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CHAPTER 16

In the corridor Ariadne was dimly aware of gasps and muted cries. She tried to speak to assure Phaidra who had screamed, "You are bleeding!" that she wasn't hurt, but she had no voice and all her strength was concentrated on a struggle to keep from fainting. Then much louder screams and shouts threatened that the Minotaur had decided to follow her. She tried to turn to beg him to go back, but a pair of powerful hands seized her. That was too much. The final horror sent her whirling away into a blackness of unknowing.

She wasn't spared memory, however. Before her eyes opened she recalled the blood, the torn flesh. She stiffened and pushed at the arms that held her, crying, "Let me go."

"You'll fall."

Her eyes snapped open to meet the blue of Dionysus' gaze. And they were in her own chamber at the shrine. "My lord," she breathed. "I thought you were the Minotaur." And she bowed her head onto his breast, weeping, gasping and rocking in her grief.

For a time Dionysus held her without speaking, stroking her hair and warming her with his body as she had warmed him, countless times, when he had arrived icy cold with Seeing. At last her sobs diminished and he led her, not to their usual place but to a couch where he could sit beside her.

"I'm so sorry, my love," he murmured. "Poseidon never cares whom he hurts. If he was angry at your father, he should have stricken him. . . . "

Ariadne threw up her head. "What? And perhaps have a king of Knossos who would be less devoted, less generous in sacrifice? Only once did my father defy Poseidon, and even then he gave three bulls for the one he kept." Her voice broke and she began to sob again. Dionysus pulled her against him and held her tight.

"What can I do, love?" he asked. "I haven't the power to change the Minotaur into a man. Even Hekate knew no way to undo Poseidon's will and she knows magic far beyond Olympian Gifts. I did ask. I even asked Zeus." He hesitated, lifted her face and kissed her tear-drenched eyes. "It would have been better if you had listened to me eight years ago," he said sadly. "It would have saved much grief, the poor bull-head's as well as yours and others, if he hadn't lived."

"Perhaps," she sighed. "But he was so little and helpless, so horribly ugly. To kill him . . . No, I couldn't."

"You have too soft a heart. He wasn't little and helpless for very long. And now he's killed some innocent servant. What will you do about that?"

"You're a fine one to talk," Ariadne said, pushing him away. "You speak as if you've never killed, as if you're not also a cruel god who can't be bothered to try to help those who worship him. I've excused you for so many horrors. I told myself they were caused by lack of understanding. Now I see I lied to myself. You never cared. Likely you took joy in seeing Pentheus torn apart by his own mother and her women. You—"

"No!" Dionysus cried, paling. "I never meant that. I've killed and permitted killing to fructify the vines, mostly evildoers and willing sacrifices, but Pentheus was oppressing the women who came to my shrines. I only wanted them to be free, at least for a little while, of the bonds men had laid on them. I thought they would beat him, frighten him, teach him that he must allow women to worship me. I didn't know how deep went the hate . . . " His voice faded and he stared at Ariadne. "Do you hate me?" he asked faintly.

She looked at his face, turned, and took him in her arms. His eyes were staring, not with Vision, not blind, but wide with fear. "Not for being a man," she said, almost finding a smile. "Not even for being a god. Only when you're cruel and uncaring."

He shook his head mutely, too bound up in the painful acknowledgment that he'd fallen into the trap he'd been warned against countless times. He had fallen in love with a native, so deep in love that he couldn't contemplate living without her.

"You must come with me to Olympus," he burst out. "It's not enough for me to come here. I need you to be one with me, woven into my life. You blame me for being cruel and uncaring. You'd better blame me for being ignorant. How can I know about what to care? You desire me different? Come, live with me and teach me."

A lump of ice formed in Ariadne's breast, freezing the mist of silver threads so that they shrank back from Dionysus. "I can't live among gods," she whispered, but she knew that wasn't the reason.

"They aren't gods," Dionysus snapped. "We've talked about that and you've read The History of the Olympians. We're people like any other, except longer lived, and we didn't sacrifice our Gifted, so the Gifts grew stronger."

Ariadne shivered. "How can you not be gods when Uranous could bring forth monsters from the earth and bury alive in it those who were his enemies, when Kronos could leach all warmth from flesh, plant, and rock—"

"And could himself be drained so completely that he was no more than a common native man. Can you imagine draining the Mother that way?"

"No, I can't."

