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CHAPTER 4

Ariadne woke in the morning with her problem unresolved. Should she Call Dionysus and ask if she would be permitted to dance for the Mother? Should she just dance and beg mercy if he disapproved? Oddly she didn't feel particularly frightened and her lack of fear gave her some reassurance that her god might not be jealous of the Mother. She would dance. But that brought a new problem to mind—Phaidra.

Despite her sister's protests, she had taught her the key movements of the dance, promising not to tell their mother that she had done so. Phaidra was stiff and about as graceful as a jointed wooden toy, but Ariadne suspected that was more because she was unwilling than because she was naturally ungraceful or the gestures were new or difficult. Still, she would make sure her sister practiced until she could create a praise-dance. It was unthinkable that there should be no lady of royal blood to dance for the Mother.

While Queen Europa was alive, although she didn't usually attend the ceremonies, it didn't matter. In an emergency, she could always have sat on the throne before the sacral horns and Pasiphae could have danced if Ariadne couldn't. Now there was no one. Prokris would be leaving Knossos as soon as her child was delivered and, like Ariadne's other sister, would have her own dancing floor.

Ariadne looked toward her sleeping sister and sighed. Phaidra seemed unable to accept Pasiphae's dominance. Ariadne herself had never minded that. If her mother had been loving to her, she would gladly have been her subpriestess, gladly taken to herself those duties that Pasiphae found dull or distasteful. She sighed again. Of course, Pasiphae was no more loving to Phaidra than to herself, but that didn't seem to be what troubled Phaidra. Too much like Pasiphae, Phaidra wanted to be first—not necessarily to rule Knossos, which she recognized was impossible for now and for the future, but to be a queen in her own right. Ariadne shook her head and slid out of bed. She could do nothing about that.

Pulling on a loose gown, she padded down the corridor to the toilet, emptying the jar of water into the drain to flush away the soil when she had relieved herself. When the rains came, one didn't have to bother, since the cisterns on the roof allowed a constant stream of water to flush the drains. The bathing room was across the corridor. Ariadne only used the bowl for washing her hands and face. She had taken a bath the day before and it wasn't yet hot enough to need to bathe every day or twice a day.

She returned to her room and sat down at the shelf of polished gypsum that protruded from the wall at table height. One end held Phaidra's toilet articles, the other her own, her comb and brush and, since yesterday's preparations, pots of kohl, lip salve and rouge, charcoal sticks, and a small bronze mirror. She didn't touch that, combing her hair by touch, until suddenly she paused and frowned. Then she lifted the bronze mirror, and looked in it uncertainly.

Should she just braid her hair as she always used to do . . . as if nothing had happened yesterday? No, that would be wrong. But Ariadne knew she could never achieve the convoluted style that her mother's hairdresser had produced. She shook her head. That didn't matter; such a style wouldn't be proper for an ordinary day. Pursing her lips, she pulled two thick locks forward of her ears and turned them round her finger, smoothing them with the brush until the hair lay in a smooth, shining coil. From each side of her forehead, she took much thicker strands and wove them into two braids. These she coiled atop her head and fixed in place with a few colored slivers of polished wood left over from yesterday's hairdressing. The remainder of her hair she allowed to flow freely down her back.

Dress. Lower lip between her teeth, Ariadne examined the contents of her chest and shook her head. She would need new clothing. Most of what she had was the short kilt that all children wore. That was no longer suitable. Now she would never train to be a bull dancer. She smiled. She no longer regretted that. She was a priestess. And that was part of the answer. There was cloth enough at the shrine, some of it very fine. She would look through the chests she had offered the priestesses, or . . . since she would never marry now, perhaps her father would offer her the clothes of a woman. Yes, she would try that first.

Meanwhile she chose the skirt she wore to practice dancing. It was as full and flounced as the dancing skirt, so that she would be accustomed to the weight and movement and not trip or stumble in the praise-dance, just not as rich in cloth or decoration. It would do very well for ordinary wear. She reached for a bodice, then hesitated and looked down, wrinkling her nose in dissatisfaction as she saw no more than the slight swelling around the nipples that had been there the day before. Leaving the bodices where they were, she just drew a shawl over her shoulders to ward off the morning chill and went out and along the corridor to the Southeastern Hall where the royal family ate.

