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CHAPTER 12

Ariadne wasn't surprised when Androgeos' visit was followed by one from her father. She had always understood her mother's purpose—to diminish her and Dionysus, who had rejected her—but her father, older and wiser, might have seen something she had missed. Fortunately Androgeos had given away the real reason for Minos' attempts to wheedle and bludgeon her into supporting the cult of the Bull God. All he was trying to protect was his pride. He didn't wish to humble himself to Daidalos. So, although Minos was far more skillful than Androgeos in his pleading and attacks, he was unable to waken either sympathy or fear in her.

Despite the wonder Daidalos had created for her to dance on, Ariadne was by no means fond of him. He was always sour and complaining, acting put-upon because he was required to give service for his keep. But fair is fair; ungracious as he was, it was Minos himself who had ordered Daidalos to give Pasiphae the seeming of a cow. He had no right to punish Daidalos for doing so.

Ariadne held to her absolute refusal to appear in any capacity, even as a simple visitor, in the temple of the Bull God. And not a ten-day later, she had cause to be passionately grateful that Androgeos had armored her against her father's wiles.

"Where is he?" the voice she had longed for, wept for, bellowed simultaneously in her head and in her ear. "Where is he?"

Ariadne shot bolt upright and fastened her hands to those that were grinding flesh into bone in her shoulders. She was mute with terror, fearing in her sleep-dazed state that Dionysus was accusing her of defection to the Bull God.

"She'll kill him! I must go there. Where is he?"

The exclamation that "she would kill him" cured that fear and the blind eyes that stared at her and didn't see, the beads of clammy sweat that glittered faintly in the dim light of the night-lamp, told her that Dionysus was in the throes of a Vision or the aftermath of one.

"Tell me! My lord, you must tell me! I only see your Visions though your voice."

He swallowed hard, struggling to explain. "A dark room but faintly lit with moonlight? A night-lamp? I'm not sure of that, but I could see a bed only . . . only near half of it was gone, swallowed up by a—a blackness."

He drew a gasping breath and Ariadne used the grip she had on his hands, which had eased their bruising hold on her, to pull him around somewhat so he could sit on the bed.

"An evil blackness?" she asked, not because she thought so—her heartflower was fully open and the silvery mist of strands from it was telling her that the blackness wasn't what brought beads of fear-sweat to Dionysus' face.

"No! No, there's no evil in the blackness. It's a disguise only—but I don't understand . . ."

"Understanding is my part, my lord. You need only speak your Vision."

His eyes grew even more unfocussed, and Ariadne knew he was literally replaying the Vision in his mind. "I See a glimmer of light approaching the door to the chamber," he began. "It grows brighter and a woman appears in the door way, holding a lamp in one hand; the other is closed over what I think is a small scrap of cloth."

Ariadne gasped and shivered as Dionysus' Vision suddenly became manifest to her. She not only heard him; a picture of his Seeing flowed back to her through the mist of silver tendrils, a picture filled with a terrible sense of fear and desolation. But she wasn't certain whether that emotion was coming from the Vision itself or whether it was Dionysus' fear and sorrow that she was feeling.

"She's beautiful, more beautiful than any Olympian woman, except perhaps Aphrodite," Dionysus continued, almost chanting, "but she's a native."

Ariadne heard him, but she was far more caught by the expression on the woman's face than by her beauty.

"She comes close to the bed and begins to whisper, gesturing with the hand that holds the piece of cloth. She's casting a spell. I can see it spin out from her hand and fall, like tiny beads of light, on the blackness. The beads sink into the blackness. I can see them drifting, marking out the figure of a man, marking out the threads of another spell, that one which creates the blackness. He stirs. The beads burst into flame. He screams and screams again. The blackness disappears. It's Eros—my friend Eros, writhing in pain."

Ariadne drew in a deep breath. She had glanced only briefly at the tortured man. Her attention had been all on the woman, who had staggered back when Eros became visible, crying out with a terrible dismay.

Dionysus grasped her shoulders tight again and shook her. "Mouth," he demanded, "tell me where they are! That's not Eros' chamber in Aphrodite's house. I know that room well. Tell me where they are so I can stop her before she kills Eros."

