he opposes even my smallest triumph — but what's going on is beyond him. Someone has stirred up the Mongols, Ylith!"

"I don't understand why the Olympians are opposing you," Ylith said. "What difference does it make to them if you put on your immorality play?"

"The gods have a vested interest in morality," Azzie said. "But for others, not themselves. This interference of theirs is something else, I think. It wouldn't surprise me if this were the old gods' bid to return to power."

Chapter 8

The weather was simply no longer to be tolerated. Azzie roused himself and looked into it. The most cursory inspection showed him that the storms didn't seem to be coming from any single source. They sprang up "in the north," where the weather mostly comes from. But what did that mean, the north? How far north? North of what? And what was there in the north that created the weather? Azzie decided he had better find out, and do something about it if possible.

He explained to Aretino what he was going to do, and then went to the window and opened it. The blustery wind came in with a huff.

"This could be dangerous," Aretino said.

"Probably is," Azzie said, and, spreading his wings, he took to the air.

He left Venice and flew north, in search of the place where the weather came from. He traveled the length of Germany, and saw much bad weather, but it was all blowing in from even farther north. Azzie crossed the North Sea, touched on Sweden and found it was not the storm breeder, but merely a place storms passed over on their way to somewhere else. He veered into the eye of the wind and it took him toward Finland, where the Lapps had a great reputation as weather wizards. Wherever he went in that flat, snowy, pine-clad country, he always discovered that the weather didn't come "from here," it blew in "from over there," some place farther north.

At last he reached a region at the top of the world where the winds came funneling out at him with a speed and regularity that was impressive. The wind swept across the frozen tundra in a steady unending stream, and so strong was it that it resembled the waves of the sea more than rivers of the air.

Azzie pushed on, still moving to the north, though the whole world seemed to be narrowing and coming to a point here. He came at last to the very northernmost point of north and found a tall, narrow mountain of ice. On the top of that mountain was a tower, so old that it might have been put there before anything else existed and the only place was here.

The tower was topped by a platform, and on it stood a gigantic naked man with tangled hair and an expression most uncanny. He was working a large leather bellows. As he drove it up and down, the wind blew from its mouth. It was the origin of all the wind in the world.

The wind emerged from the bellows in a steady stream, and blew into and through the tubes of a peculiar- looking machine.

A strange creature sat in front of what looked like an organ keyboard, and his hands, with their many flexible fingers that almost appeared to be tentacles, played on the keys and shaped and formed the winds that passed through, them. It was an allegorical machine, such as religions produce when they are trying to explain how things work. It directed the shaped and conditioned winds produced by the bellows pumper to the window, where they began their journey south to all points of the globe, and especially to Venice.

But why Venice? Azzie focused his X-ray vision, which all demons have but few use because it's difficult to work, like trying to do long division in your head. But now that he looked, Azzie could see that Ley lines had been drawn on the land beneath the ice, and these lines guided the winds and augmented their ferocity.

But what about the rain? Everything here in the topmost reaches of the north was dry, crisp, and brand-spanking-new, and without a trace of moisture.

Azzie looked around, but he saw no one but the man working the bellows and the other one, the operator of the wind machine. He said to them both, "My dear sirs, you are screwing things up in the portion of Earth where I reside, and I cannot permit it. I intend to do something about it unless you cease and desist upon the instant."

He had spoken up bravely, and he had no idea if he could prevail against these two strange creatures. But it was in his nature to advance boldly, and his nature did not desert him now.

The two creatures introduced themselves. They were incarnations of the god Baal. The one working the bellows was Baal-Hadad, the other was Baal-Quarnain, Canaanite deities who had been living quietly for some thousands of years, since the last of their worshipers had died. Zeus had enlisted them both into his service, saying there were none better for bringing up the sort of weather he was interested in, once the initial bag of breezes had been exhausted. Zeus himself was a weather god, but he was too busy nowadays for the tedious work of making weather.

The old Canaanite deities, despite their glossy black wavy hair, hooked noses, prominent eyes, and bold features, despite their swarthy skin and huge hands and feet, were timid deities. When Azzie told them he was angry, and ready to call down a lot of trouble on their heads, both were willing to desist.

"We can stop the wind," said Baal-Hadad, "but the rain isn't up to us. We have nothing to do with it. All we send out of here is pure wind."

"Do you know who's sending the rain?" Azzie asked.

They both shrugged.

"Then it'll wait," Azzie said. "I have to get back. It's about time for the ceremony."

Chapter 9

Aretino made sure all was in readiness at the inn. Then he went up to Azzie's room.

Azzie wore a green dressing gown with golden dragons embroidered over it. He was seated at a table and bent over a parchment, a quill pen in his hand. He did not even look up. "Come in," he said.

Aretino entered. "Not dressed yet? My dear lord demon, the ceremony is soon to begin."

"Plenty of time," Azzie said. "I'm a bit winded, and my outfit is all laid out in the other room. Come help me, Aretino. I have to decide who to award prizes to. First, is everyone present?"

"They're all here," Aretino said, and poured himself a glass of wine. He was feeling very good. This play was going to send his already great reputation sky-high. He would be more famous than Dante, better known than Virgil, maybe even surpass Homer. It was the high moment of his life, and he suspected no trouble when there came a knock at the door.

It was an imp messenger from Ananke. "She wants you," the messenger said. "And she's mad."

The Palace of Justice, where Ananke held sway, was a Brobdingnagian place sculpted from blocks of stone larger than entire pyramids on Earth. Despite its size, the Palace was built with classic proportions observed entirely throughout. The columns in front were thicker than a gaggle of elephants. The grounds were beautifully landscaped, too. On the well-trimmed lawn, sitting on a red-checked blanket near a white gazebo, with a tea service spread out around her, was Ananke.

This time there was no question what she looked like. It is known that Ananke can take many forms. One of those forms, the Indescribable, is the one she takes when she wants to discourage flatterers. It is a mode of being that literally resists description. The most one can say is that Ananke looked nothing like a steam shovel. She had chosen this mode of appearance for the occasion.

As soon as Azzie was in her presence, Ananke said to him, "Too much with the magic horses already!"

"What do you mean?" Azzie said.

"You were warned, boychick," Ananke said. "Magic is not a panacea for all that ails your ambition. You can't use magic to solve everything. It is against the nature of things to assume that matters can go in any but their customary ways whenever you please to ask them to."

"I've never seen you in a state like this," Azzie said.

"You'd be mad, too, if you saw the entire cosmos threatened."

"But how did that happen?" Azzie asked.

