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of him, of sex. Demeter had to come up with a way to save her own life, not how to get the God of Love between her thighs.
    He carried her with ease up the white temple steps and into her bedroom. “Demeter, this is more than using too much power on strawberries. In fact, you should be able to bring endless droves of strawberries to bloom with a kiss and a promise. What’s going on?”
    Don’t look, she pleaded silently. Don’t look to see what’s inside. She decided to hide her duplicity with the truth. Demeter knew he wouldn’t betray her by telling anyone and he’d see the bright shine of the truth on her words so he wouldn’t look any deeper.
    “My time is almost up.” She didn’t look up at him when she replied.
    “What are you talking about?” He demanded and eased her gently onto her bed, but he didn’t let go of her. She found herself held against his chest as if she were something precious. The mendacity of the reality was like ash on her tongue.
    “I have a life cycle. As will Persephone. I’m aging, this form is degrading and I’ll die.”
    “Does anyone else know?”
    “No,” she confessed.
    “But you drink ambrosia,” he said as if that would negate all the facts in front of him.
    “Yes, I do. It doesn’t change the fact that when my time is up, I’ll be dust. Just like the mortals.”
    “Have you told Persephone?”
    “No, and I forbid you to tell her. She’s been through enough.”
    “Maybe she can help you, Demeter. My vision was clear you would have to trust or die. This doesn’t have to be the end for you,” he said in a measured tone.
    “I think I’d rather die,” she replied.
    So much honesty in one day made her stomach turn.
    Suddenly, she felt awkward and old there in his arms. Like he was holding an old woman’s hand because there was no one else to do it.
    “Go on, I’m fine. Why don’t you read some more poetry to Persephone? I’m sure she’d enjoy the company. There’s pomegranate cookies and lemonade in the kitchen. Leave an old goddess alone.”
    He froze; she could feel the tension in his body. Demeter slapped at his arm. “I’m may be ancient, but I’m not stupid. Did you really think I didn’t know you were creeping through my hedges? I’m not angry either, so off with you.” She shooed him away.
    Eros moved to do as she bid, but he pulled the green silk sheet up over her. “You’re not that much older than I am, Demeter. Only a few centuries. Maybe you feel it because you’re dying, but if you see a line there, it’s only because you drew it.”
    She found she had nothing to say to that, not even when the tickle of butterflies in her stomach jumped as she realized he had been as affected as she’d been by their contact. Demeter watched him leave her bedroom and for the first time, she felt regret instead of rage. If only things were different. Demeter could have called him back; she could have had his mouth on her, his hands—all of the things she’d seen and knew she wanted unequivocally.
    But they weren’t different and never would be. No matter what she wanted. Yes, if things were different, she could have loved her daughter. She could have been happy to bring bright life into the universe. She could have taken joy in her daughter’s beauty, her kindness, and basked in the love that was a mother’s by primal right. Demeter could have been warm inside and the power she used for green and growing things would have wrapped the world abundant life—the way things had been before Zeus had taken what he wanted.
    She could have been in Eros’ arms, enjoying the act of the divine and the pleasure all of her visions promised. Demeter sighed, her mind unwilling to be still or quiet. During the most intense images, the one where she’d felt everything to the marrow of her bones, there was light too. It was as if her heart had been given the wings of an eagle to soar through endless sea of the skies, but she knew they weren’t eagle wings. They