Ariadne frowned because Dionysus' words had made clear to her why her heart had frozen. The Mother was threatening to withdraw her Gift if Ariadne began to believe herself equal to the Olympians. No, there was something false in that idea, but she couldn't pursue it because Dionysus was saying that she was favored of the Mother, that power flowed from her into him in the blessing of the vines, that she need fear no Olympian if the Mother loved her.

She shivered again. "The Mother favors me here in Knossos. She doesn't promise equal favor elsewhere." Ariadne glanced at the wall behind which the dark image stood in its shrine. "And how can you take me to Olympus now when you must leave it? Will you set me in your house to be at the mercy of Bacchus and Silenos?"

Dionysus remembered his reasons for not urging her to live with him over the past months, but they were reduced to near nothing by the need that his fear of losing her had inspired. "Silenos won't do you any harm," he said. "Neither will Bacchus—" He hesitated and then went on quickly. "At least come for a few days, until I must leave. Let me make you known to Aphrodite and Eros and Psyche, and to that mischievous devil Hermes. When he knows they are watching over you, Bacchus will be as sweet as honeycomb."

Once she saw the beauty and enjoyed the luxury of Olympus, he thought, she might well be willing to stay. As to Bacchus—he could rid the house of him. No, he couldn't. Doubtless Bacchus would go to every Olympian who deplored too close association with the native folk and complain that Ariadne had caused him to be driven out of his home. That would set Athena and Artemis against Ariadne and those powerful women might poison the minds of many others so that poor Ariadne would be treated with dislike and contempt. But if she already had friends—specially that totally seductive trio of Aphrodite, Eros, and Psyche, and if he and Ariadne were together . . .

Mentally Dionysus groaned. They wouldn't be together. At least not in the immediate future. He was committed to go to the East with Hekate within this ten-day. He closed his eyes and pulled Ariadne closer against him. He couldn't even be rid of Bacchus that quickly, so leaving her alone in Olympus was impossible. Nor could he take her with him; there would be danger in what Hekate planned to do and, with all her power, Ariadne was not skilled enough in magic to use the power to protect herself.

Thoughts are swift, but even so there had been a noticeable pause after his request, which meant that Ariadne had not burst into instant rejection. He released her, except for a grip on her hands, so he could look into her face.

"You will come, won't you? You'll give me a chance to prove all Olympians aren't monsters?"

To Ariadne the word brought an instant image of the Minotaur's bloodstained face, of the strings of flesh hanging from his jaws. "Yes," she said, clinging to Dionysus' hands, "I will go. Only let me—"

The caveat was too late. He swept her up into his arms and leapt. A moment of bitter cold, another of sick dizziness, which made her close her eyes, and then the musical sound of trickling water. Ariadne opened her eyes in a forest glade.

"Are you all right, Chosen?" Dionysus asked anxiously. "It's a long leap for one who has never traveled that way before."

"Yes," she said, "but why didn't you give me a chance to change my clothes. I'm all bedraggled and bloodstained." Then she looked around and her eyes widened. "This can't be Olympus. Where are we?"

"In Olympus indeed. This is my house." His voice was quick and eager with pleasure as he set her on her feet.

"House?" Ariadne echoed, looking at the massive tree trunks that surrounded the little open glade where a tiny fountain spilled from a rock into a small pool.

Then she saw that the floor beneath her feet was polished stone—green malachite, it looked like; she blinked at the thought of the cost—and it wasn't open sky above her head between what seemed like overarching branches but a strange clear substance that let in the light.

"Yes, my house," Dionysus answered eagerly. "Hades worked the stone to look like trees and made the roof of that clear stuff he calls glass. He and Persephone are very kind to me. She laughs at me. The Mother is so strong in her—as She is in you—that my madness can't touch her. And Hades takes me hunting in the caves of the Underworld. The King of the Dead is beyond fear of me. Besides, the peace and majesty, the silence of the caves calms me—" he grinned briefly "—and the beasts therein are such that they take all of a hunter's attention. And the beauty of the stone world! No one can think of self in such a place. There are crystal flowers that grow from the walls and the ceilings. Hades can light them so that they glow every color of the rainbow, and in some places the caves glitter with more points of light than there are stars in the sky—"

"I don't think I'm quite ready to go to the Underworld," Ariadne said hastily, half afraid that Dionysus would whisk her off to Plutos in his enthusiasm.