"It was the magic horses," Ananke said. "Magic candlesticks were all right, but when you invoked magic horses, too, you simply stretched the fabric of credulity too far."

"What do you mean, the fabric of credulity?" Azzie asked. "I've never heard you talk like this."

"Tell him, Otto," Ananke said.

Otto, a spirit who for reasons known best to himself wears the disguise of a fat middle-aged German with a heavy white mustache and thick glasses, stepped out from behind a tree.

"Do you think the universe can stand an endless amount of tampering?" he asked. "You've been playing with the meta-machinery, whether you know it or not. You've been throwing a spanner in the works."

"He doesn't seem to understand," Ananke said.

"Is something going wrong?" Azzie asked.

"Jo, something's going wrong with the very nature of things," Otto said.

"The nature of things? Surely it's not as bad as all that?"

"You heard me. The structure of the universe has become deranged, due in no small measure to you and your magic horses. I know what I'm talking about. I've been servicing this universe since time out of mind."

"I never heard of a maintenance man for the universe," Azzie said.

"Stands to reason, don't it? If you're going to have a universe at all, you need someone to take care of it, and that can't be the one who runs it. She has a lot of other stuff to do, and maintenance is a specialty in itself and doesn't need to be connected with anything else. You did bring in those magic horses, didn't you?"

"I suppose I did," Azzie said, "but what of it, what's wrong with magic horses?"

"You used too many of them, that's what's wrong. Do you really expect you can clutter up the landscape with all the magic horses you want to use? All to provide easy explanations for stuff you're too lazy to work out beforehand? No, my fine young demon, you've gone and messed up this time. This damned universe is changing under our eyes, after all my years of holding it together, and there's nothing you or Ananke or me or anyone else can do about it. You've loosed the lightning of His terrible swift sword, if you take my meaning, and now there's going to be Hell to pay in the Badlands. You've toyed with reality one time too often."

"What does this have to do with reality?" Azzie asked.

"Listen up good now, my fine young demon. Reality is a sphere of solid matter made up of various substances lying in strata. Where one stratum abuts another, there, we can say, is a potential fault line, just as it is in the Earth. Anomalies are the things that explode shock waves along these interfaces. Your illicit use of the magic horses was one such anomaly bomb. But other anomalous things have been happening, too. The fact that the old gods have escaped is an event so impossible that its occurrence has shaken the universe.

"It is poor Venice that is bearing the brunt of this cosmic disaster that you have perpetrated. The city has had the bad luck to be the focus of events, and your work has subjected it to a reality strain. The floods, the Mongol invasion, and the plague soon to follow, are not at all part of the main line of Venetian history. They weren't really supposed to happen at all. They are side possibilities, with vanishingly small chances of being activated in the normal run of things. But due to you they have been activated, and so all of recorded history from this time forward lies under threat of destruction."

"How can time forward be threatened?" Azzie asked.

"You must think of the future as something that has already happened, and that is threatening to happen again, wiping out all that has gone before. That is what we must avoid at all costs."

"A lot of stuff is going to come down," Ananke said. "But first, you must get these pilgrims of yours back to their homes."

Azzie had to be content with that. But at the back of his mind, there began a small stirring beneath the sea of anxiety. Ananke said he wasn't acting according to reality. But what was reality but the balance, the agreement, between Good and Bad? If he could get Michael to change that agreement, to their mutual benefit… But first he had to look in on his pilgrims.

PART TEN

Chapter 1

When Azzie left the Palace of Justice his tail was between his legs and a suspicious wetness was in the corners of his brown eyes. He was trying to get used to the idea that his play, his great immorality play that was going to astonish the worlds, was never going to happen. The legend, the all-important legend of the golden candlesticks, was not to be allowed to play to its ending. He was under direct and unambiguous orders from Ananke Herself to stop his actors in midscene.

There had to be a way around her order. Moodily he went to a Power Booth outside the Palace of Justice and refilled his travel spell. At a nearby lunch area he found a stall that specialized in quick convenience foods for demons, where he bought a sack of deviled cats' heads in a nice clotted red sauce. It would give him something to snack on on his way back to Earth. Then he activated his spell and found himself hurtling through the transparent veils that spiritual space seems composed of.

As he flew, he munched on the cats' heads and thought furiously. Despite his utmost efforts at transcendental casuistry, he could find no way to get around Ananke's command without her finding out sooner or later and coming down hard on him. And it wasn't just Ananke that he had to fear. There was also the fact that he had upset the balance of the cosmos by his overuse of magic horses. Were he to persist, it might all fall apart, the whole shooting match, everything, all of creation, engulfed in the pure white flame of self-contradiction. If that happened, the cosmos itself might collapse. At the very least, the laws of reason would be overturned.

Soon he was back over Venice, and the sight of the city from the air was a sad one. Rising waters had already engulfed some of the low-lying outer islands. The winds had fallen off, but floodwaters had risen to engulf the San Marco's Square to a depth of ten feet. The older and less secure buildings were already collapsing as the brackish tidal waters washed out the old mortar that held their bricks and stones together.

Azzie came down at Aretino's house and found the poet outside in his shirtsleeves, trying to shore up his house with sandbags. It was a task useless on the face of it, and Aretino put down his tools and sadly followed Azzie indoors.

They found a dry room on the second floor. Wasting no time, Azzie said, "Where are the pilgrims now?"

"They're still at the inn."

Now Azzie had to change the plans, collect all the golden candlesticks, and make sure they got back to Fatus' castle in Limbo. Then he needed to get the pilgrims out of Venice. He saw no reason, however, to tell Aretino all of that just now. He would find out when the others did that the ceremony had been scrubbed.

"We're going to have to get the pilgrims out of Venice," Azzie told Aretino. "Between the Mongols and the floods, this city looks doomed. I have it on good authority that there's going to be a change in the timeline in which this sequence of world history is taking place."

"A change? What do you mean?"

"The world spins a timeline, and from it different events spring forth. The way things are going now, Venice looks as if it will be destroyed. But this result is unacceptable to Ananke, so the Venice timeline will be split just before I started with the golden candlesticks. It will become the new main line. This line, the one we're in now, will be relegated to Limbo."

"And what will that mean?" Aretino asked.

"The Limbo version of Venice will run for no longer than a week, from the time I first asked you to write a play to the time, predicted for midnight tonight, when the Mongols arrive and the floods spill over the walls. It will have but a week of life, in one sense, but that week will replay itself, beginning again as soon as it has reached its end. The inhabitants of the Limbo version of Venice will have an eternity of weeks, each of which will end in doom and destruction."