On a shelf like that which held her toiletries near the door, there was porridge, rich with cream and sweetened with honey, plenty of dried fruit, bread and cheese and, of course, olives. Ariadne smiled fondly at the big bowl, more aware since she'd truly seen a god, of connections she'd always known existed but hardly thought about before. What would they do without the gifts of the sacred tree? That was a god manifest all the time, providing food and oil with so many purposes that she could hardly name them, and few appreciated it.

"Good morning . . . sister. May I still call you sister?"

Ariadne turned startled eyes to Androgeos, who had risen from his seat at the central table and come toward her, but he wasn't teasing. His expression was perfectly serious. Her instinct had been to laugh and say "Don't be ridiculous. I am your sister, so you may call me sister." But suddenly she remembered that Androgeos, although much more loving than her mother, had always casually commanded her service as if that were her purpose in life. That, she realized, must end, He could no longer tell her to fetch and carry for him, to wash him, to bring food to him whenever he wanted. Often in the past he'd asked her to serve him and his friends when she had another task she wished to complete. He'd expected that she would always put his desire ahead of any other, and she'd done so, but now, if she had a duty at Dionysus' shrine, she could no longer do that.

"In love I'm still your sister," she replied. "Of my own will, I'd gladly serve you, but my own will isn't paramount. The god comes first."

"Why not?" Glaukos asked with a laugh. "It will save you a great deal of work."

"Be still, Glaukos," Androgeos ordered his younger brother sharply. "You weren't at the shrine. You didn't see Dionysus appear—just appear!—before his own painting. You didn't see silence enclose Ariadne and him at his gesture—we could see them speak but not hear a sound—and then a wall of black appear. . . . No, I'm glad, god-touched, she'll still call me brother."

"I'm not proud for myself, Glaukos," she said, after stepping forward and kissing Androgeos on the cheek. "I'll even bring you more breakfast if you desire it."

"Good. You can—"

"Lady Ariadne?"

The thin, timid voice made Ariadne turn and look at the doorway. In it stood a young page, his eyes so round the irises looked like ripe olives about to fall out of a white cup.

"Yes?" Ariadne asked.

"A priest has come, lady. You are needed at the shrine of Dionysus. He's waiting for you on the south porch."

"I'm coming," Ariadne said, a chill down her back.

Had Dionysus felt her decision to dance for the Mother and decided to forbid her? She turned and started out of the room.

"Holla, where do you go? You said you'd get me my breakfast," Glaukos cried.

Ariadne continued on her way without even the smallest hesitation in her stride. Glaukos rose, frowning, but Androgeos put a hand on his shoulder and kept him from following her.

"Don't be a fool," Androgeos said. "I tell you she is his, entirely. You mustn't touch her, command her, or deny her—ever. Don't you remember what happened to Pentheus, who sought to interfere with the worshipers of Dionysus?"

Glaukos shrugged. "You believe he was torn to bits by his own mother and her women? Surely that's a tale concocted by the man who usurped his throne or, perhaps, by the priests to bring more sacrifices to their shrines and keep any king from collecting his share of the spoils."

"Now I'll believe any tale of Dionysus," Androgeos said, and shuddered. "When he looked at us, after he had first seen how young Ariadne was, I felt a rage rise in me, a burning lust for blood. . . ." He swallowed. "What she did or said, I don't know—he'd already drawn a wall of silence around them—but he looked at her, and that need to kill suddenly left me. Glaukos, that mad rage was nothing of mine. I had no reason, no cause, for anger. That rage was his. Another hundred or two of heartbeats and I would've leapt at our father to tear out his throat."

"It was real, then?" Glaukos asked softly. "I had thought that our father and mother had played some trick. No one plays games with the Mother, but a little godling who's dear to the common people . . . I thought they'd set up a play to make the farmers and vintners more docile."

