Theseus gathered himself up and charged across the floating wing, praying that Karfhud would survive long enough to hold their foe's attention until he attacked. The tanar'ri, as usual, knew exactly what the Thrasson was thinking. As Sheba slammed him into the gate yet again – the muffled crack of a breaking rib echoed down the passage – the fiend found the strength to bring his hands up and bury his talons into the monster's gristly head. She whipped her neck around. The motion tore long strips of red sinew from the sides of her face, but freed her head. She leaned forward and sank her maw into the tanar'ri's throat.

It was all the distraction Theseus needed. Had he been tall enough, he would have lopped the monster's head off her shoulders and been done with it. As it was, he had no choice except to go for a heart kill. He flipped his blade around for an overhand strike, then plunged it into the middle of Sheba's back, driving it clear to the hilt. A geyser of hot, gummy sap bubbled from the wound to coat his face. He barely managed to turn his head aside in time to keep from being blinded.

At a minimum, Sheba should have given a startled gurgle and fallen to her knees. Karfhud should have slipped free of her grasp and staggered away coughing and choking, one hand clutched to his bruised throat. The monster should have pitched forward and lain facedown in the shallow water, her spinal cord severed and her heart burst by the Thrasson's star-forged blade.

Instead, Theseus glimpsed her elbow swinging around toward his head. He had just enough time to wrap his second hand around his sword hilt and duck behind his shoulder pauldron. He felt the armor strap break, then his body exploded in pain, and he sensed that he was flying away from Sheba.

His arms were nearly jerked from their sockets, but he did not release his sword. He felt the star-forged blade pivoting on the edge of the wound, slashing through Sheba's chest, and he wondered how she could still be standing. By now, he had surely cut through half the breadth of her torso.

The Thrasson's sword slipped free of the monster. He slammed into the ironclad gate; the breath left his chest in a sharp cry. He crumpled into the water, groaning, too stunned to ache; then saw a tornado of flailing black talons driving Sheba away from the stile. The monster, oozing cascades of dark sap from the long gash Theseus had opened across her back, was hard pressed to defend herself. It was all her single arm could do to keep swinging back and forth between Karfhud's slashing claws and prevent her head from being swiped off her shoulders.

Sensing that any attack would overwhelm her defenses, Theseus rolled onto his knees – and that was when he noticed the black cloth from the amphora rounding his chest. He could not say how many times the ribbon had circled him already, but he did know that any distraction at the moment might well prove fatal. Still aching from the monster's first blow, he leapt to his feet – or rather, to his foot and his hand – and rushed into battle.

Sheba saw him coming and launched a lightning kick at Karfhud's midsection. When the fiend lowered his arms to block, she pulled her foot back and stepped toward the far end of the stile, keeping the tanar'ri neatly between herself and the Thrasson. She began to retreat out of the intersection.

The black ribbon circled Theseus a second time. He ignored it and, realizing what Sheba was trying to do, sprinted forward. On his mind was one thought: Dive for her legs!

It took Karfhudjust an instant to realize the thought was directed at him, but by the time he threw himself at Sheba's legs, Theseus was already upon him. Before flinging himself into the air, the Thrasson had to hesitate a single heartbeat, and that was too much.

The monster jumped back, well out of Karfhud's reach. Then, when Theseus and his star-forged sword came flying over the fiend's back, she snapped a slimy red foot up from the shallow water. The blow caught the Thrasson square in the chest. He saw the black ribbon flash past one more time, and then he saw nothing at all. Woegate

The growl of the surf is gentle in his ears, the touch of sea air cool upon his skin, the stars sweet upon his eyes; a woman – the woman, a tall beauty with olive skin and emerald eyes – lies youthful and naked in the crook of his arm. The world is as it should be for young heroes and their maidens: battles won, wine drunk, slumber taken – but they have erred, and grievously. They have lain naked beneath the craving eyes of the gods, and what the gods see, the gods will have.

Gentle as a kiss, a rivulet of wine tickles the Thrasson's lips, trickles sweet onto his tongue, runs warm and welcome as ambrosia down his throat; he dreams, and he does not dream: above him stands a handsome youth, pouring the sweet nectar upon his lips from a silver ewer. The young man's face is no mere flesh stretched over bone; it is chiseled from marble, with features balanced more perfectly than those of any mortal and skin that shines like pearls. The god's eyes are purple as grapes; upon his head he wears a laurel of growing vines, upon his lips a broad grin of flashing mischief.

"Great Theseus, know you who honors you with this libation?"

The Thrasson nods. "Dionysus." The god of vines, the embodiment of joy, mirth, camaraderie-also madness, delirium, and hallucination. "I do you praise."

The god's purple eyes sparkle. "As the gods will you, Theseus – if you do as I charge."

The Thrasson says nothing, for he knows the danger to those who follow the ways of Dionysus-as he also knows the folly of those who refuse the gods.

"Well have you done to rescue the daughters of King Minos." Dionysus glances into the distance, where a small ship sits beached upon the sand, its single black sail furled upon the spar. "Their father was a tyrant even to his children, and all we gods have longed to see them free."

"May I always please the gods."

"Then must you yield your prize, great Theseus." A crooked smile creeps across Dionysus's lips. He shifts his gaze to the beauty who sleeps secure in the crook of the Thrasson's arm. "Leave her on these shores, and I will watch over her. It is the younger princess, Phaedra, that we mean for you."

"Never! I will not abandon-"

"Take Phaedra, and my blessing with her." The god grabbed a handful of shore sand and held it before him. "Though you plant your vines on the salty beach, ever will they droop with the best fruit in the land. In wealth, your wine will buy you more palaces than you can number and fill them all with your treasures; in war, your treasures will buy you the finest weapons in the land and you will never know defeat; in fame, your name will be spoken upon the tongues of men as long as men have tongues to speak."

"And if I refuse?"

Dionysus let the sand trickle from his hand. "Then your vines will wither though you plant them on the hills of Olympus itself; your people will know thirst and starvation; your enemies will slay your hungry warriors; your name will be a curse upon the tongues of your people, to be gladly forgotten after they have dumped your naked corpse into the sea."

It is the last threat, I am sure, that makes the Thrasson abandon his princess. He loves nothing so much as fame – and for that, must we all suffer:

Have I not seen the broken amphora, the ribbons of black sail and the strands of my golden hair fluttering from the jagged hole? What choice now but to call them real?

Too much is explained, too many bricks stacked and mortared for me to deny the wall. Poseidon sends the memories, but Dionysus sends the woman, and those – two would no sooner share a victory than a bed. There is a weight in the sky, a low rumbling beneath the streets like the growl of the leviathan. The air has the feel of an epoch grinding to an end, and I am all that stands before the crashing wheel.