"But if we get the pilgrims away from Venice?"

"If we get them out before midnight they will be able to continue their normal lives, exactly as if I had never happened. They "will be returned to the time just before they met me."

"Will they have any memory of what happened?"

Azzie shook his head. "Only you will remember, Pietro. I'm arranging that so you can write the play based on our contest."

"I see," Aretino said. "Well, it's all a little unexpected. I don't know how they'll like it."

"They don't have to like it," Azzie said. "They just have to do it. Or suffer the consequences if they don't."

"I'll make sure they understand that."

"Do so, most excellent Pietro. I'll meet you at the church."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got one more idea," Azzie said, "that just might save this whole thing."

Chapter 2

Azzie passed quickly into the Ptolemaic system with its crystal spheres and stars fixed in their orbits. It always cheered him to see the orderly recession of the stars and the fixed planes of existence. He hurried on until he reached the Visitors' Gate that lets into Heaven. This is the only entrance that visitors are supposed to use, and there are severe penalties for anyone, human or demon, trying to enter by any of the angels' gates.

The Visitors' Gate was a literal gate of bronze, a hundred feet high and set in marble. The approach to it was thick with fleecy little white clouds, and angelic voices in the air sang songs of hallelujah. In front of the gate were a table and chair made of mahogany, and seated at the table was a balding oldish man with a long white beard, dressed in a white satin sheet. He wore a name tag that read, ST. ZACHARIAS AT YOUR SERVICE. HAVE A HOLY DAY. Azzie didn't know him. But usually it was one of the lesser saints who pulled this duty.

"What can I do for you?" Zacharias asked.

"I need to see Michael the Archangel."

"Did he leave your name on the visitors' list?"

"I doubt it. He didn't know I was coming."

"In that case, my dear sir, I'm very much afraid —"

"Look," Azzie said, "this is an urgent matter. Just send my name in to him. He'll thank you for it."

Grumbling, St. Zacharias went to a golden speaking tube that snaked down the side of the bronze door. He said a few words into it and waited, humming to himself. Then someone spoke through the other end.

"You're sure? It's not really proper form… Yes… Of course, sir.

"You're to go in," Zacharias said. He opened a small wooden door set in the base of the big bronze door. Azzie went inside, past the scattered buildings that were set out on the green lawn of Heaven. Soon he was at the office building in West Heaven, and Michael was standing on the steps waiting for him.

Michael ushered Azzie into his office. He poured him a glass of wine. Heaven has the finest wine, though for good whiskey you need to go to Hell. They chatted a while. Then Michael asked him what he wanted.

"I want to make a deal," Azzie said.

"A deal? What kind of a deal?"

"Did you know that Ananke has ordered me to stop my immorality play?"

Michael looked at him, then grinned. "She has, has she? Good old Ananke!"

"Do you think so?" Azzie said frigidly.

"Indeed I do," Michael said. "Although she's supposed to be above Good and Bad, and indifferent to both, yet I'm glad to see she knows which side her morality is buttered on."

"I want to make a deal," Azzie repeated.

"You want my help in opposing Ananke?"

"That's exactly it," Azzie said.

"You astound me. Why should I make a deal with you? Ananke is stopping you from putting on your immorality play. That's just the way I like it!"

"Is this the sound of personal pique I hear?" Azzie asked.

Michael smiled. "Oh, perhaps a little. I do get annoyed at your carryings-on. But my decision to stop your play is not based on personalities. It is an advantage to my side to stop this insidious play you want to mount. It's as simple as that."

"You may find it amusing," Azzie said, "but it's a more serious matter than you've given it credit for."

"Serious for whom?"

"For you, of course."

"How could that be? She's doing what we want."

"The fact that she is doing anything is the bad news," Azzie said.

Michael sat up straight. "How do you figure?"

"Since when has Ananke ever concerned herself with the daily operations of our struggle, yours and mine, between Dark and Light?"

"This is the first time I can ever remember her interfering directly," Michael admitted. "What are you getting at?"

"Do you accept Ananke as your ruler?" Azzie demanded.

"Of course not! She has nothing to do with the decisions of Good or Bad. Her part in the running of the cosmos is to set an example, not to make law."

"Yet here she is, making law," Azzie said. "Forbidding me to put on a play."

Michael smiled. "I can't get too serious about that!"

"You could if it were your play that was being stopped."

Michael's smile faded. "But it's not."

"Not this time. But if you accept the precedent that Ananke can set rules for Bad, how are you going to argue when she sets a rule for Good?"

Michael scowled. He stood up and paced rapidly up and down the room. At last he stopped and turned to Azzie.

"You're right. Her stopping your play, blessing though it is to us who are opposed to you, is nevertheless overstepping the rules that govern all of us. How dare she?"

Just then the doorbell chimed. Michael gestured impatiently and it swung open.

"Babriel! Good! I was just about to send for you!"

"I have brought you a message," Babriel said.

"It will have to wait," Michael said. "I have just learned that Ananke is poaching on our preserve, so to speak. I'll need to speak to Gabriel and some of the others immediately."

"Yes, sir. They want to speak to you, too."

"They do?"

"That's why they sent the message, sir."

"They did? But what do they want?"

"They didn't tell me, sir."

"Wait here," Michael said.

"You mean me?" Babriel asked.

"Both of you." He strode out of the room.

Soon Michael returned. He was subdued, and he didn't meet Azzie's eye.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to be allowed to interfere in this matter regarding Ananke."

"But what about the point I made? About the potential abrogation of your own power?"

"I'm afraid that is not the main concern," Michael said.

"Then what is?"

"The preservation of the cosmos," Michael said. "That's what's at stake, the Supreme Council tells me."

"Michael, there's a matter of freedom involved here," said Azzie. "The freedom of Good and Bad to act according to the dictates of their reason, held back only by natural law, not by the arbitrary rule of Ananke."

"I don't like it either," Michael said. "But there it is. Give up your play, Azzie. You're outgunned and overruled. I doubt if even your own Council of Evil would back you in this."

"We'll just see about it," Azzie said, and he made a striking exit.

Chapter 3

The pilgrims were still inside the inn when Azzie returned to Venice. Rodrigo and Cressilda sat together in one corner; although they weren't talking to one another, each was the only person of sufficient rank for the other to be comfortable with. As usual, Kornglow and Leonore were oblivious to everyone else. Puss and Quentin played cat's cradle with a bit of string. Mother Joanna tended to a bit of knitting, while Sir Oliver put a high polish on the jeweled hilt of his ceremonial sword, the one he intended to wear for the ceremony.