"No." He smiled at her. "Olympus first." The smile faded. "When I first went to the Underworld I was so lonely that I didn't care if I were trapped there. I told you, I went to fetch my mother and Persephone pitied me so much she asked Hades to let Semele go." His smile returned in a brief flicker as he added, "Hades is besotted on his wife; he denies her nothing." Then the flicker of lightness was gone, and he turned his head aside. "But it was all in vain. Semele wanted no part of me, so I was still alone."

His voice trembled slightly and Ariadne took his hand. "While you are my god and I live, you are not alone."

He looked back at her sidelong. "I will remind you of that promise some day." Then he tugged lightly on her hand. "One good thing came of my desire to have my mother with me. I have a fine apartment all ready for you. Come and see."

Because she had hoped to share his chamber, that fact didn't give Ariadne much pleasure. However, the apartment was truly magnificent, the sitting room briliantly lit by three large windows of Hades' glass, the bedchamber so large Ariadne could have practiced her welcome dance in it, and Dionysus pointed out a handsome bathing chamber and toilet beyond. But the furnishings were horrid, dark and somber.

Still concerned with their closeness, Ariadne smiled rather mechanically and asked, "But will I be all alone here? Where is your apartment?"

He turned pointed across the short corridor off the main one leading from the glade-like reception room. "That's the door to my bedchamber. I wouldn't want you to come in thinking it was a sitting room and be shocked."

Ariadne glanced up at him but said nothing. Her first impulse had been to grin and say, "I wouldn't be shocked," but then she thought he might have been giving her a warning. If he customarily took a woman to bed with him and she walked in on their love play, she wouldn't only have been shocked but hurt and angry.

"Is there something I could wear?" she asked, wondering if a supply of women's garments were kept for his whores. "This gown is beyond cleaning, I think."

"What would I do with women's clothes?" he asked, laughing. "I'll send Silenos out to get clothing for you—he's infallible in judging sizes and what would best suit a woman—and combs and hairbrushes and . . . and . . ." He grinned. "And I haven't the faintest idea of what else you might need, but just tell Silenos."

"You don't think he might deck me out in purple silk with green and red decorations or some other totally unsuitable style or color? He can't feel very welcoming."

Dionysus shook his head. "Bacchus might try to spite you, although I doubt he would dare since I'm here with you, but not Silenos. He's really very kind, although he's not very brave or strong or very clever."

While they spoke he'd led her out though the short corridor into the wide one and back to the chamber of the forest glade where he rang a bell. A few moments later, a frightened looking servant edged into the room. In another moment, the man had straightened up from the hunched crouch in which he had entered and come forward. Ariadne watched with interest. She guessed that the man was afraid to come into Dionysus' presence—probably because he feared the backlash of Dionysus' emotions—but sensing his master was calm, he was not afraid of ill treatment.

"I want Silenos," Dionysus said.

The servant bowed.

"And this is the Lady Ariadne, my Chosen," he continued. "Any command she gives or request she makes is to be obeyed and satisfied without question or any need of further approval from anyone."

"Dionysus!" Ariadne exclaimed, laughing. "What if I suddenly went mad and told the man to set the house afire? At least say `Any sensible command or request.' "

Dionysus laughed also and waved the servant out. He went at once, but not before Ariadne caught an expression of astonishment on his face. For a moment she was puzzled and then she guessed, remembering what Dionysus had said about everyone giving him what he wanted at once without question or argument, that the servant had not expected her to correct the god. Her attention came back to Dionysus when a bitter note entered his laughter.

"Not that the servants in this house would know a sensible command from a mad one," he said, and then added, "Poor things, they are accustomed to madness."

Ariadne could sense the rising hurt and wrath in him. The tendrils of her heartflower stirred and flowed outward, sluggishly at first and then more freely, but the heartflower itself was strangely still. It didn't pulse with warmth in time with the beating of her heart and give her a sense of strength and power. It was cold and heavy. I mustn't stay here long, Ariadne thought. The Mother hasn't yet taken away my power over Dionysus, but She's warning me.

Meanwhile Dionysus' resentful words had died away. Ariadne smiled at him. "They're afraid of the lash of your rage and pain, my dear lord," she said softly, "but they don't fear you. Didn't you see how gladly the man came forward to serve you as soon as he felt your calmness—"

She got no further. Around the corner of the door came the slightly sneering blond who had told her never to Call Dionysus again. Her mouth dried with nervousness. She had never discovered how much influence Bacchus had on his master.