"She won't kill Eros," Ariadne said. The Vision was gone, but she could still see it.

"Where are they?" Dionysus roared. "I Saw her killing Eros. I'll tear her in pieces, and Aphrodite will help."

"No!" Ariadne cried, seizing his arms; through her hands pulse after pulse of soothing silver flowed. "The woman meant no harm to Eros and has done him no lasting harm." She spoke slowly and clearly, willing calm to him. "Didn't you hear what she said when the blackness drained away? She didn't know Eros was concealed in the dark cloud."

He blinked and his eyes focused on her. In the dim light, they looked as if the silver mist that was flowing out of her had colored them silver instead of bright blue.

"If she meant no harm," he asked, "why did she cast that spell, which caused him so much pain?"

He was still angry, but not frantic now. Ariadne shrugged, but didn't loosen her grip on him. "Your Vision didn't tell me that. I can only Speak what I saw in the woman's face before she cast the spell—that was love, great love, and a desire to help whoever was hidden by the darkness."

"So much pain?" Dionysus whispered. "Are you telling me that I should do nothing?" His face creased with anxiety. "Eros was in agony. I could feel it."

Ariadne had felt it too, and her certainty in her interpretation was shaken. Seeking reassurance, she looked past Dionysus, to the blacker shadow in the opposite wall. Did it move? Gesture? Perhaps not, but she knew. Eros' pain wouldn't torment him long and wasn't important; however, there was something Dionysus must do.

"Yes," she said, her voice deeper, smoother than was natural to her, "there's something you must do. This time your Vision was sent to save your friend—but not from the spellcaster so it doesn't matter where they are. You must stop Aphrodite from harming the woman. If the woman dies, Eros will also die."

"He mustn't die," Dionysus said. "Eros is my friend. He doesn't say, `Dionysus what do you want?' and give it to me immediately so that I'll go away. He offers me wine and cakes and talks to me. He mustn't die."

Ariadne was a trifle amused by Dionysus' simple self-centered reason for protecting Eros, but the need in his voice laid bare his terrible loneliness and the vicious circle of the hurt that led to anger, the anger that lashed out and woke fear, which led to withdrawal or avoidance and bred more hurt. There was nothing amusing in that. She reached out and touched Dionysus' face tenderly.

"Eros won't die," she said, and then impelled by some inner certainty, she added, "He's greatly beloved of the Mother and She has sent you this Seeing to save him. Go, Dionysus. Explain to Aphrodite."

Dionysus caught Aphrodite just in time, just as she was about to leap to where the woman lived and, he feared, kill her. He seized her, holding her fast, ignoring her outraged shriek, and shook her. Small fists pounded his legs and back; small nails scratched his hips; baby teeth fastened in one calf. He was too accustomed to the pain of bites and scratches to be distracted.

"Does Eros live?" he roared, shaking Aphrodite again. The attacks on him redoubled; there were shrill cries of rage; more small hands gripped him.

"Yes," she cried. "Let me go. Let me revenge myself on Psyche for the pain she caused him."

"No," he said. "Or at least your revenge must be such that it does her no real harm. My Mouth looked into my Vision and told me that if you harm the woman, Eros will die."

Aphrodite sagged in his grip and sighed. "I know it. I never meant to hurt her, only to make her suffer, to make her pay for what she did." Then she blinked at him. "You Saw Psyche bespell Eros? Why didn't you try to stop her?"

"I had no idea where she and Eros were! I was almost crazy with fear. I leapt to Knossos. The priestess there is a true Mouth. It was she who told me that Eros would suffer no permanent harm from the spell, but that if the woman who cast it was harmed—Psyche, you said she was called—Eros would die."

"He is deeply bound to her," Aphrodite said with an angry grimace and a sigh. "He calls her `his soul.' What did she do? Why did she do it?"

Dionysus tried to help Aphrodite to a chair, but found himself unable to move. Each thigh was encircled; there were arms about his waist and hands on his ankles. He looked down and around at six or seven small faces. They were no more than eight years old for the eldest, but all were grimly determined to protect their goddess. He couldn't help laughing, which made Aphrodite look down too. He saw her mouth quiver, but she clicked her tongue against her teeth and gravely shook her head.