Azzie began briskly enough. "I'm afraid we've got a bit of trouble. Our play has been canceled. But let me thank you for all the work you've done. You've all handled your candlesticks extremely well."

Sir Oliver said, "Antonio, what is happening? Are we to get our wishes or not? I have my acceptance speech all ready. We need to begin."

The others piped in with their remonstrances. Azzie silenced them with a gesture.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but the highest possible source has commanded me to strike this production. There'll be no ceremony of the golden candlesticks."

"But what's gone wrong?" Mother Joanna asked.

"It seems we've broken some silly old natural law."

Mother Joanna looked puzzled. "But people break natural laws all the time. What of it?"

"Usually, it doesn't matter at all," Azzie said. "This time, though, I'm afraid we've been caught out. I'm told that my use of the magic horses was overzealous."

"Surely all that can be taken care of later," Sir Oliver said. "For now, we're eager to go on."

"And I am eager to have you do so," Azzie said. "But alas, it cannot be. Aretino will now pass among you and gather up the candlesticks."

Sullenly Aretino walked among them, accepting the candlesticks they reluctantly handed over.

"We're going to have to get out of here," Azzie said. "Venice is doomed. We must leave at once."

"So soon?" said Mother Joanna. "I haven't even started visiting the famous shrines."

"If you don't want this place to be your shrine, you'll do as I say," Azzie said. "You must all follow Aretino. Pietro, do you hear? We must get these people off the islands of Venice!"

"Easier said than done," Aretino grumbled. "But I'll do what I can."

He put the stacked candlesticks in a corner near the altar. "Now what do you want me to do with them?"

Azzie was about to answer when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down. It was Quentin, with Puss beside him.

"Please, sir," said Quentin, "I've learned all my lines to say for this ceremony. Puss and I thought them up together, and we both learned them."

"That's very nice, children," Azzie said.

"Won't we get a chance to say them?" Quentin asked.

"You can tell your lines to me later, when I've gotten you safe away from Venice."

"But sir, that won't be the same thing. We learned them for the ceremony."

Azzie grimaced. "There isn't going to be any ceremony."

"Did one of us do something bad?" Quentin asked.

"No, it's nothing like that," Azzie said.

"Was it a bad play, then?"

"No!" Azzie cried. "It was not a bad play! It was a fine play! All of you were acting just like yourselves, and that's the best acting job possible."

"If it wasn't a bad play," Quentin said, "and we didn't do anything wrong, "why can't we finish it?"

Azzie opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated. He was remembering himself as a young demon, contemptuous of all authority, willing to pursue his sin and his virtue, his pride and his will, to wherever they would lead him. Well, he had changed a lot since that day. Now a mere woman commanded him, and he obeyed. It was true that Ananke wasn't quite the same as a woman — she was more like a vague but compelling divine principle with breasts. She had always loomed above everything, compelling but remote. But here she was, breaking the precedent that had been set since the beginning of time not to interfere. And who did she pick to be the bearer of her broken precedent? Azzie Elbub.

"My dear child," Azzie said, "to go on with this ceremony could mean the death of us all."

"I guess we all have to die someday, sir," Quentin said. Azzie stared at him, because the lad had the effrontery of a demon and the sangfroid of a saint. Could Azzie do any less?

"All right, kid," he said. "You've talked me into it. Everybody! Pick up your candlesticks and take your places on the stage that has been set up in front of the bar!"

"You're going through with it!" Aretino cried joyfully. "I am very thankful, sir. For what ending would I have had otherwise for the play I intend to write from this material?"

"You've got something to write about now," Azzie said. "Is the orchestra in the pit?"

They were, still cheerful because Aretino had paid them triple their usual wage to hang around waiting for Azzie, and because the city was so flooded that there were no other musical performances planned.

The orchestra struck up a tune. Azzie waved his hand. The ceremony began.

Chapter 4

The ceremony was all pomp and circumstance such as demons and Renaissance people loved. Unfortunately there was no visible audience; this had to be a private affair. But it was all very impressive, there in the otherwise deserted inn, with the rain hammering overhead.

The pilgrims marched through the room, all dressed in their holiday best. They bore their candlesticks, which they retrieved from Aretino. They marched down the aisle and mounted to the stage. Azzie, master of ceremonies now, introduced each one, and made a short complimentary speech about him or her.

Eerie things began happening. There was a strange popping of curtains. The wind took on an uncanny moan. A pungent, unearthly smell suffused the space. Most prominent was a wind that sounded like a tormented soul trying to get in.

"I've never heard the wind sound like that," Aretino said.

"It's not the wind," Azzie said.

"I beg your pardon?"

But Azzie refused to elaborate. He knew a visitation when he heard one. He had presided at too many to be deceived now, when an unearthly chill seemed to settle on the building, and curious thumping noises came from all over.

Azzie only hoped this new force, whatever it was, would hold off making an appearance for a while. It seemed to be having difficulty finding its way. And the Hell of it was, Azzie didn't even know who or what was hunting for him. It was an unusual situation, a demon being haunted by what seemed to be a ghost. Azzie got an idea of what lay ahead then, the vast chasms of unreason that threatened now to engulf those fragile edifices, logic and causality. With just the tiniest movement, it seemed, those things might cease to be.

After the speeches came a short, tasteful interlude that featured singing by the local boys' choir, an all-Europe- class group that Aretino had booked for this occasion. Some thought St. Gregory himself was putting in a ghostly appearance, for a tall thin shape had begun to materialize near the door. But whatever it was hadn't quite got it right; it faded out before it could fully materialize itself, and the ceremony was able to continue.

Next, the contestants massed their candlesticks on the altar and lit them. Azzie made a short speech congratulating his contestants, driving home the premise of his play by pointing out that they had done well by simply going about their natural pursuits. They had won good fortune through no great effort, and that good fortune was by no means the concomitant of good character and good action. On the contrary, good luck was a neutral quality that could happen to anyone. "As proof of that," Azzie said, "here stand my contestants, all of whom have earned golden rewards this evening by nothing more taxing than being themselves in all their imperfections."

Throughout all of this Aretino sat in a front-row pew and was busy scribbling notes. He was already planning out the play he would weave from this material. It was all very well for Azzie to think it was sufficient to stage a sort of divine comedy, but that was not the way of art. The really good stuff was contrived, not improvised, and that was what Aretino planned to do with it.

Aretino was so busy writing that he didn't realize the ceremony was over until the pilgrims were all around him, pounding him on the back and asking if he'd liked their speeches. Aretino curbed his natural acerbity and declared that they all had done well.