"My lord," the blond said, bowing, "I met Myron in the corridor and he said you wanted Silenos, but he's asleep. He was, perhaps, a bit too merry last night, and he's not as quick to recover as he used to be. May I serve you?"

"I think I need Silenos," Dionysus said, frowning, but Ariadne put a hand on his arm.

An idea had occurred to her. She could test how far Bacchus would dare go. Dionysus looked down at her and she said, "Oh, don't wake the old man. Since he's so eager to serve, I'm sure Bacchus is well enough acquainted with women to find one or two gowns in the right style and color for me and such toilet articles as I'll need while I'm here."

Bacchus started slightly as if he hadn't noticed her or hadn't expected her to speak.

"This is the Lady Ariadne, my Chosen," Dionysus repeated, a tiny twitching of his lips showing that he knew the introduction wasn't really necessary. Then, when he had mastered that evidence of his desire to laugh, he added, "I am very sure you will do everything in your power to welcome Lady Ariadne, make her comfortable here, and please her. Since she's willing to entrust to you the task of outfitting her, I need only add the task I meant for you. I'd like you to invite Eros, Psyche, and Aphrodite to take their evening meal with us."

Bacchus bowed again, but his bent head didn't completely hide his expression from Ariadne, who didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed at the flash of rage and frustration exposed. Whatever he had planned—if he had planned to discredit her in some way—had been ruined by the invitation to Aphrodite and her housemates. Bacchus' choice of clothing would be perfectly suitable, although he might choose unflattering colors. That wasn't important. Compared with the two greatest beauties in Olympus, Ariadne knew she would be like a peahen among peacocks even if she looked her best.

She should have been more nervous about meeting Aphrodite, Eros, and Psyche than about Bacchus, but she wasn't. It was Dionysus who suddenly looked alarmed.

"Maybe I shouldn't have invited them to eat here."

"Why not?" Ariadne asked, beginning now to worry.

But Dionysus' anxiety had nothing to do with her. He was concerned about his servants' ability to serve a suitable meal. Ariadne was about to say it didn't matter, but she realized he wanted to please and impress Aphrodite and her friends. Unfortunately she knew nothing about cookery, but then she remembered what she had read in The History of the Olympians.

"Hestia," she said.

Dionysus looked at her in blank befuddlement.

"I read that Hestia managed Kronos' house and that when Zeus became Mage-King he offered her great honor for protecting Hera, Demeter, and Leto and for helping Hera and Leto escape into his keeping but that Hestia said she preferred to remain as she had been."

"And so she has. Zeus likes his comforts and Hera is too often out of patience with him. If the housekeeping were in Hera's hands, eight days out of ten Zeus would eat thistles and sleep in an unmade bed. I will say that Zeus repays Hestia's care. He has arranged that Hestia has shrines everywhere, and she is greatly honored among women. But what has Hestia to do—"

"My lord, wouldn't Hestia be the one to help you either buy food from someone or borrow servants who could prepare what was needed?"

"Of course," Dionysus said, sighing with relief, "and I don't think I've ever spoken to Hestia before, so I doubt she'll be frightened before I begin to ask for help." He clutched Ariadne to him for a moment. "Always a true Mouth."

"Not if Hestia is as ignorant of householding as some great ladies I know," she warned him, laughing. "But let's hope for the best. And I beg you to be gentle, my lord. She doesn't sound like a very brave lady."

He nodded and went out at once, not disappearing but walking through the front door of his house and down a paved path toward the wide street in a most ordinary way. After wondering for a moment whether there were laws against "leaping" in Olympus, Ariadne gave herself a shake and went back to the apartment Dionysus had said was hers. She relieved her bladder and bowels and then feeling the stiff sensation on her skin, discovered how to let water into the hand bowl in the bathing room and washed off the smears of Isadore's blood. She was looking for a drying cloth when she heard Bacchus call her name.

Her heart leapt into her mouth, but then she reminded herself of Dionysus' not too subtle statement that he was very sure Bacchus would do everything he could to make Ariadne happy. Unless he planned to silence her by killing her, Bacchus wouldn't dare do anything to hurt her. She drew a deep breath and went into the sitting room to face him.

"You have guests, Lady Ariadne," Bacchus said, his eyes glittering with malice. "Will you come and greet them?"

