"It's very nice," Marguerite said. "But why did we come here? I thought we were going right to the Styx now." "The River Styx happens to run through Greece," Faust said.

"What? Here in Athens?"

"No. Somewhere in Greece. I thought I'd better come here first and ask directions."

Marguerite said, "One thing bothers me. We were taught the Styx didn't really exist. So how can you ask directions to it?"

Faust smiled in a superior way and asked her, "Does the Archangel Michael exist?"

"And what about the Holy Grail? Does that exist?"

"So they say," Marguerite said.

"Well then, believe me, the Styx exists, too. If one imaginary thing exists, then all imaginary things must exist."

Marguerite sniffed. "Well, if you say so."

"Of course I say so," Faust said. "Who's the autodidactic thaumaturge around here?"

"Oh, you are, of course," Marguerite said. "Don't mind me."

Faust knew from his old atlases that the River Styx comes to the surface somewhere in Greece, before it continues its downward and roundabout ways through the ages of time and space to the shores of Tartaros. The atlases said it came out of a cavern, issued along a dark' ling plain for a while, then plunged into a steep declivity which tended downward into a cavern measureless to man. This was the ancient classical road to the underworld that Theseus took when he went down to try to steal Helen away from Achilles. Faust mentioned this to Marguerite.

"Who is this Helen?" Marguerite asked.

"A famous lady," Faust said, "renowned for her beauty, over whom a famous war was waged and a great city destroyed."

"Oh, one of those," Marguerite said. "What do we need with her?'

"We probably won't get to meet her. But if we did, she might give us some important clues as to how to get to Constantinople in 1210 and displace Mack the Pretender and take our rightful place in whatever is going on."

"So who are you going to ask?" Marguerite said. "The people around here don't look like they know what city they're in, far less how to find a mythical place like the Styx."

"Don't let their look put you off," Faust said. "They just look like that to discourage strangers. I bet any of them could tell us."

He led Marguerite toward a group of people who were clustered around a man with a coffee pot. "What did I tell you?" Faust said to Marguerite. "Coffee! These people aren't so dumb. That stuff isn't even known yet in the rest of Europe."

Pressing forward, Faust said, in the mincing Corinthian accent he had picked up in Greek class, "Good citizens I Can you direct me to the famous River Styx, whose whereabouts is said to be somewhere in Hellas?"

The men in the coffee-drinking crowd looked at each other, and one said, in a broad Dorian dialect, "Alf, isn't there a Styx over near where your uncle's got his farm, in Thesprotia?"

"You're thinking of the Acheron," Alf said. "That runs into the Styx near Heraclea Pontica, but it takes its time about getting there. Meanders, as they say. But there's a more direct way. You go to Colonus, and pick up the Cocytus River. Just follow it downstream. It flows into the Styx after descending to the unplumbed caverns of Acherusia."

Faust thanked the rustics and moved away with Marguerite. Utilizing his spell, Faust soared north, following the coastline of Attica. Marguerite rode on his back, for there was no spell strong enough to empower his arms to hold her while the wind was buffeting so. Marguerite's hair was all in a tangle again, and she feared that her complexion was getting reddened by constant exposure to the elements. But she was content, because she was the only girl she knew who had ridden on the air with a wizard, and that was a considerable distinction for a girl with so little education.

Faust flew past the city of Corinth, with its high citadel, and dipped over the ruins of Thebes, still much as Alexander had left them over a thousand years ago. The land below became less steep as they continued toward Thrace. After a while two broad rivers appeared, and Faust was able to ascertain that one of them was the Acheron. He put down to the ground immediately.

"Why are we stopping?" Marguerite asked. "Is this the Styx?"

"No, this is the Acheron, which runs into the Styx."

"So why can't we fly the rest of the way?"

Faust shook his head. He had depleted most of the puissance of his Traveling Spell by so much use, and it would need time to recharge. A few hundred yards away, on the riverbank, there was a dilapidated old farm, and there was an open punt tied to its dock. The area seemed deserted, so Faust untied the little boat, and, putting Marguerite in the bow and himself taking the stern, proceeded downstream toward the Styx.

Their punt drifted like a dream on the slow-moving river. This, he knew, had to be Phlegethon. The stream narrowed, the region became more bleak, and soon there was no vegetation except for black poplars and mournful fields of asphodel.

"We're getting there," Faust said. He'd been doing most of the punting since they began. He had been able to get a little relief out of a poling spell that imparted a certain measure of energy to each stroke, like an artificial muscle.

The Phlegethon declined until it was no more than a narrow ditch. The time was twilight. Faust knew they'd finally reached the Styx when the banks suddenly opened out, revealing a dark expanse of water.

At this he punted past a very large sign that was written in several languages. It read, the river styx. no private boats beyond this point.

"We'll have to stop here," he told Marguerite. "Charon has the sole rights of passage on this river. And anyhow, no magician, no matter how clever, can sail the Styx unaided. For that, he needs to make a deal.

Come, let us find Charon."

"Not at all," Faust said. "These entities have very little to do with religion. These are energies that are left over from a former age, and still take a certain shape and form."

Then he saw the boat coming toward him across the dark river. As it approached, he could see it was a sort of a houseboat, and it was propelled by five dolphins who had their noses against the stern and were pushing. This boat was making good time through the water since men amidships were helping with oars and paddles. It was a high, unsteady old boat and you could see yellow lantern light shining out through the portholes, and hear sounds of music and merriment.

"And who might you be?" Charon cried out, directing the boat toward Faust's punt. He was a surly old man, lean and spindly, with unshaven white-stubbled jaw and sunken eye sockets out of which tiny black eyes glittered. A nimbus of grayish white hair floated above his bony forehead and knobby skull. He had a wide, withered mouth with many twists and turns in it, but all tending downwards. He broke off his talk with Faust to give some orders.

"Pass that beam over there! Pull that oar! Take that sail in! Turn that thing around!"

Faust knew through his excellent classical education that several of the people working on the boat were dead Greek heroes. There were Theseus, Perseus, Hercules, Jason, and several others whom Faust didn't know, but presumed were also heroes.

"What do you want?" Charon called out.

"We need passage across the Styx," Faust says. "We need to get to a certain place and time, 1210 in Constantinople."

"We don't call at 1210 in Constantinople anymore," Charon said. "Too much trouble and upset there.

Too many souls wanting to be ferried away. I don't need to bring this boat into any trouble spots like that."

"I really need to go there," Faust says. "What will you take to bring us?"

Charon laughed. "You don't have anything that I want! And don't let that story that you can take the ride for one obol kid you. Doing anything on the Styx is damned expensive since I have the sole navigation contract. It's my territory exclusively so don't try going any farther in that punt. And don't try creeping around on the banks, either. I've got them planted with repel-me-not. You'd need a hell of a spell, magician, to deal with a constricting vine like the repel-me-not."