"And now," Azzie said, "it's time to get out of here. You won't need your candlesticks any longer. Just pile them in the corner there and I'll call up a minor miracle to get them back to Limbo. Aretino, are you ready to lead these people to safety?"

"Indeed I am," Aretino said. "If it's possible to get off this island, I'll find a way. Are you not going to accompany us?"

"I intend to," Azzie said, "but I may be delayed along the way by circumstances beyond my control. If that should happen, you know what to do, Pietro. Get these people to safety!"

"And what of you?"

"I'll do what I can to keep myself alive," Azzie said. "Perseverance in our own self-interests is a faculty highly developed in us demons."

Azzie, Aretino, and the little troop of pilgrims went forth into the stormy night of the doom that was falling upon Venice.

Chapter 5

They left the inn and hurried out into the storm. The streets were filled with people trying to flee the city; the water was now waist high and still rising. Aretino had brought along plenty of bribe money, but he could find no available boatmen to bribe. The various stations along the Grand Canal had been abandoned hours ago.

"I don't know what to do," Aretino told Azzie. "Every boat in the city seems to be destroyed or already booked."

"There's still a way of getting the contestants to safety," Azzie said. "It will no doubt result in another anomaly for which I'll be held to blame, but we'll try it anyway. We need to find Charon. His boat is always around places like this where there are so many dead and dying. He's a connoisseur of large-scale tragedies."

"The actual Charon from the Greek myths is here?"

"Certainly. Somehow he's been able to continue ferrying people all through the Christian era. That's an anomaly too, but one they can't blame on me."

"Will he take living people? I thought Charon's boat was only for the other kind."

"I know him pretty well. We've done business together. I think he'll make an exception, this being an emergency of the sort he likes."

"Where do we find him?"

Azzie led them in the right direction. Aretino wanted to know what the big hurry was to get the pilgrims off. "Is the situation really so bad?" he asked.

"Yes, it is. The fall of Venice is only the beginning; it heralds the collapse of the entire universe. Both the Copernican and the Ptolemaic models are in difficulty, and the signs of anomaly shock are everywhere. Already the streets are full of prodigies and miracles. Business has come to a standstill, and even love has been forced to put itself on hold."

"I don't understand," Aretino said. "What is this anomaly explosion? What is going to happen? How will this catastrophe reveal itself? By what signs will it be known?"

"You will know it beyond doubt," Azzie said. "There will be a sudden discontinuity in the action of life. Causes and effects will no longer add up. Conclusions will no longer flow sweetly from their premises. As I told you, reality will fork into two branches. One branch will go on with the story of Europe and the Earth as if this pilgrimage had never taken place, while the other will continue what is going on now, bringing the results of the pilgrimage. It is that branch, that disaster, that will be sent to Limbo. There it will repeat itself over and over, in a loop bigger than all outdoors. We need to get the pilgrims out before that happens."

But Charon was not to be found. Aretino and Azzie carried on, shepherding their pilgrims from one point to another, hoping to find a way to get them out. Some people were already trying to swim to the mainland and were drowning, many of them pulled under by other struggling swimmers. The few remaining gondoliers were already occupied with passengers. Those lucky enough to have gotten aboard had drawn their swords, and with these they menaced anyone who approached them.

Azzie and Aretino searched up and down the narrow winding streets, looking for Charon. At last they found his boat, slab sided and misshapen, and painted a matte black. Azzie walked up to the snuff-colored rail, put one narrow foot upon it, and called out, "Ho, boatman!"

A tall, skinny old man with sunken jaws and preternaturally bright eyes came out from the little cabin into the torchlight. "Azzie!" he said. "You do pop up in some strange places!"

"What are you doing in Venice, Charon, so far from your usual route on the Styx?"

"We boatmen of the dead have been commanded to extend service to the area. I have it on good authority that there's going to be a die-off here like nothing anyone has seen since Atlantis foundered."

"I'd like to hire your services now."

"Is it really necessary? I was going to get a little sleep before the big evacuation begins."

"This whole construct is in a lot of trouble," Azzie said. "I need your help to get my friends out of here."

"I don't help anyone," Charon said. "I have my own rounds. There are plenty of deceased people still to ferry to the land of the dead."

"You don't seem to appreciate the seriousness of the position."

"It's not serious for me," Charon said. "However death comes, that's a matter for the Upper World. In the Kingdom of the Dead, all is serene."

"That's what I'm trying to get across to you. It's not going to be that way for long, not even in the Kingdom of the Dead. Didn't it ever occur to you that even Death can die?"

"Death die? What a ridiculous notion!"

"My dear fellow, if God can die, then Death can die, too, and very painfully. I'm trying to tell you the whole construct is in trouble. You could be wiped away along with everything else."

Charon was skeptical, but he allowed himself to be convinced. "What is it you want done?"

"I must get the pilgrims out of here and restore them to their starting places. Only with that done will Ananke have a chance to get everything back to normal again."

Charon was capable of moving with speed when he wanted to. Once the pilgrims were aboard he directed the boat, standing at the rear with the tiller under his arm, a cloaked scarecrow figure. The crazy old boat picked up speed, powered by the arms of the dead rowers who sat out of sight in the hold. Fires burned on all sides in the beleaguered city, shooting ghastly reds and yellows up into the blue-black skies. The boat crossed the arm of the bay, and soon they were gliding through reeds and marshes. Everything looked strange; Charon had taken a shortcut through a watery connection that joined one world to another. "Is this how it was at the beginning?" Aretino asked.

"I wasn't there right at the beginning," Charon told him, "but close to it. This is how the world looked when there was no physical law and all was magic. There was a time before everything, when magic ruled, when reason was not. We visit it still in our dreams, that world of long ago. Certain landscapes elicit memories of that world. It is of the place older than God, older than creation. The world before the creation of the universe."

In the stern, Aretino had been going over the list of pilgrims to make sure they were all accounted for. He soon found two or three wily Venetians who had taken advantage of the general confusion to get a ride to the mainland. That was all right; there was enough room for a few more, especially since Kornglow and Leonore were nowhere to be found.

Aretino asked if anyone had seen them. No one had since the ceremony with the candlesticks.

Everyone else was aboard the boat — everyone except Azzie, who stood on the pier and unfastened the ship's line.

"I can't find Kornglow or Leonore!" Aretino called to Azzie.

"We can't wait any longer!" Charon said. "Death keeps to a strict schedule."

"Go ahead without them," Azzie said.

"But what about you?" Aretino asked.