"Children. Children. Let Dionysus go. Look what you have done! He's all scratched, and bitten too. Oh, how wicked you all are!"

"He grabbed you."

"You screamed."

"He shook you."

Three shrill voices and wordless protests from the others.

"And you wished to save me," Aphrodite said gently. "Well, I'll forgive you, but Dionysus is a friend. You know that. You know he wouldn't hurt me unless it was very important. He was trying to stop me from doing something that would have caused great harm to Eros—who is also his friend. Now, say you are sorry."

There was a reluctant chorus, and Dionysus smiled at the downcast faces. "I understand," he said. "You're forgiven. Indeed, you're commended. Aphrodite is very precious and should be protected."

Her silvery laugh tinkled and she smiled, although her head was still half turned toward Eros' rooms. Then she sighed. "It's very late, children. Off to bed with you all."

They trooped off, two of the youngest looking back at him somewhat doubtfully. Aphrodite smiled at them but said nothing until the sound of their passing was cut off by the snick of a door. Then she listened for a moment more, but the house was silent. She beckoned and went into the central room. A gesture lit concealed mage lights; the walls were painted to resemble a garden, a small fountain tinkled, and night-blooming flowers shone. She took a chair and gestured toward another. Dionysus stood before it for a moment, looking in the direction of Eros' apartment.

"Would I do harm if I went to him?"

"He's asleep. Asclepias is with him."

Dionysus nodded with relief and sat down. Asclepias, it was said, could heal anything—sometimes even death. "My Mouth says Eros is beloved of the Mother and that She sent my Vision to protect him."

"Little as I like it, your Mouth might have spoken the truth. He could barely speak, but all he said was `Don't harm Psyche. Don't.' Well, I won't, but she'll suffer for what she did. Why, Dionysus? You didn't answer me. What did Psyche do and why did she do it?"

"As to why, I don't know. I asked the same question of my Mouth and she said my Vision didn't explain why. Ask Psyche. What she did is easy to describe. On the bed was a blackness. Psyche cast a spell and the blackness disappeared. Although my Mouth didn't interpret that, it's easy enough to understand. Psyche sought to remove the blackness. Why, I don't know. What my Mouth did say was that she did it out of great love and a desire to help."

"Stupid bitch!" Aphrodite's delicate features were not made for rage, but reflected it nonetheless. "Likely she nearly killed Eros out of idiot curiosity, just to see what was under the cloud of darkness." She snorted delicately. "Natives! Your Mouth is native too. Do you believe what she tells you?"

"Yes. She's never been wrong." He frowned. "There's more. When I'm with her, I feel a touch within me. She can quicken the grapes alone as well as I. Like Eros, she's greatly beloved of the Mother. I have felt the power flow into her, both in the vineyards and when she performs the praise-dances. There's more to her than a simple native."

Aphrodite cocked her head. Although half her attention was plainly on catching any sound from Eros' apartment, that statement had caught her attention. "As there was in Semele?" she asked.

"More than in Semele. I sought out Semele because she was my mother, because I believed Zeus had wronged her, because I thought . . . No, that doesn't matter. I was mistaken. Now I'm not. Ariadne isn't afraid of me and—and has no cause to be because she can contain my . . . my madness."

"Contain it?" Now Aphrodite fixed all her attention on him, concern in her expression. "Are you sure you aren't mistaken about this priestess?" she asked gently. "Silenos was here—he comes to tell stories to the children—he was all bruised and bitten. He didn't speak to me, but I could read his face and the marks told their own story of . . . violence."

"It's true enough." Dionysus' mouth was sullen. "I've been blessing the vineyards with blood and lust." Then he looked up at her and smiled, shamefaced. "More blood than lust. But that's not the fault of the priestess. I quarreled with her and have withdrawn from her for two years."

Aphrodite's eyes opened wide. "She quarreled with you bitterly enough that you withdrew from her for two years . . . and she is alive? She does then truly contain your rage."

"Calms it is a better description. It's not as if the rage were poured into a stoppered flask and would burst out again if the stopper were withdrawn." He grinned again. "It—it's as if she rained on my fire."

"You do not like to be quenched?" Aphrodite asked. "Is that why you left her?"