"That was no play," Androgeos said.

He walked to the open window from which he could see the end of the long sets of steps, built on two right angled turns, that climbed from the river to the south portico of the palace. There was a road from the bottom of the steps that made a curve and joined the main road, which went over the viaduct, passed the caravanserai, and then went on south, putting out a branch that went up Gypsades Hill. That was the shortest way to the shrine of Dionysus, but not used for formal processions because the south portico led to the domestic quarters and workshops of the palace, rather than the great reception chambers and religious shrines.

"She's hurrying up the hill," Androgeos said. "I hope he hasn't come again. In the end, I can't believe that any good can come of gods made manifest. Men should live their own small lives their own way. Divine help breeds more trouble than . . ."

"Oh, don't start on that bull again. Would you rather our father fought a war against our uncles?"

"Of course not, but I'd rather our father had cut that beautiful white neck with the sacrificial double axe and freed us from—"

"From what?" Glaukos asked with a shrug. "Even the priest of Poseidon has fallen silent. Let's see what kind of calves the cows drop. Then will be soon enough to speak again of sacrificing the bull from the sea."

When Ariadne reached the south porch, she stopped to draw a breath. The old priest looked rather dazed, but not frightened or horrified.

"Has Dionysus come again?" she asked quickly.

"No, Priestess," the old man said, "but I think everyone else in a day's walk of Knossos has, and every one of them has brought an offering. We have cows and bulls and goats and sheep, and grain and olives and wine—much better wine than we had before. But there's no room—"

"Hush," she said urgently, looking over her shoulder at the guards, but they didn't seem to be paying attention. Turning the priest toward the stairs and urging him to start down them, she spoke more loudly than necessary for ears so close. "I'll ask the god what to do. The offerings aren't ours. They belong to Dionysus. He must know that showing himself would bring forth a flood of sacrifices and he'll expect those sacrifices to be rendered up to him."

The priest, who had been very excited, nodded with a somewhat deflated air. Ariadne smiled at him. "I believe that Dionysus will allow us to keep a share," she said more softly. "But I prefer that only we know what's given to the shrine. Since it's our purpose to serve and protect the god's shrine, we'd be blamed if others thought we were growing too rich and seized what was offered."

"Then why did the god not come and take what he desired," the priest muttered. "We prayed and laid the sacrifices on the altar. The old priestess did no more."

"Yes, and the grapes rotted on the vine and the wine soured in the pithoi," Ariadne snapped. "Do you think a god has no more to do than pay attention to one shrine? He has hundreds, perhaps thousands of shrines, and in this season many must offer sacrifices, many priests and priestesses pray. And perhaps he didn't hear you. Dionysus told me that not all can Call him."

"Well, I suppose that's true, but what are we to do? The shrine is small. We have chickens in our eating chamber, rabbits and doves in the kitchen, goats and cows and bulls staked out in a gully. And we are two old women and two old men. How can we protect the god's offerings? Perhaps gods have no troubles with keeping things; perhaps they gesture and a new room appears."

"I'll Call and see if he will answer me."

It was all Ariadne had to offer, but she was shocked herself when she entered the small courtyard, which now contained six sheep, four pigs, a dozen geese, and casks and amphorae and bales containing indeterminate contents. She paused for a moment, staring around, thinking that Dionysus might not have realized, since he saw only the altar and courtyard and the high priestess's chambers, that the shrine was small. She wove a way through the goods and protesting animals and hurried to her own room.

Here she paused again, savoring for a moment the quiet and elegance. The room was lit softly by its deep window shaft. Dionysus' chair, footstool, and table sat nearest the light with the golden bowl Ariadne had used glowing softly on the table. A little distance away was a padded stool for her to sit on in the god's presence, and beyond that, near the other end of the room, a double bench red-cushioned with back and arms lacquered a deep crimson and painted over the lacquer with golden lilies. Low chairs of the same finish, with golden silken cushions, flanked the bench, and before it was a space now occupied by a knee-high table which could be replaced by a large brazier to give warmth in the winter. Around the walls, the carved and decorated chests, mostly done in sea scenes of blue and green and aqua, now lent contrast and interest instead of heightening the confusion. The floors had been polished to a high shine. The chamber breathed of peace and comfort.