"There is that which will detain me," Azzie said. It was then that Aretino noticed the shadow at Azzie's back, which seemed to be gripping him by the neck.

Azzie threw the line aboard. Charon's houseboat moved away from the shore and began to gain way as the oars of the dead dipped into the waters.

"Is there nothing we can do for you?" Aretino called out.

"No!" Azzie replied. "Just keep going. Get away from here!"

He watched the houseboat glide into the shadowy waters until it vanished among reeds and marshes near to the other shore.

The pilgrims made themselves as comfortable as they could, crowded in among dead rowers who were not the most congenial companions.

"Hello," Puss said to the gaunt cowled figure who sat on the bench beside her.

"Hello, little lady," answered that individual. It was a woman. She appeared to be dead, even though she was still somehow able to talk.

"Where are you going?" Puss asked.

"Our boatman Charon is taking us to Hell," the cowled figure said.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Puss said.

"No need to grieve," the figure said. "That's where it all winds up."

"Even me?" said Puss.

"Even you. But you needn't worry, it won't take place for quite some time."

Quentin, on the other side, asked, "Is there anything to eat on this boat?"

"Nothing good," the cowled figure replied. "What we have is bitter."

"I'd really like something sweet," Quentin said.

"Be patient," Puss said. "Nobody gets to eat on the boat of the dead without forfeiting their lives. I think I see the shore ahead."

"Oh, all right," Quentin said. He wished he were still acting as messenger to the spirits. That had been fun.

PART ELEVEN

Chapter 1

Venice seemed doomed now. There might be a way Azzie could still save it, though. He would have to go to the Backstage Universe where the Cosmic Machinery was stored—in that part of the cosmos where symbology rules.

To get there he would need to follow a set of instructions he had never used before—instructions he had thought he would never have to use. But now was the time. He found a sheltered place under a balustrade and made a complex gesture.

A disembodied voice—one of the Guardians of the Way—said to him, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I am," Azzie said.

And disappeared…

Azzie reappeared in a small waiting room. There was a long padded sofa against one wall, two chairs on the other. A big lamp cast a mellow glow over a stack of magazines on a nearby end table. Before the third wall was a receptionist, clad in a toga, sitting in front of what looked like an office intercom. The receptionist looked for all the world like a woman, except that she had an alligator's head on her shoulders. The sight of her convinced Azzie that he was indeed in the place where realism held no sway and where symbology ruled the world.

"What can we do for you, sir?" the receptionist asked.

"I'm here to inspect the symbolic machinery," Azzie said.

"Go right in. You were expected."

Azzie passed through a door into a space that had the dismaying qualities of being both enclosed and endless, a universal plenum filled with innumerable contents. It seemed to be a factory, or a derisive three-dimensional comment on one, for its volume was interminable to the eye. This place beyond space and time seemed entirely filled with machinery, with an endless variety of cogwheels and spindles, with belts to drive them, all of them apparently suspended in midair and working away with a zinging, hissing, clanging sound.

The machines were piled up endlessly in all directions, separated by narrow catwalks. On one of these catwalks was a tall, gaunt man, wearing gray coveralls with a thin white stripe and a peaked cap of a similar material. He moved along with his oilcan, making sure the machinery ran with a minimum of friction.

"What's going on here?" Azzie asked.

"Here all of Earth's time is compressed into a single narrow strip and passed through rollers. And it comes out here, a broad gossamer-thin tapestry."

The old man showed him the broad rollers where the timelines were woven into a tapestry that represented and in some sense was the history of the cosmos up to that moment. Azzie examined it and found a botched place.

"What about this?" he asked.

"Ah, that's where Venice was destroyed," the old man said. "The city was one of the principal threads in the fabric of civilization, you see, and so there'll be a bit of a discontinuity in the cultural aspect of the space-time fabric until another city takes up its place. Or perhaps the whole tapes-try will lose luster for loss of one of its finest parts. It's difficult to predict the effect of a major fallout like this."

"Seems a pity to leave it at that," Azzie said. He examined the threads that made up the warp. "Look, if we go back and pull out this one strand, Venice would be all right."

He had found the strand where he had begun his golden candlestick game with the pilgrims, the point at which Venice's doom had been sealed. It was necessary to withdraw that action from the skein of causality in order to undo the cosmic damage.

"My dear young demon, you know very well we can't mess with the skeins of time. I agree it would be easy. But I would not recommend it."

"What if I did it anyhow?"

"Try it and find out."

"Are you going to stop me?"

The old man shook his head. "My duty is not to stop anything. My task is solely to watch the spinning of the tapestry."

Azzie reached out and with a firm motion pulled out the thread that marked his meeting with the pilgrims. The thread lit with sudden fire as it tore loose. He could see the result immediately on the slow-moving web of tapestry, which repaired itself at once. Venice was restored. It was as easy as that.

Azzie turned to go, but he stopped when an icy finger tapped him on the back. He looked around; the watchman was gone.

An ominous voice said, "Azzie Elbub?"

"Yes. Who's there?"

"Call me Nameless. It seems you've gone and done it again."

"Done what?"

"Produced another unacceptable anomaly."

"Well… What's that to you?"

"I'm the Anomaly Eater," Nameless said. "I'm the Special Circumstance that arises in the maw of the universe when things get too hairy. I'm the one Ananke was trying to warn you about. Through your actions you have called me into being."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Azzie said. "I didn't mean to awaken you from your sleep of uncreation. What about if I promise never to produce another anomaly?"

"Not good enough," Nameless said. "You're in for it this time, my lad. You've fooled around with the universal machinery once too often. And while I'm at it, I think I might as well destroy the cosmos and overthrow Ananke and begin everything all over again with me as Supreme Deity."

"That's an overreaction if I ever heard one," Azzie said. "To destroy an anomaly you propose to produce a greater one."

"Well, that's how the universe crumbles," Nameless said. "I'm afraid I'll have to destroy you."

"I suppose you have to try," Azzie said, "but why don't you have it out with Ananke instead? She's top gun around here."

"That's not the way I do business," Nameless said. "I'll start with you. After I've eaten your soul and washed it down with your body, I'll think about who to take on next. That's my agenda."

Chapter 2

Nameless waved what might have been an arm. Before he even had a chance to say good-bye to the watchman. Azzie found himself transported to an outdoor cafe table in a city whose architecture made it look very much like Rome.

Azzie was impressed by the transition, which Nameless had effected without any visible apparatus, but he was careful not to show his admiration. Nameless seemed to have a swelled head anyway. Nameless was there with him, wearing an overweight human body with a green Tyrolean hat on top of it. A white-coated waiter came over; Azzie ordered a Cinzano and turned to Nameless.