"No. She defied me." He shrugged. "She was right to do so. I even knew it, but . . . Do you remember when I was so troubled by the Vision of a white bull with a man's head?"

"Yes, I do." Aphrodite sounded surprised. "You came to tell me about it and Hephaestus was here or came later. I'm not sure about that, but I do remember the Vision of the white bull."

"I couldn't rid myself of it, which is why I came to tell you. I hoped that would wash it from my mind. It didn't, but very soon after, Ariadne Called me and explained the Vision and it was gone. I had another on the same subject—" his mouth turned down with distaste "—and she told me it would mean that her mother, in the guise of a cow, would couple with Poseidon in the form of a bull."

"That's usually Zeus' ploy, isn't it? Was she confused between the two?"

"Oh, no. It was quite true. Out of that coupling a monster was born, a boy with the head of a bull."

"Oh, dear! Poseidon must have been very angry with your priestess's family."

"Yes. With cause. He'd answered King Minos' prayer for a sign he was the rightful king. Poseidon sent a white bull, which was then to be sacrificed, as the sign. But Minos liked the bull too much to kill it. He tried to breed it to his cows."

Aphrodite burst out laughing. "An exchange of cows? Natives! You should have withdrawn yourself as soon as the Vision was satisfied."

"I couldn't. I thought I could save Ariadne from much trouble so I told her I'd show her how to kill the babe with no pain or fear. Not only for her, but for the poor creature himself—to ward off the suffering he would endure and would inflict on the whole of her people. But she said I was the monster, not the poor malformed babe, and she would worship me no longer. So I left her. But she was right. It was a lesson from the Mother."

Aphrodite pressed her lips together uneasily at that avowal. There were many in Olympus who objected strenuously to worship of the Mother. Eros, on the other hand, acknowledged Her with devotion. Aphrodite herself cared little either way, only wishing not to be embroiled in the argument.

"So this Ariadne can quench your fire." Aphrodite grinned, avoiding approval or disapproval of his last remark. "And you have long needed a companion, aside from that mean-spirited Bacchus and no-spirited Silenos. Are you going to offer her the chance to come to Olympus?"

"You think that wrong?"

"Not if she is what you think she is and you can cozen Persephone into extending her life."

"I will speak to Persephone, of course, but I don't think her intervention will be necessary. I tell you the Mother gives to Ariadne without asking. No, I meant, would you be kind to her if I brought her here or would she be shunned as Semele was?"

"Dionysus—" Aphrodite leaned forward and touched his face gently "—Semele wasn't sensible. She wanted Zeus back." She laughed merrily. "Who can hold Zeus? And when we told her that and also that, strange as their relationship is, he truly loves Hera, Semele didn't take what we told her as well intentioned. She felt we were against her because she was of native stock. Ariadne will be treated . . . well, by most of us; I wouldn't swear to the behavior of Athena or Artemis or Apollo . . . as she invites."

"It is what—" Dionysus began, but a door latch snicked and Aphrodite was on her feet, running into the corridor.

Dionysus followed close behind, stopping a courteous distance away as Aphrodite accosted a tall, thin man with a gentle expression.

"There's no danger now," Asclepias said. "He'll live and without any harm done, but he must rest and do no magic, which would be very painful, for at least a moon. Another thing, he mustn't be worried or anxious about anything. He's fearful that someone will hurt a Psyche. I assured him she was safe and wouldn't be harmed a dozen times, but—"

"His lover. He's afraid I'll be angry with her. Well, I am! I'm furious!" She sighed. "But I'll do her no harm."

"Then the best way to reassure him is if you will stay with him yourself. Right now he's still fighting the drugs. By morning he should be sufficiently calm for you to leave him."

"I'll go to him—" She remembered Dionysus then and turned toward him.

"Go, go," Dionysus urged anxiously. "Since I'm not the only one warning you about Psyche, I'm no longer needed here." Then, looking at the physician, he said, "Thank you for saving Eros, Asclepias. I haven't so many friends that I can spare one."

"No one can spare a friend," the thin man said. Then his hand tightened nervously on his strange staff. "Eros should be as calm as possible," he added. "I don't think you should visit him. Any excitement will cause him pain, any strong emotion might do real harm."