Guests! So she had been wrong about his being unable to hurt her. He had brought some of the great mages, likely those who least favored natives, to see and disapprove of her. But how had Bacchus known that Dionysus would not blast them all? Even as the question formed she knew the answer. Bacchus was a scryer and he needed no ritual to form an image—well, neither did she now. Any smooth bright surface would have permitted Bacchus to watch her and Dionysus even after the spiteful devil had left the house.

Ariadne's immediate impulse was to flee back to the bathing chamber, bar the door, and somehow hide herself, but she knew that show of fear was just what Bacchus wanted. And a barred door would be no impediment to a great mage who wanted to enter. She reminded herself of how she had outfaced the merchants who intended to cheat her, outfaced her mother, whom she had always feared. She moved her gaze slowly from the top of Bacchus' head down to his well-shod feet.

"I will go and make Dionysus' guests welcome," she said. "This is my lord's house, not mine—and I do not forget it." Her statement made clear that the house was not Bacchus' either and that she knew he had taken an unauthorized liberty. "Now perhaps you will at last do your lord's bidding and bring me more suitable clothing. I am sorry it will be necessary to greet Dionysus' guests all bedraggled, but I will explain that no insult was intended by my lord and it was his servant's mistake that summoned them too soon."

For a long moment Bacchus stood staring at her, mouth dropped open with surprise. "Who do you think you are," he spat when he recovered, "one of the great ones?"

"Certainly not," Ariadne replied, forcing herself not to swallow hard or tremble. "I know exactly who I am, a native votary of the god Dionysus. He has named me high priestess, Mouth and Chosen, and I am his devoted servant. What are you?"

Bacchus' face flamed. "You won't rule here! You won't!" he snarled and flung himself out of the room.

For a long moment Ariadne shook so hard she couldn't move, but then she forced herself out of the door, along the wide corridor, and into the reception room. There, the knees she had locked in anticipation of facing angry gods, unlocked themselves and almost gave way. Sitting on the luxuriously cushioned seats that were made to look like rustic benches were the two most beautiful women in the world and a man who was probably more beautiful.

She grasped one of the treelike columns to support herself and uttered a squeak of relief. Bacchus hadn't dared summon anyone Dionysus hadn't named, no doubt hoping that he could claim Eros, Psyche, and Aphrodite had misunderstood him or been too eager to look at the queer thing Dionysus had dragged with him from native lands that they had come early.

All three looked immediately in the direction of the squeak, and Aphrodite jumped to her feet and ran lightly toward Ariadne, holding out her hand. She stopped abruptly when she was close enough to see Ariadne clearly.

"Child," she cried, "your gown is all over blood. What has that mad Dionysus done to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing," Ariadne gasped. "It's not my blood, Lady Aphrodite. And it's nothing to do with poor Dionysus. It was a—" she had to pause and take a deep breath "—a terrible accident caused by my half brother, the Minotaur."

Instantly Aphrodite, who had no interest at all in the Minotaur, was all smiles again. "As long as you aren't hurt. I was afraid Dionysus was out tearing another nation apart because you had been injured. He's so . . . impulsive."

"He's very young, Lady Aphrodite," Ariadne said, not thinking how ridiculous that might sound coming from her when Dionysus was probably ten or twenty times her age. "And he wasn't raised to understand that he must think before he lashes out with his Gift. When he's hurt, no matter how innocent or unintentional the cause, he grows angry. Then he sees the fear and withdrawal in those about him, which makes him angrier still—and afraid of what he is doing, too."

The second woman, as tall as Eros who walked beside her, had reached them. She nodded at Ariadne's words and took her hand. "Mouth and Chosen," she said. "You are why Dionysus has been so much at peace these past years. We didn't know whether to believe what he said of you, but it's true." She looked down at the hand she was holding and turned her head to speak directly to Aphrodite. "She is Mother-touched, too."

"You will make Dionysus what he was meant to be," Eros said.

"Men are too stubborn to let a woman make anything of them or they would all be perfect," Psyche remarked, but the solemn look had left her face and mischief lit her violet eyes. "But where is Dionysus? How did he come to abandon you to confront us all alone?"

"That was Bacchus' doing," Ariadne said. "He invited you to come at once and Dionysus had specified the evening meal. Poor Bacchus. He isn't very happy about my being here and he hoped, I think, that I would make a bad impression or refuse to meet you at all. Dionysus has gone to see about a suitable meal to serve. I suspect he doesn't have many guests and he felt what his servants knew how to prepare would be too coarse. He said Lady Aphrodite was accustomed to a plethora of small delicacies—"

"No, that was me," Eros said. "I used to have a very poor appetite and Aphrodite tried to tempt me with variety." He glanced sidelong at Psyche. "My appetite has improved. These days I could eat a baked horse without garnish."