Ariadne looked back through the open door and said to the priest, "Bring me a rhyton of the best wine."

She saluted the empty chair, remembering with a blush that she had never shown Dionysus himself that mark of worship, then took the golden bowl and allowed the priest to fill it. Taking a deep breath, she looked down into the dark surface of the wine and Called, "Lord Dionysus, hear me."

Almost at once, his startled face appeared, the eyes too large and staring wildly. "Who? Who?" he cried.

"It is Ariadne, your high priestess of the shrine at Gypsades Hill, Knossos," she said to the wine.

"I have no scrying bowl," he said. "I can't see you. Didn't I warn you not to Call me for amusement? What do you want?"

His tone was sharp, but his eyes were half lidded again, and she saw they were heavy with sleep. A god needed a scrying bowl too? And if he did, couldn't he summon one to his hand? Then she wondered where he was, and to her amazement, his face became smaller and she could see his shoulders rising from the wildly tumbled bedclothes of a bed, carved and gilded . . . and half buried in the bedclothes behind him, a mass of long, blonde hair. She jerked eyes and mind away.

"Lord God," she breathed, "the people, having seen you, welcomed your return to Knossos, to Crete, with many offerings. This is a very small shrine. We are overrun by the devotion of your followers and we have no room to store the offerings. Can you come and choose and take what you want and give us leave to dispose of the rest?"

She saw him frown, start to make a gesture of negation, and then give a heavy sigh. "Do you of Crete do nothing in the afternoon?" he asked. "This is the second time you have waked me." And before she could think of an answer, he added, "Yes, I'll come and look. Where are you? I can't see."

"In the high priestess's chamber," Ariadne replied.

"Wait for me by the altar."

He lifted his hand and Ariadne knew he was about to end her vision of him. "My lord," she said hastily, "we have better food and better wine to offer, if you wish to break your fast here."

The frown and uncertainty disappeared from his face and he laughed. "Yes," he said, and gestured, and the wine went dark and blank.

Ariadne drank the wine in the bowl, then turned to the priest, who was staring at her with dilated eyes. She suppressed both a sigh of relief and a desire to say "so there" to him. Plainly the old man had been recovering from whatever awe the priestesses, who had actually seen Dionysus, had woken in him. She didn't know whether he had seen or heard the god in the scrying bowl, but he had heard her answer Dionysus' questions and was now afraid she could Call the god. Until he was sure, doubtless he would be obedient.

"Seek through the offerings of the past and of yesterday. Find some fine platters. Place on those the very best-eating pieces of hard cheese and thin sliced bread spread with the soft cheese, olives both ripe and oil-cured—and a second platter with honey cakes. You had better find a large platter or heap a smaller one high. He ate all the honey cakes last time and could have eaten more, I think. And the best wine. Bring it here and set it on the table where the golden bowl stood. That is his chair." She handed the priest the bowl. "Wash this and put it on the low table. Seek out the best. The best of everything we have."

He saluted and went out and she on his heels. He went quickly down the corridor to the lesser priests' and priestesses' quarters, she went to stand beside the altar. She didn't know how long Dionysus would take, but she suspected only a few moments because he said he would break his fast at the shrine. She took the time she had to tuck her shawl more firmly into the tight belt of her skirt. Her waist was starting to narrow, giving a hint of feminine curvature to her hips. If she hid her chest with its nonexistent breasts . . . And then she remembered the blonde hair, which must have belonged to a woman in his bed. Her lips tightened, but before she could form any definite thoughts, Dionysus was there.

He was simply there, where he hadn't been a heartbeat before, standing before the painting. Ariadne heard a muffled gasp and a kind of whimper. She assumed it must be the priests or priestesses peeking through their door, but her eyes were fixed on Dionysus. This time his face wasn't expressionless; it wore a look of utter befuddlement as he stared around the littered courtyard and at the cackling geese, the bleating sheep, the squealing pigs. The expression, completely ungodlike, was so comical that Ariadne again forgot to salute him and found her awe at his sudden appearance less overwhelming than at his disappearance the previous day. The woman in his bed vanished completely from her mind. Slowly, without pain, the flower around her heart opened to welcome him.

