a worried-looking woman in white and red. He found that, as he had dreaded, half those thronging the Temple screamed for Moriana and the other half screamed for Moriana's blood.
'But won't the ones who call you savior protect you from the others?' asked Ziore.
'More likely the two factions will pull her apart in a tug of war,' Fost answered grimly. 'It's happened before.' He had lost his own parents to a riot many years ago when the mob rose up in rage at learning the dole was to be cut to cover the expenses of celebrating Teom's ascension to the Sapphire Throne.
'If I must face them, then I shall,' she said, tossing back her hair. 'Where's my sword?' Moriana walked toward the front of the hall.
Fost seized her arm. Her eyes blazed as she spun on him, but she neither broke his grip nor fried him with a lightning bolt.
'You won't defeat the Dark Ones by getting yourself torn to pieces on the Temple steps,' he pointed out.
'What would you do? Do you want me to cower among the statues until the mob rushes the gates and drags me out? If I must die, I'll do it on my own two feet, with my head held high.'
Fost knew it wasn't bravado speaking. She had gone to what seemed certain doom in the Sky City and the Circle of the Skywell to face the Demon Istu himself. She had succeeded in slowing the Demon's pace long enough for many of her subjects in the City to escape; not once had she wavered in front of that black, soul-sucking being. 'No need,' he said. 'Where are the Wardens of the Temple?'
Grasping the peril of the situation, the portly priest gathered up his skirts and hustled off in search of one of the brown-robed custodians of the Temple. Two figures soon returned, both tall, both with brown hoods drawn well up and closed to cover their faces. They carried faded leather satchels containing ceramic jars slung over their shoulders. They paused for a moment listening to the battle raging on the other side of the vast structure, and then hurried off through the puddles and refuse that desecrated the interior of the Temple. They slipped through a side door and made their way through the city's alleys.
They dined as they generally had since coming to High Medurim, alone in their apartments except for the two genies. After they had finished, the chamberlain arrived all a twitter to go over the protocols they would be called on to observe on the morrow when Teom invested them both as nobles of the Empire. When the man left at last, pale hands fluttering like a mother bird drawing attention away from her nest, they both felt as tired as if they'd been forced to run around the entire city of Medurim – twice. A sultry, sticky sea breeze blew in through the windows, laden with the smell of dead fish.
Moriana had a stack of scrolls and books piled in the corner, grimoires that a servant had brought over from the Library. But she claimed to be too tired to make sense of them. For his part, Fost toyed with the notion of paying a visit to Oracle.
He just as quickly discarded the idea. Since the night of the orgy celebrating their initial arrival to the city, Empress Temalla had taken to popping out at him as he walked the corridors, particularly at night. He knew all too well what would happen if he angered her, and he was running out of tactful refusals to her sexual overtures. The last time had been the most embarrassing. He had admitted – lied – that he had contracted an uncomfortable fungus infection from riding so long in a wet saddle. At that, the Empress had laughed uproariously and told him she was too old to believe in a child's fable and that he must have gotten the blight by becoming more familiar with his war dog than was conventional, even by High Medurim's permissive standards. He had been blushing quite authentically when they parted.
Fost and Moriana finally retired for the night, to separate pallets. Though she had not rejected his company since the battle, she hadn't encouraged intimacy, either. He had considered asking for separate quarters, yet hoped that their nearness would again spark the feelings for one another they'd lost. He undressed quickly and lay down, turning his face to the wall and trying to ignore the rustlings and shirtings Moriana made as she disrobed.
The two Athalar spirits had been cooing and making calf-eyes at one another constantly while the humans ate. Before going to her own bed, Moriana poured them together in a bronze vessel Teom had provided for just that purpose. There were many times Fost wished Erimenes and Ziore had remained as hostile to one another as when they'd first met. He had thought their incessant squabbling wearisome, but itwas nothing compared to this. Thanks to Ch'rri, the Wirix-magic spawned cat woman and a healthy dose of aphrodisiac vapors, the two genies had discovered the art of incorporeal love-making. They may not have had bodies but they carried on like pigs in rut. In spite of the squeals, moans and titters, sleep soon found Fost.