He had only meant to thank the physician for his care, and this was how he was rewarded, Dionysus thought. Anger and resentment woke at the tacit hint he should go because he was so stupid or uncaring as to incite Eros to rage or lust. Before common sense could remind him that the physician would have said the same thing to any visitor, Dionysus' emotions flooded outward. Asclepias gripped his staff even harder. Aphrodite gasped. Before the fear of him could fuel still more intense flame and hurt a person of great value, Dionysus leapt for Knossos.

Two small arms caught him tight as his knees buckled, but these were loving, supporting, not angry. Still they weren't much larger or much stronger than those of the children who had tried to defend Aphrodite. He had never hurt a child. The flames turned inward, but before they could sear him, they met a cool, soft barrier and died.

As the rage died, so did the remains of his strength. His weight became too much for both his knees and the arms that supported him. He began to slip toward the floor, but with a clever twist and push, he was turned so that he collapsed into a cushioned chair.

"You came back, my lord, you came back," Ariadne cried, sinking to her knees and kissing his hands.

Joy and peace filled the emptiness that his lost anger had left. Warmth from her grip soothed his cold hands. His body recognized the chair; he looked around and saw the gilded table, the golden bowl that had always rested on it, the cushion Ariadne had risen from. She had changed nothing in the years he had been away, and she had been waiting for him in "his" place.

The dimly lit room was as he remembered it from a time when rage didn't overcome him unbidden, when he could grip his fury and pain and use them as weapons he could control. A shudder ran through him. He was slipping away into real madness, he thought, but the rhythm and harmony of the groupings of the furnishings and the adequate open space around them let him breathe and kept panic at bay.

"Yes," he said. "I came back, and I never should have stayed away so long."

She looked up, eyes full of tears. "Will you forgive me for saying such dreadful things to you? For defying you? I'm sorry for that, very sorry, my lord, but . . . but I haven't really changed. I won't abandon poor Asterion nor allow hurt to come to him if I can save him."

Defiance again, but he felt only amusement and comfort because, even while she clung to his hands and her expression pleaded with him, she stubbornly maintained her position—and she wasn't afraid. He laughed.

"No, you won't, will you? Well, you needn't fear for the bull-head on my part. I'll do him no harm, nor ask you to harm him."

Ariadne sighed with relief and bent to kiss his hands again. When she looked up, she saw that his expression had changed to anxiety, the mouth downturned in self-loathing.

"In the end, you were quite right," he said when he saw her attention on him. "I am more of a monster than he—"

"No! No, you aren't. You are as much—no, more—a victim of those around you—"

He raised a shaking hand and stroked her hair. "If I don't force you to see me as I am, you will look aside from the evil I do, won't you, Chosen?"

"I love you," she whispered. "Perhaps I shouldn't look aside, but I love you. I can't help it."

"I believe you," he said, bending forward so that he could rest his head on hers and murmur into her hair, "I don't know of one other being anywhere in the upper- or underworld who loves me."

She put her arms around his neck. "That can't be true, my lord. You are—"

With her arms around him, Ariadne became aware that his skin was cold and clammy, that he was trembling. She raised her head carefully so that she didn't disturb his, shifting position gently until her cheek was against him.

"You're cold and wet and shivering," she whispered. "Are you ill, my lord?" As the words came out, she wondered how a god could be ill and whether he would be angry with her for noticing.

"No, not ill. Just tired. I've done too much leaping too quickly. Even my well of power can be drained."

Could the Mother's well of power be drained? Ariadne didn't think so, but she had no intention of asking questions to which she didn't really want the answers. Instead and before her curiosity could play traitor to her heart, she asked, "But you came in time to save the woman, didn't you?"

"Woman?" he repeated vaguely, then remembered why he was so exhausted, why he needed to be comforted by Ariadne. "The woman who cast that spell on Eros. Yes. Her name is Psyche. I was in time, but Aphrodite already knew she mustn't harm her. Eros—ill as he was—had already pleaded her cause. So a Vision that frightened me half to death was again useless."