"But why?" he asked. "This never happened when I came to my old priestess's Call. Only on a special festival were so many offerings made."

The mist of tendrils touched him, brought back to her puzzlement and a hint of satisfaction. She smiled. "Because you have been long absent," the "woman" Ariadne said. "Be cause the grapes and the wine have lost the legendary perfection they had in the past. Because they know I'll ask you to bless the grapes and the wine and each is afraid that, if he doesn't sacrifice, you'll skip over his vines or his fermenting casks and storage pithoi."

"They think I know each and every one of them?"

That betrayed that he didn't but Ariadne wouldn't hurt her dear god by showing her knowledge of that weakness. It didn't matter to her that he was not all-powerful and all-knowing as other gods claimed to be. He was hers, and—she recalled that contagious madness—quite powerful enough.

"They fear you know every one of them."

He brought his eyes from the courtyard and looked at her and smiled. "You are just as pretty without all that paint on your face," he said. Then he looked back at the courtyard.

"There are cattle and goats too, my lord," Ariadne said. "They are tethered outside the shrine. I also need to know whether you want any of the furniture that was in the high priestesses' chamber. I set aside the most precious things, some goblets of well-bejeweled gold and two ivory tables."

He shook his head. "I am half asleep and half deafened by the noise. I cannot think."

"Come then to my chamber, my lord. Food and drink for breaking your fast will be there, and you can sit in your chair and decide."

In the doorway he paused, and she felt his satisfaction again even before he turned and smiled approval at her. Then he walked across to the chair, sat down, and lifted the cup of wine standing ready. He sipped the wine and shrugged, gestured at the cup and the flagon that stood on the table, and drank more freely. Ariadne guessed he had changed the quality of the drink.

"It is the best Crete can produce since we somehow offended you," she said. "The offerings, they are meant to appease that hurt."

He looked past her around the room that now presented quiet comfort, reached out absently for the food. As he bit into the bread and cheese, chewed an olive, he shrugged again. "That was unfair, perhaps. The little folk did nothing to hurt me. I had thought my priestess rejected me, but even after I learned it was no fault of hers, that she had died, I wouldn't come to Knossos. I suppose the `blessing' eroded from the soil in the years of my neglect."

"But you will restore it, my lord?"

"Yes. I've already promised and you—little thorn in my flesh—I'm sure won't allow me to forget."

"I don't mean to be a thorn in your flesh, my lord."

He laughed merrily around a mouthful of honey cake. "No? Then don't call me so early in the morning."

That reminded Ariadne of the woman in his bed, but she didn't dare say that if he hadn't been disporting himself all night he wouldn't have found her call early. Instead she said meekly, "I'm very sorry. I thought it unwise to have so many offerings in the open. And we have no feed for the animals nor anyone to care for them. The priests and priestesses are old."

He didn't answer at once, going on with his breakfast, mostly honey cakes and wine now, with a thoughtful frown. At last he said, "Get rid of the furniture you have in the storage room. Sell it and get another storage room cut into the hill. That should be place enough for the new offerings. The animals will have to be slaughtered and butchered. You may keep what you like and what you think you can use, either alive or butchered parts."

"Do you want the flesh salted down?"

"No, I'm not fond of salt meat."

Ariadne blinked. "But there are cows and bulls, goats and sheep and pigs, not to mention the fowl. I'll place it all on the altar if you desire, but it will have to be taken by tomorrow or the next day at the latest. It's growing warm and the flesh will rot."

"You must bespell it to stasis."

"Stasis? What's that? And I know no spells, Lord Dionysus. I dance for the Mother, but I'm no witch."

"Stasis is like freezing, but not cold. Everything stops. If you bespell a haunch of meat to stasis, the blood does not ooze from it and it won't rot so long as the spell lasts."

