The gates of Dunmanifestin swung open, apparently by themselves. The Silver Horde walked inside, keeping together, peering around suspiciously.

"You better mark our cards for us, lad," whispered Cohen, looking around the busy streets. "I wasn't expecting this ."

"Sir?" said the minstrel.

"We expected a lot of carousing in a big 'all," said Boy Willie. "Not . . . shops . And everyone's different sizes!"

"Gods can be any size, I reckon," said Cohen, as gods hurried towards them.

"Maybe we could . . . come back another time?" said Caleb.

The doors slammed behind them.

"No," said Cohen.

And suddenly there was a crowd around them.

"You must be the new gods," said a voice from the sky. "Welcome to Dunmanifestin! You'd better come along with us!"

"Ah, the God of Fish," said a god to Cohen, falling in beside him. "And how are the fish, your mightiness?"

"Er . . . what?" said Cohen. "Oh . . . er . . . wet. Still very wet. Very wet things."

"And things?" a goddess asked Hamish. "How are things?"

"Still lyin' aroond!"

"And are you omnipotent?"

"Aye, lass, but there's pills I'm takin' f'r it!"

"And you're the Muse of Swearing?" said a god to Truckle.

"Bloody right!" said Truckle desperately.

Cohen looked up and saw Offler the Crocodile God. He wasn't a god who was hard to recognise, but in any case Cohen had seen him many times before. His statue in temples throughout the world was a pretty good likeness, and now was the time for a man to reflect on the fact that so many of those temples had been left a good deal poorer as a result of Cohen's activities. He didn't, however, because it was not the kind of thing he ever did. But it did seem to him that the Horde was being hustled along. "Where're we off to, friend?" he said.

To watch the Gameth, your fithneth," said Offler.

"Oh, yeah. That's where yo― we play around with u― mortals, right?" said Cohen.

"Yes, indeed," said a god on the other side of Cohen. "And currently we've found some mortals actually attempting to enter Dunmanifestin."

"The devils, eh?" said Cohen pleasantly. "Give 'em a taste of hot thunderbolt, that's my advice. It's the only language they understand."

"Mostly because it's the only language you use," mumbled the minstrel, eyeing the surrounded gods.

"Yes, we thought something like that would be a good idea," said the god. "I'm Fate, by the way."

"Oh, you're Fate?" said Cohen, as they reached the gaming table. "Always wanted to meet you. I thought you were supposed to be blind?"

"No."

"How about if someone stuck two fingers in yer eyes?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Just my little joke."

"Ha. Ha," said Fate. "I wonder, O God of Fish, how good a player you are?"

"Never been much of a gambler," said Cohen, as a solitary die appeared between Fate's fingers. "A mug's game."

"Perhaps you would care for a little . . . venture?"

The crowd went silent. The minstrel looked into Fate's bottomless eyes, and knew that if you played dice with Fate the roll was always fixed.

You could have heard a sparrow fall.

"Yeah," said Cohen, at last. "Why not?"

Fate tossed the die on to the board. "Six," he said, without breaking eye contact.

"Right," said Cohen. "So I've got to a get a six too, yeah?"

Fate smiled. "Oh, no. You are, after all, a god. And gods play to win. You, O mighty one, must throw a seven."

'Seven?' said the minstrel.

"I fail to see why this should present a difficulty," said Fate, "to one entitled to be here."

Cohen turned the die over and over. It had the regulation six sides.

"I could see that could present a difficulty," he said, "but only for mortals, o' course." He tossed the die up in the air once or twice. "Seven?" he said.

"Seven," said Fate.

"Could be a knotty one," said Cohen.

The minstrel stared at him, and felt a shiver run down his spine.

"You'll remember I said that, lad?" Cohen added.