“Has it really?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Would it help,” the Goddess went on, “if I just quickly read your mind? It won’t take me two seconds.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Majesty.”

“It’s no trouble.” Suddenly the Chief Druid was horribly aware of the Goddess’s eyes; he could feel them poking into his brain like knitting needles. No question at all that she could see exactly what he was thinking.

“I see,” said the Goddess. “Yes, I can see your request in there, plain as day.”

“You can?”

“Of course I can, silly.” The Goddess smiled at him. “You want me to afflict the world with seven plagues, don’t you?”

“I do? I mean, yes, of course. How clever of you to—”

“You want me to trample the Unbeliever like a worm under the claw of the gryphon. You want me to unleash the fury of the Nine Terrible Winds, and visit the wrath of Belenos upon the heads of the ungodly.”

The Chief Druid nodded. As he did so, he was aware that he was on the receiving end of some pretty old-fashioned looks from the rest of the Circle (particularly Mr Cruickshank, who taught Drama at the local junior school and had a Greenpeace sticker in the back window of his Citroën) but he ignored them. “Quite right,” he stuttered. “My sentiments exactly, er, Majesty.”

The Goddess nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Ordinarily, that’d be a pretty tall order, but since it’s you—”

“Excuse me.”

The Chief Druid’s head whirled round like a weathervane in a hurricane. Mr Cruickshank had raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, Goddess,” said Mr Cruickshank, his eyes nearly popping out of his head, “but, if you don’t mind me asking—”

“Yes?”

“These seven plagues…”

“Ah yes.” The Goddess dipped her head placidly. “Mr Owen will correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, dropping a smile in the Chief Druid’s direction, “but what I think he had in mind was plagues of hail, brimstone, frogs, sulphur, locusts, giant ants and burning pitch. That’s right, isn’t it?”

The Chief Druid felt his head nod.

“In any particular order, or just as it comes?”

“Oh, as it comes. Whatever’s the most convenient for you.”

“Thank you.” The Goddess considered for a moment. “In that case,” she said, “I think we’ll set the ball rolling with locusts. Is that all right with everyone?”

A flash of blue lightning rent the night sky, and six heads rapidly nodded their agreement.

“You’re sure? It’s your request, after all.”

“No, really,” gabbled the Chief Druid. “Locusts, by all means.”

“Locusts it shall be, then,” the Goddess replied. “Will Tuesday be soon enough, do you think?”

The Chief Druid shuddered. He had spent that afternoon planting out his spring cabbages. He assured the Goddess that there was no hurry.

“Oh, I think I should be able to manage Tuesday. Now then, any more for any more?”

Apparently not. A few seconds later, the Goddess was gone. As she sped through the fog and filthy air, she gave herself a little shake and turned back into the genie Philadelphia Machine and Tool Corporation IX.

A genie with a mandate.

The small yellow frog that had once been Kevin hopped slowly across the blasted heath.

Right now, he might be a small yellow frog; but not so long ago he had been an insurance broker, and we have already seen how insurance is like a pyramid — (Huge, incomprehensible, hideously expensive, completely unnecessary and specifically designed only to be of any benefit to you once you’re dead? Well, quite; but also…) — a pyramid, with tens of thousands of little people like Kevin at the bottom, and a small number of very big people indeed at the top.

If one of the little people at the bottom shouts loud enough, one of the big people at the top will hear him.

Exhausted, the little yellow frog crawled the last few agonising inches and flopped into a stagnant pond. For two minutes he lay bobbing in the brackish water, gathering his strength.

They will hear him, because there is money at stake; and money is the ultimate hearing aid.

The little yellow frog stretched his legs and kicked feebly. A small string of bubbles broke the surface of the water. Deep down, among the pondweed and the mosquito larvae, Kevin rested, took stock of his position, and reflected on what he had to do next.

First, he had to file a claim. Without the policy document to hand, he couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t something in the fine print that excluded being turned into a frog from the All Risks cover; Act of Goddess, probably. But there was no harm in trying.

Second, he had to report to his superiors.

The loss adjusters at the top of the pyramid have a refreshingly dynamic approach to their art. Instead of simply coming on the scene when the dust has settled and trying to make the best of a bad job, they prefer to think positive. The best way to adjust a loss, they feel, is retrospectively.

Not long afterwards, a small yellow head appeared above the surface of the pond, blinked, and turned its snout towards the waning moon.

“Rivet,” it said. “Rivet-rivet-rivet.”

Would you like,” Jane asked, “a cup of tea?”

Kiss nodded, unable to speak. Genies, of course, can’t stomach tea. The tannin does something drastic to the inexplicable tangle of chemical reactions that makes up their digestion. He grinned awkwardly.

“I brought you some feathers,” he mumbled, and thrust the bundle at her. She simpered.

“Gosh,” she said. “Aren’t they pretty? Let me put them in some water.”

She grabbed the feathers and fled into the kitchen, leaving Kiss to speculate as to what in hell’s name was going on.

Heatstroke? He hadn’t been anywhere hot. Malaria? Genies don’t get malaria. A recent sharp bang on the head? No. Then what…?

Eliminate the impossible — “Impossible!” he said aloud. — and whatever remains, however improbable — “No way,” he muttered. “Biological impossibility.” — must be the truth.

“Shit!” he said.

And yet. Weirder things have been known. It’s a fact that human beings (and genies count as human for this purpose) can get attached to almost anything, with the possible exception of Death and lawyers. And there was something indescribably charming about the way the corners of her mouth puckered up when she smiled.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” the genie exclaimed. And then the truth hit him. He peered down at his chest and saw, on the left side, a small round hole in his shirt. A few minutes later and it wouldn’t have been there; the holes Cupid makes in cloth heal themselves in about a quarter of an hour, on average.

The bastard, Kiss said to himself. The absolute bastard.

But what could he do about it? Well, he could try changing himself into a woman — a piece of cake for a Force Twelve — but he had the feeling that that wouldn’t make things better in the slightest degree; in fact, it would complicate matters horrendously. The same was true of turning into a cat, an ant or a three-legged stool.

He could get hold of that bloody aggravating child and twist his head off. That would make him feel better, for a while; but he knew perfectly well that even Cupid was incapable of undoing the damage. All he could realistically hope for was that with the passage of time the wound would heal of its own accord. But how long? With mortals, he knew, the process usually took somewhere between three and sixty years, and he didn’t have that much time. Marriage, of course, was a recognised form of accelerating the process, but even so—

And why? The question flared in his mind like an explosion in a fuel dump. What possible reason could Cupid have for a stunt like this?

He could think of a reason. Cold sweat began to seep through his pores.

The door opened and Jane sidled through, holding a teacup and a large cut-glass vase full of soggy-looking phoenix feathers.