"But I don't know the spell," she said, her voice beginning to tremble, "and I have never cast a spell in my life."

"I can give you the spell," he said. "We'll see if you can take it and then cast it."

Ariadne stared at him, her breath fluttering between her parted lips. Spells! If it hadn't been for the misty tendrils, which brought from him such a sense of pleasant indifference, as if what he proposed was the most ordinary thing in the world, she might have collapsed, weeping. Ordinary for gods, her mind said, but not for me. Only she remembered that she wouldn't be alone. Some priests and priestesses had powers of healing or could see the future. And Daidalos could do things that seemed impossible. Maybe she would be able to do such things also.

"Watch my mouth," Dionysus said, and allowed his lips to part slightly.

Between them Ariadne saw a silvery shadow. It was different from her tendrils, harder and brighter looking, but not rigid. It oozed from between his lips and began to form a bubble, as babies sometimes formed bubbles of their own spit, but this grew larger and held its shape firmly until it was a ball as large as she could cup in her hand. He gestured her to him and she went, reluctantly, knowing that he desired her to sip that ball out of his mouth although he hadn't told her. Eyes wide, shaking her head slightly and hoping he would change his mind, she knelt before him. He leaned forward and took her head in his hands. Her lips parted to cry a protest, but he lowered his head too quickly and the silver bubble touched her mouth.

It was nothing like what she had imagined, not cold or wet or slimy. It was warm and tingled very faintly, and it didn't fill her mouth or choke her. Indeed, it didn't seem to have any tangible substance and seemed to dissipate as it slipped through her lips so that her mouth met his. She felt him smile when their lips touched, and his tasted only of honey cake and wine. Forgetting the silver ball, she would gladly have held him to her, mouth to mouth, but he lifted his head promptly.

"Inside you there is a place that's different—"

"The flower around my heart? How did you know of that?"

He laughed. "Gods know." Then he sobered and shook his head. "Not everything, and even what we know we sometimes don't understand. But leave that aside for now. All those who have Power have some place, see or feel it in some way."

"See it? The mist of tendrils. Is that Power?"

"That's the way you see it. Now look at the special place within you from which the mist comes. There should be a bright spot—"

"A little bud!" Her voice came out rather high with surprise and delight. It was such a pretty thing, nestled close to her heart just where two of the petals of the heartflower met.

"You are a very quick learner, Ariadne," Dionysus said.

He seemed pleased and Ariadne banned all the reluctance she had initially felt about becoming a witch. Daidalos had once offered to teach her magic, but he was a frightening person. Dionysus, who, she realized, should have been even more frightening, was to her a most seductive teacher.

"You make the lessons easy," she replied.

"You have the art. There's almost no need for lessons. However, it's dangerous to play with what you don't understand, so I'll teach you and hope you don't begin to try to create new spells—"

Ariadne shook her head. "You needn't worry about that. My Power, if I have any, is bound to you. The heartflower only opens when you're near me." She frowned. "I didn't think of that. It may be that I won't be able to cast any spell if you aren't near."

"We'll see," he said. "Now look at your little bud. Will it to grow larger."

She did as he said, surprised to see the mist nearest the bud float toward it and enwrap it. The bud grew swiftly and when Dionysus told her to break it off, she did so.

"Now, quick," he said, "before the place seals over, desire a new bud to grow but leave that one small."

That was harder. The mist was already thin, and Ariadne felt as if her chest were all hollow and ice coated that emptiness. Her heartbeat slowed. She was about to cry that she could not, when Dionysus laid his hand upon her breast. A touch of warmth flowed from his hand; it didn't fill the hollow, but she no longer felt as if she were falling in upon herself. She looked up and his eyes caught hers and held them. His will caught hers, bound it, bent it. And then, there was another bud, tiny but perfect, where the first had grown . . . and Ariadne knew how to grow as many more as she would ever need. She wasn't given time to consider that.

"Where's the large bud?" Dionysus asked. His eyes were gem-bright, his voice hard as flint.

