To mortal eyes the place might have looked like an impressionist’s view of Olympus, or Valhalla, or the Heaven that Christians prayed to reach.

There were no visible limits to it; soft clouds and calm, sweet blue sky extended toward infinity in every direction. Straight overhead the sky darkened just enough to show a few scattered stars, unblinking pinpoints of light that never moved from zenith. Time itself was meaningless here. No planet rotated underfoot. No sun or moon swung across the changeless sky. Yet the air was bright, suffused with a soft light that had no visible source.

If a human being ever saw this place, it would remind him or her of being at the peak of a high mountain, above the cares and needs of the world, above the clouds that bring storm and turmoil, looking out across the clean, still air of a realm of endless calm and beauty. A domain far beyond the world of ephemeral mortals who are born in pain, struggle all their brief years, and then are snuffed out like the flickering flame of a candle.

Somewhere in this trackless realm of clouds and sky, a pinpoint star of light detached itself from the high heavens and moved downward, swelling into a globe of golden radiance until it almost touched the upper swirls of the clouds. It glowed brilliantly, but without heat, as it moved swiftly across the cloud tops and finally came to rest, for no outwardly discernible reason. Slowly the globe wavered, shimmered, contracted until it had formed the image of a man, a youthful, yet fully adult human being, handsome as a god, tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick mane of golden hair and eyes the color of a lion’s tawny coat. His robe was golden, trimmed with an intricate tracery of thin red lines, like a pattern of blood vessels.

He sat on a billowing cloud, reclining like an emperor of old against cushions of cumulus, his majestic face set in intense concentration, as if he were watching something that no mortal eye could follow. How long he sat that way, it is impossible to say, for time had no meaning here…

Presently a smaller glowing sphere appeared near him, shining silver and pulsating slowly. It contracted to form a human female, a woman of lustrous dark hair and deep gray eyes, as beautiful as the golden man was handsome. Her robe was of silver mesh, metallic and glittering.

“You are becoming fond of the human form?” she asked.

The man looked up at her, unsmiling. “It seems to help me to understand them, to feel the way they feel.”

“You enjoy being a god.”

The man said nothing.

“Shall I call you by the name you have chosen to have them call you?” She seemed amused, almost. But beneath her words there was irony. Her lips smiled, but her gray eyes probed him coldly.

He turned away from her unblinking gaze. “You will call me whatever you wish to, won’t you?”

“Ormazd,” she said. “The God of Light. How modest you are with your toys.”

“And what should I call you?”

She thought a moment. “Anya. That’s a pretty name. As long as we are being human, you may call me Anya.”

“You’re taking this all very lightly,” Ormazd said.

“Not at all,” replied Anya, her bantering tone gone. “I know how serious it is. I have felt what they feel. The terror. The pain. The incredible fear of dying — of becoming… nothing.”

“You didn’t have to go. I didn’t want you to go.”

“No, you would have activated your warrior and flung him against the Dark One by himself, without a friend, without a hope, without even memories.”

“None of them understand. Why should he have been different?”

“But they do understand!” Anya said. “In their own dim way they perceive that a struggle is going on, that they are caught as pawns between powers far greater than they are.”

Ormazd shook his golden-maned head. “They understand only what I want them to understand.”

“Not so,” she insisted. “Look at their scientists, how they are organizing knowledge of the universe. They are on the verge of learning the true nature of space-time…”

“Never. They still think of time as sequential. They still believe that cause must always precede effect.”

She laughed. “Look more closely, O God of Light. Your toys are beginning to penetrate the mysteries that surround them.”

“Then I’ll have to change things. They mustn’t learn too much. Not yet.”

“No! Don’t! Let them learn. You can’t treat them so callously.”

He stared at her. “I can treat them in whatever manner I like. I created them. They are mine.”

“But you cannot control them.”

“Nonsense.”

“Admit it,” Anya insisted. “They are slipping beyond your grasp.”

“I control them.”

“You built curiosity into them. The thirst for knowledge.”

“That was necessary,” Ormazd said. “But I balanced it with fear of the unknown.”

Anya’s eyes glittered angrily. “Balanced? Not so, my godlike one. You have created a terrible tension within them. They are driven by curiosity, yet afraid of anything unfamiliar. They live their lives in torment, in agony.”

The one who called himself Ormazd began to contradict her, but stopped before he uttered a word. He saw what she would say. She had allowed herself to be a human being, briefly, and she had felt what the rest of his creations felt.

With a sigh he took a different tack. “They believe that their gods are all-powerful, all-knowing. They blame me for their ills, for their own shortcomings.”

“They also give you credit for being merciful,” said Anya. “They want to believe that you love them.”

He sighed again, more deeply, wearily. “They realize that they have been created for a purpose,” she went on, “but they grope in darkness to discover what that purpose might be. They want to serve you, but they don’t know what you expect of them.”

Ormazd rose to his golden-booted feet. The radiance of his energy made the clouds glow.

“They served their purpose, ages ago. Now if the Hunter will accomplish his task…”

“Then you will have won it all,” she said. “Then we will be safe.”

“And then I can get rid of all of them, at last.”

“You cannot eliminate them!”

He arched an eyebrow. “Cannot? I cannot?”

“Dare not,” Anya corrected. “You know that our fate is inextricably linked to theirs. Creatures and creator, we all share the same continuum. If they are eliminated, we will cease to exist also.”

“Surely you don’t believe that.”

“I know that it is true. Why would you have allowed them to remain, otherwise? You created them to defeat the Dark One. They did that ages ago…”

“Not completely. He still exists.”

“Yes.” She shuddered. “And as long as he does, you need the humans, don’t you? As long as the Lord of Darkness still eludes you, the humans arc necessary. Your army of warriors. Your bodyguard. Your suicide squad.”

“I created them to be warriors. I made them for that purpose.”

“Yes, and did the job so well that when they have no one else to fight, they fight each other. They slaughter each other endlessly.”

Ormazd shrugged carelessly. “Of what matter is that? There are billions of them now. They breed constantly. I built that into them, too. I gave them pleasure to balance out their pain.”

“Again you speak of balance.” Anya smiled bitterly. “I think you actually believe that you have been fair to them. Kind, even.”

“They are only creatures. Toys, as you call them. I have no need to be kind or fair to them.”

For long moments Anya said nothing, but her eyes showed that she was thinking furiously.

Ormazd reached out a golden-skinned hand toward her. Gently, he said, “There was no need for you to become one of them. I never meant for you to be as vulnerable as they are.”

“But I did,” she replied, as softly as he. “And now I can’t forget it.”