"No, my lord, that's not true. You belittle yourself unjustly. That Eros pleaded for Psyche doubtless told Aphrodite how important Psyche was to him, but that is a two-edged sword. Intending to do no more than castigate Psyche for the harm she had done, jealousy might have lent just that sharp prod that could make Aphrodite forget herself. Your warning from the Mother will curb that likelihood."

That was very likely true, but it hadn't occurred to him. The hard bands that bound his neck and shoulders eased. He lifted his head, drawing back a little—but not so far that Ariadne's arms were pulled from his neck—stared down at her, then said, "Chosen, I have done much harm in the time we have been parted."

"Perhaps."

Ariadne smiled at him tenderly, feeling the mist of silver tendrils shift from a wall that held something confined into a comforting blanket that enveloped him completely. He must have felt it too, she thought, because he drew a deep breath and straightened a little more. She let her hands slip gently down his shoulders so she could grip his arms.

"But it will do you no good to sorrow over the past," she said, "nor, really, to try to think of how matters might be amended. You're too tired now. Come, my lord, my love. Come lie down in my bed and rest. In the morning, together we'll consider what has been done, what might be undone, and what can be restored."

As the words came from her mouth, she was appalled. She, a common native telling a god she would help him decide how to treat his worshipers? But he certainly wasn't angry. If his expression changed, it showed a lessening of tension and anxiety. She rose, pulling at him very gently, and he came to his feet also.

Their bodies were very close. Dionysus' arms tensed to pull her hard against him. He was tempted to do more than rest in her bed. But the arm that encircled his waist was as small and delicately rounded as a child's and the face she raised trustingly to his came barely to his shoulder. She was too young; he couldn't couple with a child.

He let her lead him to the bed and pull aside the covers so he could lie down. When she drew up the blankets they were scented by the perfume she wore. As his eyes closed, he recalled how her breasts had lifted her robe and how the curve of her hips filled it . . . but only for a moment before sleep took him.

He was aware several times during the night that the bed he was in was not his own, but that wasn't so unusual as to wake him completely. He merely bent his body into a more comfortable position. But when light beyond his eyelids and the cold metal of the foot of the bed pressing his ankle reminded him that native beds were much shorter than those of the taller Olympians, he did rouse.

The first thing he saw was the black statuette in the niche of the opposite wall. "You found Her!" he exclaimed, as the door opened and Ariadne came through.

He was not at all surprised that she knew he had wakened. That touch between them that was hers, which he now realized had been missing and by the emptiness it left behind had added to his misery, had warned her.

"Yes." Her face was troubled. "She was hidden away in an old chest, wrapped in torn rags. Why, my lord? Who would so treat this marvelous image of the Mother in such a way?"

"Likely the woman who took my priestess's place. She had no touch of the Mother in her. Perhaps the image raised some fear or some sense that she was lacking . . ." He smiled at her. "The things you ask me. How should I know?"

She acted as if she had not heard his last question, just smiled again and said, "Your bath is ready, my lord."

He climbed out of bed, stretching his cramped legs before he put his weight on them and becoming aware from the acrid aroma that he had slept in his tunic, sweat-drenched from his efforts and fears the previous night. As he pulled it off and dropped it on the floor, he was reminded of his desire for Ariadne and glanced at her.

Unlike some other peoples, the Cretans were not in the least disturbed by nudity. Ariadne was looking at him with frankness and admiration, still smiling faintly, but she was no larger than a child, and he could detect no desire in her expression. And then it changed to mild concern.

"Oh dear, you are scratched and bitten again. Shall I bring the salves . . ."

He laughed aloud. "The wounds aren't deep. It was Aphrodite's children. She and Eros are both so beautiful that adult servants invariably develop most unsuitable passions. Aphrodite has solved that problem by having small children, under the age when they know the difference between man and woman, serve her. They adore her, of course, as she's the kindest of mistresses and very fond of children—"

"Fond of children!" Ariadne exclaimed, laughing too. "I'm so glad to hear that. I was always terrified of her because little children are demanded by her priestesses and are never seen again."

"Believe me, they're happy and well cared for, much better than they could be in their parents' homes—" He stopped abruptly and smiled. "Why don't you come with me to Olympus? I'll take you to Aphrodite's house and you can see the little . . . ah—" he grinned, " . . . blessed ones."