So weak and trembling that she would have sunk down, except that the hand on her breast seemed to hold her upright on her knees, gaze still locked with her god's, Ariadne "looked" within her, without moving her eyes, and found the ball of light.

"Place your hand beneath your breast. Will the spell to flow out into your hand."

She uttered a tiny whimper, expecting the ball of light to rip through bone and flesh and skin and leave a gaping, bleeding wound, but she couldn't tear her eyes from his, couldn't thrust away his demand. And his will grasped hers, shaped it, pointed it. Trembling and crying, eyes unmoving, Ariadne "saw" the ball of light touch her chest, just between her barely swelling breasts, and with only the faintest sensation of chill, slip out into her hand.

Dionysus pulled his hand away and Ariadne was able to move her eyes. Unbelieving, she looked down, and there on her hand lay a silver ball of light. Of course she knew she would see it just as clearly if her eyes were closed or if she were still looking at her god's face, but that she could see it there, trembling a little as her hand shook, gave her an odd joy.

"Cut it in half," Dionysus ordered, "and then in half again."

With a knife? she wondered. How did one cut in half a ball of light that wasn't really there? And suddenly she knew it didn't matter. She could create a knife in her mind, or she could imagine ghostly fingers pinching the spell in half or she could just "will" the division. Because she thought it more elegant, she "made" a little knife and sliced the spell apart, and as it started to join together, she told it firmly to remain in two parts. Two smaller balls of light lay on her hand and she cut each of those in half with the knife also.

"Drop one part of the spell on what remains of the cheese, the bread, and the honey cakes, and say with each, `Anagkazo teleia stigme stasis.' Then take the last piece back within you. You can just close your hand on it and will it back into your well of power."

The food on the table was out of her reach, and she had no idea how to will the spell there so she tried to get to her feet. She couldn't; she was cold and sweating and her legs had no more strength than the jelly around cooked fish. She gasped and tried again. This time Dionysus caught her free hand and lifted her up. Oddly, there was no pull on her arm; the feeling as she rose had much in common with the way she grew light when the Mother lifted her hair.

That reminded her that she must tell Dionysus about her need to dance on the Mother's day, but she didn't dare divert her thoughts from the words she needed to say so she first went to the table and pushed a little ball of light onto the plate of cheese. "Anagkazo teleia stigme stasis," she said, and repeated the words twice more. With each repetition she grew colder and weaker, but she thought she had cast the spell successfully because each portion of food became surrounded by the faintest shimmering. Still, she would have fallen had not Dionysus supported her.

"Take back the last part," he reminded her.

Ariadne closed her hand slowly and was fascinated by the "taking back" of what remained of the spell, watching, first with her eyes and then with her eyes closed, as the last portion shrank between her fingers until it was gone. She felt a little warmer, a little less hollow as the silver light disappeared, and when Dionysus urged her toward the stool she was able to walk there, but she sat down rather heavily.

"It will grow easier with practice," Dionysus said. "The use of Power is like any other sport or labor. Practice improves performance."

That was true, Ariadne thought, with a sense of relief. She had thought she would die of exhaustion when she had begun to learn to dance for the Mother, but . . . "Oh," she cried, "I am yours first and wholly, but I have long done the praise-dance for the Mother on Her days. Lord God, may I continue to dance for Her?" He stared at her, frowning, and she hurried on. "There is no one else. My mother must sit between the sacral horns as Her image, my older sisters—" He lifted his hand, and she stopped, biting her lip.

"You dance for the Mother?" he asked.

"Yes, lord," she whispered.

He seemed uncertain, looking at her and then out of the window shaft. Ariadne couldn't see what caught his eye, but he turned back to her abruptly and said, "Worship of the Mother is always permitted. You may also ask Her to fill your well with Power. When do you dance?"

"In six . . . no, five days. Oh, thank you, for your kindness and understanding, my lord. It would be dreadful if there were no one of the royal blood to dance for Her."

He didn't respond to that, saying instead, "When the offerings are prepared and laid upon the altar, Call me." Then he smiled at her. "But not in the early morning."

And he was gone.

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Framed