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tend to notice whether or not there are bridges, or if the green bits are grassland or swamp. “You could fly us over that,” he said, as we stood staring up at a vertical cliff-face I’d somehow overlooked. “Go on. It’d be easy as pie.”
    “Get thee behind me,” I told him. “You have to do this, or it won’t count.”
    “I’m an accomplished rock-climber,” he said. “You’re the one who keeps getting into difficulties.”
    True. But that’s what the rope is for . I’d told him, go on, cut it, let me fall, but he insisted on hauling me up. I broke a fingernail.
    “I’m a quick learner,” I said. “We won’t have any trouble this time.”
    “I hope not. Have you any idea how heavy you are?”
    “Don’t be idiotic. I’m insubstantial. I weigh practically nothing.”
    He looked at me and pulled a particularly irritating grin. “If you say so,” he said. “Look, why don’t you fly, and I’ll meet you at the top?”
    A CTUALLY , A VERY good question. I was, after all, accompanying him—which I could do in relative comfort, using my god-given faculties. Where this notion of sharing every aspect of the human experience had crept in, I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t in the original plan, but now it seemed to be of the essence of the enterprise. Ah well. What fun is a game if you can’t change the rules as you go along?
    We started to climb the cliff. He was right; he really was very good at it. We weren’t roped together this time, because of course he’d lost the rope, and his spiky things you bash into the rock, and all the rest of the gear. I cheated just a little bit by reducing my body weight to that of a small feather.
    About two-thirds of the way up, he grabbed hold of a ledge above his head and put his weight on it, and it crumbled and gave way. He scrabbled madly with his feet, but the soles of his boots slipped off the smooth surface of the cliff, and there wasn’t another handhold in reach. He screamed, and fell.
    What happened next is a bit of a blur; the next thing I remember clearly is touching down with both feet on the goat-cropped grass on the top of the cliff, and gently putting him down, as though he was made of glass.
    He’d closed his eyes. He opened them and looked at me. The palms of his hands had been cut to ribbons, and there was a three-inch gash down his left cheek. I don’t think he was aware of them, so I healed them before he noticed.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “See? Didn’t I tell you? You do need me after all.” His eyes narrowed. “It was you,” he said.
    “I saved you, yes.”
    “You made the rock crumble under my hand. So you could rescue me.”
    I was so stunned I forgot to be angry. “No,” I said, “I didn’t. It was an accident. The rock was loose.” “I don’t believe you.”
    “Really, it’s true.”
    He got painfully to his feet. “Isn’t there something
    in scripture about a providence in the fall of a sparrow? I don’t think accidents happen when you’re around.” “It was an accident, for crying out loud.”
    He shook his head. “Nice try. Presumably the crevasse and the quicksand were you as well. Proving to me I couldn’t manage on my own.”
    “I wasn’t there .”
    “You’re everywhere, it says so in the Good Book.”
    “It’s not true.”
    “Ah. So scripture tells lies, just like you. I’m not in the least surprised.”
    “I hate you,” I said.
    “You know, I’d sort of gathered that. Ever since I prayed to you in the Temple and you wouldn’t forgive me.”
    “Drop dead.”
    He went white as a sheet, until he was certain he was still alive. “Figure of speech,” I said. “I can do them, you know.” I gave him my sincere look. “Really and truly, I didn’t crumble the rock. It was an accident.”
    He had that wary look, like a dog that’s been kicked and doesn’t trust humans any more. He backed away a couple of steps, keeping his eyes on me all the time. “What?” I said. “What’s the matter