"Okay, now, about this fight. Are we going to have any rules, or is this going to be freestyle all the way?"

Azzie knew he didn't stand a chance against Nameless, whom he suspected of being a just-born superdeity. But he was putting a bold face on it, trying to bluff his way to some advantage.

"Which fighting style are you better at?" Nameless asked.

"I'm known as a master of the contest without rules," Azzie said.

"Is that so? Then I guess we'll have some rules."

Rules were something Azzie knew he could deal with. He had been taking exception to them since he was born, so already he had an advantage. But he was careful not to gloat visibly.

"What rules do you want to fight by?" Nameless said.

Azzie looked around. "Are we in Rome?"

Yes, we are.

"Then let's go by regulation gladiatorial drill."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he had a moment of vertigo. When his head cleared, he found himself standing inside a great amphitheater. Empty seats rose in a circle on all sides of him. Azzie was naked save for a loincloth; apparently the new deity was a bit of a prude. That was worth, remembering.

Checking himself over, he saw that he was holding a shield of rather antique design and carrying a standard Roman short sword.

"That was fast," Azzie said.

"I catch on quick," Nameless said, his voice coming from nowhere in particular.

"What now?" Azzie asked.

"Hand-to-hand combat," Nameless said. "Just you and me. Here I come!"

A door slid open on one side of the amphitheater. There was a noisy snarling sound, and out rolled a large metallic object with tracks. Azzie had seen one of these before, during his visits to the First World War battlefields in France. It was a standard-sized army tank with the usual armor and cannon.

"Are you in that tank?" Azzie asked.

"I am the tank," Nameless said.

"Not quite evenly matched, are we?" Azzie said.

"Don't be a sore loser," Nameless said.

The tank rumbled forward, its blue exhaust bleating out a chorus of challenge. Tentacles sprouted from its sides, each tentacle terminating in a whirring buzz saw. Azzie retreated until he felt the wall at his back.

"Wait!" he cried. "Where's the audience?"

"What?" the tank asked, coming to a stop.

"Can't have a real gladiatorial contest without an audience," Azzie said.

The stadium doors opened, and people started to enter the amphitheater. Azzie knew all of them. First came the Greek gods in their sculptured white sheets. Then came Ylith, and with her was Babriel. A few steps behind them came Michael.

Nameless looked them over and apparently didn't like what he saw.

"Just a minute," he said. "A short time-out, okay?"

Azzie found himself in a nineteenth-century sitting room with Nameless.

Chapter 3

Now, look," Nameless said. "You can see that I've got you outclassed and outmatched. Nothing to be ashamed of. I'm the new paradigm. No one can oppose me. I'm the visible sign of "what is to come."

"So kill me and get it over with," Azzie said.

"No, I have a much better idea. I want to let you live. I want you to join me in the new universe I am going to create."

"What do you need me for?"

"I don't. Let's be very clear about that. It's just that once I'm established I'd like to have someone around to talk to. Someone from the good old days, which are now. Someone I didn't create. I suspect it gets boring when there's nobody to talk to but emanations of your own being. I imagine that's why your God went away—He got tired of having nobody to talk to. Nobody from the old days, I mean. Nobody who wasn't Himself in some way or other. I'm not going to make that mistake. You're another point of view, and I can make use of that, so I'd like you to stay on with me."

Azzie was hesitant. It was a great opportunity, of course. But still…

"What are you delaying for? I can defeat you utterly, and rather easily, but now I'm giving you a chance to come to my side. You and you alone from this universe, Azzie, will live on after the destruction of everything else. We'll sweep them all away—gods, devils, humans, nature, fate, chance, the whole works. We'll start all over with a jollier cast of characters. You can help me plan it out. We can have it any way we want. You'll be in at the creation of a new universe! You'll be one of its founding fathers. Can't say fairer than that, can I?"

"But everybody else…"

"I'm going to kill them all. They all have to go. Don't try to change my mind."

"There's a young boy named Quentin…"

"He'll live in your memory."

"There's a witch named Ylith…"

"Don't you have a lock of her hair for a keepsake?"

"Can't you keep her alive?" Azzie asked. "And the boy, too? Take the rest."

"Of course I can keep her alive. I can do whatever I want. But I'm not going to let her live. Or the kid. Or anyone else. Only you, Azzie. It's a kind of punishment, you see."

Azzie looked at Nameless. He had the feeling that things weren't going to be much different under the new cosmic management. But he wasn't going to be around to see it. It was time to fight, time to die.

"No, thanks," he said.

Chapter 4

The tank rumbled forward. Now it was a beautiful machine made of an amalgam of anodized aluminum and glowing chrome. White-hot it glowed, and it moved toward Azzie. He dodged out of its way. Due to its melting state, its wheels sagged out of shape and it suddenly had a hard time moving. Nameless hadn't gotten that bit quite right.

The tank fired its cannon. From the cannon's maw came a blobby plastic ball that split upon contact with the sand. Out of it came chiggers and baby mice. All together, they began to dig what looked like a barbecue pit. Azzie was careful not to judge: he didn't know what Nameless had in mind, if anything.

The cannon fired again, but what came out this time was a bunch of notes of the sort musicians write on ruled paper. Azzie could hear Nameless saying, "Cannon, not canon!"

Nameless was having trouble reining in his exuberant imagination. The cannon fired again, and this time it emitted a cascade of multicolored spatter cones, which burbled and gurgled and gave off a noxious fizz.

The tank came into the center of the arena. There was a certain hesitancy about its movements, for it had learned that while Azzie might be negligible as an antagonist, Nameless himself was his own worst enemy. Azzie picked up a stone and prepared to throw it.

And then marching out of Nameless' corner came a host of headless people famous in history: Blackbeard, Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, the Headless Horseman, John the Baptist, Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Mary Stuart, Medusa, Sir Thomas More, and Maximilien de Robespierre. They gathered in a phalanx, their heads tucked under their left arms in a military manner, right arms holding long lances with silvery tips. Robespierre led them, and he said afterward it was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life.

Azzie called up his own people, who came armed with gross weapons, but they soon faded away. One of Nameless' few rules was that Azzie was going to have to do this alone.

Then Nameless opened a mouth of dirt and boulders and, towering above Azzie, proceeded to snap and bite at him.

"You're crazy!" Azzie cried.

"No," Nameless said. "Why don't you die?"

"You're a poor creation," Azzie said.

"Are you sure we need this combat? Couldn't you just die and have done with it?"

"Sorry," Azzie muttered.