Her eyes grew so large and round he thought they might fall out of her face. "Me?" she breathed. "Go to Olympus? I—oh, my lord, I'm afraid . . ."

He could see that; he could feel it in the dimming of the warmth of her touch inside him. He put out a hand, and although her face was gray with pallor, she came forward and laid her own in it. Fear usually sparked a terrible violence in him, but hers was so mixed with trust that he felt only tenderness. When nothing worse happened than a gentle squeeze of her fingers, she sighed deeply.

Dionysus drew her close and kissed her forehead. What had set off her fear, he wondered? Did she think he would whisk her away without any other preparation? He chuckled softly, realizing, with a touch of amusement, he might have done so if she hadn't reacted so violently. Then his amusement was gone. Had he done that to Semele? If so, he had made a mistake, yes, but at least she hadn't fled some loathsomeness in him. The pain of his mother's rejection was less sharp—and that, too, was a gift from Ariadne. He smiled again.

"Well, you've nothing to fear before I bathe and have breakfast," he said briskly. "Then we can talk about it. I think you would like Olympus. It's very beautiful, but doubtless I'll be more convincing when my mouth doesn't taste like a midden and I don't smell like a stable. That tunic must be washed, too, and will take time to dry."

"You left two tunics here, my lord, and I have cleaned them and made them ready for you."

"You expected me to come back then?"

She shook her head. "Expected? No. But I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. To the Mother, to you—"

Dionysus smiled and squeezed her hand again, then moved toward the bathing chamber. Were those prayers to the Mother what brought the Vision of Eros and Psyche to him, he wondered? Perhaps what Ariadne said was true, and his warning to Aphrodite was an additional protection to Psyche, but surely the Mother could have more than one purpose.

As he passed he glanced at the dark figure in its niche. A flood of warmth enveloped him and the last remnants of his exhaustion were gone. Did the shadow-mouth smile? Could the Vision, so terrifying to him, have also been designed to reunite him with Ariadne?

Bathed and clothed in a fresh tunic—clearly lovingly cared for and scented with a rich but not cloying perfume—Dionysus sat down in his chair and addressed a surprisingly massive breakfast. Not, he discovered a bit to his surprise, that it was more than he wanted. He was starving. If her "touch" had told Ariadne how hungry he was, he would have to be very careful when he brought her to Olympus. She would know far too much about him.

She nibbled this and that when he invited her to join him, but it was clear that she had no appetite.

"There is nothing to be afraid of in Olympus," he said somewhat mendaciously after a last swallow of a remarkably fine wine.

"Not for you, my lord," Ariadne said, smiling faintly. "You're a god and to live among gods is natural and right to you. For me—" she shuddered "—I don't want to die."

"Die?" he echoed, grabbing for her and gripping her shoulder. "What do you mean, die? What has dying to do with going to Olympus?"

"Doesn't one have to die before going to the blessed lands?"

He let go of her and breathed out explosively. "I wonder who put such weird ideas into your head. Olympus isn't the so-called `blessed land.' It's the place where we, the Olympians, live. And we're all very much alive." His mouth twisted wryly. "Sometimes too much alive, I think."

"You mean you wish to take me, as I am, in my mortal flesh, to live among gods? Oh, Dionysus, that can't be right. How can it be possible for a common person like me to live among gods?"

"You are no common person, Ariadne. You're the Mother's beloved daughter and your strength, like mine, comes from Her. It wasn't I who blessed the vineyards, even when I went with you. The blessing came from Her, and it was through you that it flowed into the land."

"I acknowledge that. I praise Her with all my heart every day and I dance for Her on Her special festivals. But that doesn't make me fit to live with gods, my lord."

Dionysus sat silent, looking first into Ariadne's upturned face and then out of the window well. He saw again the slight movement of shadow on the dark face of the image that could have been an approving smile. He recalled how careful Ariadne was to hide from everyone any sign of weakness about him—any sign that he could stink like any other man when he was overworked and overworn, that his flesh could be marred by wounds. She'd made it plain that she washed his tunics with her own hands and she had carried the salves in secretly and anointed his hurts privately.

"We aren't gods, Ariadne," he said.

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Framed