Ariadne knew that was a joke and smiled dutifully, but she was mostly aware that Aphrodite's eyes were fixed on her gown. "I'm sorry I'm so inappropriately dressed," she said hastily. "It's no insult to you. Bacchus was supposed to bring me proper clothes, but—"

"It's a beautiful dress," Aphrodite said, eyes wide. Her fascinated glance fixed first on Ariadne's exposed breasts and then on the huge bell skirt that gave her a minuscule waist and broad hips, last flickered to the beaded apron that came to a point into which a large amethyst was fixed, which drew the eyes unerringly to the crotch between the legs. Cocking her head inquisitively, she added, "Well, it would be beautiful if it weren't all bloodstained. It certainly emphasizes a woman's best features." She turned on Eros. "How come I've never seen this style before?"

"Because you have no temples on Crete," he said. "They worship the Mother directly on Crete, although they acknowledge several avatars, like Potnia."

Aphrodite looked thoughtful. "Worship only as an avatar? I wouldn't mind, but—"

"Aphrodite, please!" Eros exploded. "Zeus and Athena would have fits, and I don't wish to be fried by a thunderbolt or skewered by one of Athena's spears while I try to explain that you wanted a new style dress."

The girlish mage shrugged. Power and offerings meant less to her than to most of the great mages since she was easily able to get anything she wanted without worshipers. She continued to examine Ariadne's gown, cocking her head this way and that, her smile growing more brilliant by the moment. Eros and Psyche glanced at each other.

"Oh, very well, I won't ask for a temple," Aphrodite said. "I don't have to be worshiped on Crete to wear the costume, do I? It just speaks to my very soul."

Ariadne's eyes widened in horror. She knew, because Dionysus had told her, that Aphrodite was totally and irredeemably promiscuous, that hardly a night passed when there was not one mage or another—or some favored native—in bed with her or she in his bed. Nonetheless, she looked and dressed like a barely nubile girl, not only exquisitely beautiful but of infinite sweetness and perfect innocence. It was the face of love everyone desired to see and know.

"Oh, my lady," Ariadne breathed, her arms coming across her previously proudly uplifted breasts.

There was something terribly obscene about the idea of Aphrodite in Cretan dress, a kind of exposure of the violence and voluptuousness that could lie under a seemingly perfect thing—something no one wanted uncovered; it was abominable.

"No, Aphrodite," Psyche gasped. "Not here. I don't think that style would befit you."

"Why not?" Aphrodite looked from one to another, her lips twisted. "It's a gown for a woman who knows every face of love and desires each." She looked toward Ariadne, now covering her breasts and half turned away from them in shame, and she laughed, a cascade of bell tones. "It's nothing to do with you, child. You wear the gown in innocence and all the simple pride of being female, without lust."

Eros groaned, but before he could speak, Dionysus stepped through the door. The subject of Aphrodite's desire for a Cretan gown was shelved in greetings and explanations. Then Bacchus returned with a handsome enough peplos—although it was too long so that Ariadne had to fasten the girdle about her waist and pull the garment over it, which made her body appear thick. Aphrodite protested, but Dionysus seemed almost pleased and relieved, although he promised that Silenos should find better fitting clothing.

Unfortunately the talk about clothes brought Aphrodite's mind right back to Cretan dress. The argument had to be explained to Dionysus, who innocently suggested that Aphrodite try it. Psyche jumped up, crying, "No," but Aphrodite was already gone, laughing mischievously. Dionysus asked what was wrong and Eros tried to explain that Psyche didn't think the style would suit Aphrodite. Before he finished, Aphrodite reappeared dressed in Ariadne's discarded gown.

There was a dead silence until Dionysus got slowly to his feet and backed away, shaking his head. "Take it off!" His voice trembled. "Take it off. I can't bear it!"

Ariadne jumped up and took his hand, silver mist pouring out of her to wrap him around. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Eros bowed his head into his hands, huddled in upon himself as if shrinking away from an unimaginable horror.

Only Psyche seemed unmoved, if pale. She looked at them and sighed, shaking her head. "She is as truly Cybele as she is Aphrodite," she said gently.

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