Chapter 5

Azzie looked around. The twelve Olympians, led by Zeus, were sitting on marble steps near to Babriel, Michael, and Ylith. There were new people there, too: Prince Charming and Princess Scarlet, Johann Faust and Marguerite. They rose as one and advanced into the arena.

"This isn't fair!" Nameless said. "You're not allowed to summon help."

"I didn't summon them," Azzie said. "They came on their own."

"I haven't had any time yet to create friends and allies!"

"I know," Ylith said. "You chose to go it alone."

"Too late now," Michael the Archangel said. He stood at the front of the Heavenly hosts. "I think we are all agreed that you, Nameless, are quite unsuited to be Supreme Deity. We're going to join together now and dispose of you."

Then there was a sound of singing, a single strong male voice leading a rousing melody. It was Aretino, singing a Renaissance version of "Onward Christian Soldiers." The chorus was made up of all the others — Quentin and Puss, Kornglow and Leonore, Sir Oliver and Mother Joanna, Rodrigo and Cressilda. They formed a tight circle around the combatants and urged Azzie on. But how silly it was to urge him, he reflected, for there was nothing he could do. The power of this creature from darkest probability had already proven too much for him.

"You don't have to die," Ylith was saying to him. "Ananke is defeated only if you are. You've had the courage to mount your play. Keep fighting!"

Chapter 6

All right, a little Greco-Roman wrestling," Nameless said, assuming a vaguely human form. "To the death." He seized Azzie in a powerful grip.

Then Quentin cried, "You can't kill him!"

"I can't? Why not?"

"Because he's my friend."

"Young man, you don't seem to realize what an exposed position you're in. I'm the Eater of Souls, my boy. Yours will be like a little maraschino cherry on top of the whipped-cream sundae of this foolish demon here."

"No!" And Quentin smacked Nameless over the head with his open palm. Nameless reared back on his wheels, baring his teeth, and Puss poked the superdeity in the stomach. Nameless collapsed onto the bloody sand. Sir Oliver came into the ring tugging a lance, and with Mother Joanna's help he poked Nameless in the eye.

"Oh, this is too much," Nameless said as the lance passed through his head and he died.

Ananke appeared in the heavens above them, her old lady's face smiling.

"Well done, my children!" she cried. "I knew you could all cooperate, if the cause were dire enough."

"So that's why you hatched this scheme!" Azzie cried.

"One of many reasons, my pet," Ananke said. "There are always reasons within reasons, and every reason for a reason may itself be scrutinized and its constituent reasons adduced. Don't question it, my friend. You are alive, all of you."

And then they all came together into a dance. They held hands, they mounted to the air. Faster and higher they flew, all of them together, all of them there except…

Chapter 7

Aretino suddenly woke with a snort. He sat up in bed and looked out the window. The sun was shining on Venice. Beside him on the bed was a manuscript, The Legend of the Golden Candlesticks.

He remembered now that he had dreamed a fantastic dream. That was one explanation.

Another explanation was that Azzie had succeeded in preserving Venice in Limbo.

He looked out the window. People were walking past, Kornglow and Leonore among them.

"What's happening?" Aretino called out.

Kornglow looked up. "Take care, Aretino! They say the Mongols are coming any moment."

So Venice was doomed? Then Aretino knew that everything was all right. What he needed now was to find a quiet place to sit down and continue work on his play.

Aretino woke up on a splendid morning to realize that during the night he had had an unaccountable dream, in which a demon had come to him and ordered him to write a play. The play was about pilgrims and golden candlesticks, and the result so outraged the powers of the universe that Venice was put to destruction. But then Ananke decided to spare it, so the time track of the city that had continued his actions with the demon was cut away and sent to Limbo. And he had awakened in Venice in the real world.

Aretino got up and looked about. Everything looked as it always had. He wondered what was happening to that other Venice, the one in Limbo.

Chapter 8

Fatus felt a certain alarm when he was told that a new place had arrived in Limbo. Limbo was a place of many regions that had been and many that never were. The garden of the Hesperides was here, and Arthur's court of Camelot, and the lost city of Lys.

The new place was Venice, the Venice of Catastrophes, and he went for a walk in this place and marveled at its beauty. The people didn't know it was all fading out, dying, to be renewed again each day. He walked and walked, through scenes of death and dying, and he felt it all very lively. Each day it would start anew. He wished he could tell people that, that there was no reason ever to fear, because in the morning it would all start again. But the people wouldn't listen to him and so lived forever in a state of alarm, starting each day afresh.

Fatus came to the lovers, Kornglow and Leonore. It was refreshing to find two for whom life and the love of each other was a continual revelation and a constant delight. Go and teach the others, he told them, but they only laughed at him. It is simple, how to live, they said. Each can do it, there is nothing to teach.

Fatus returned to his castle and mused over his old things and wondered what might happen next.

Chapter 9

In Venice, the one in Limbo, Kornglow and Leonore talked about Aretino.

"I wonder if he'll ever write his play."

"Perhaps he will. But not the real one. This one—the one in which we die every night, and are reborn every morning. I hope you're not afraid of death, my love."

"Perhaps a little. But we'll be alive again tomorrow, will we not?"

"That is my belief. But death now will feel like death while it is happening."

"Must we die now?"

"All of Venice dies tonight."

There is a clatter of hooves. Horsemen in the city. Mongols!

Kornglow fights valiantly, but he is run through with a lance. The Mongols try to seize Leonore, but she is too quick for them — the Mongol isn't born who can move faster than an elf's daughter. She runs out into the street and plunges into the water, swimming away from the city. The waves are high, walls are falling, and Venice is on fire. She watches for a moment, but she can stay afloat no longer. This is dying for the first time, and though it is difficult, she knows just how to do it. Her head slides beneath the waves.

Chapter 10

Azzie felt a giant hand tightening over him. Then there was blackness. When he awoke, a cool hand was on his brow. He opened his eyes.

"Ylith! What are you doing here? I didn't know demons and witches had any life after death."

"As it happens, you and I are still alive."

Azzie looked around. He was at the Friendly Inn in Limbo, a place of neutrality for spirits Bad and Good.

"What happened to the universe?"

"Thanks to you, Ananke was able to save it. We should all be grateful to you, though I'm afraid you're going to find a lot of people angry. The Council of Evil is considering issuing you a reprimand for starting the whole thing in the first place. But I still care for you. Always will, I'm afraid."

He took her hand.

"Daughter of Darkness," he said, smiling weakly. "We are of a kind."

Nodding, she smiled and squeezed his hand.

"I know," she said.

end