Walls of light, flowing curtains of blue and scarlet and white shifting relentlessly, colors blending seamlessly one into another circled Fost. He reached out an arm turned curiously insubstantial. Warmth met his fingertips. He pushed into the colored fog and the wall vanished, revealing a long corridor.
Unafraid, Fost walked forward. His feet met only softness, as if he marched on the very stuff of which clouds were made. The parti-colored walls remained just beyond his reach as he walked and walked and walked, for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, he realized he had acquired a companion. 'Erimenes!' he cried out in surprise. 'You have feet!'
'Of course I do, dear boy. Did you suspect tentacles – or perhaps another head?' The spirit appeared as tenuous as ever, but now Fost joined him in this ghostly state.
Ziore reached out and caressed Fost's cheek. Surprised, yet curiously calm at all happening to him, he caught up her wrist. His fingers momentarily felt substance, then his fingers flowed through her forearm. He couldn't tell if it were she or himself lacking a real dimension. 'Ahead,' came Moriana's voice. 'How lovely it is!'
Fost felt ineffable calm. His friends had joined him in this dream world, this dream. He looked in the direction Moriana pointed. Unbidden, the name 'Agift' came to mind. This was the home of the gods and goddesses. His mind flitted around the idea this was more than simple dream, then hastily moved from such conjecture. He was too caught up in the swirling nothingness at the end of the corridor. Even as Fost watched, the mists solidified into a subtly hued chamber filled with light that cast no shadow.
He blinked, then noticed a table at the far end of the room, the figures grouped around it strangely familiar to him.
Radiant in her gown of green and gold, Jirre rose as the four approached. 'Daughter,' the goddess said to Moriana. 'It is good to see you again. I had not planned on it. You may thank Majyra for this meeting.' She nodded to a young woman at the head of the table, stately in a lavender gown that left milk-white shoulders bare. Deep red hair was piled atop her head. Her eyes shone out as black as night.
'Sit and be welcome. You can stay only a short while.' As she spoke, her gown's color changed to icy blue.
Fost hadn't noticed the four chairs before. He and the others took seats and faced the Three and Twenty Wise Ones, their gods and goddesses.
'We are not all here,' said the older woman to Majyra's left. 'Tothyr and Avalys won't come because they find Majyra too frivolous, and several of the others are missing for whatever reason. Who can say with us?' She drew deeply on a leaf-rolled cigarette, then blew the smoke out. The smoke danced and formed fleeting caricatures of those missing from the table. Fost blushed when he recognized the acts being performed by those smoky figures.
'I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Majyra,' said Moriana, gathering her wits more rapidly than Fost. Of them all she took this with the most aplomb. Even Erimenes remained uncharacteristically silent in the presence of the deities.
'And to you, Jirre,' continued Moriana, 'I offer my thanks and eternal devotion for the aid rendered at the Black March.'
'You are welcome,' said Jirre, a smile curling her lips. 'I truly wish I could do more. But as I told you, I cannot.'
'What of the others? My world is your domain. The Dark Ones threaten it. Can't you take an active part in defending it?'
Several of the deities stirred impatiently. Fost felt the shape of the chamber altering, as if the emotions rising somehow changed the very physical dimensions of the room. He sensed that few of the Three and Twenty assembled were favorably disposed toward him – or Moriana.
'Let me explain,' Jirre said, looking down the table and silencing the grumbles. 'We summoned you here to tell you that we cannot aid you. Or if aid might be possible, then it must be given indirectly.' 'But why?' asked Ziore.
'The ways of gods are not the ways of men,' pontificated Erimenes. The spirit fell silent when Jirre scowled in
