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but did not attempt to harm them. Fistus wanted them to see his might, and despair.
    â€˜At least you know that his magic was behind some of the terrible things you’ve done,’ said Roget.
    â€˜Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Greave said in a dead voice. ‘To discover that I’ve been manipulated like a mindless fool? Besides, he didn’t corrupt me — he only fed the sickness that was already there.’
    â€˜Without him, you might have come to your senses.’
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ Greave rasped. ‘The hook had already bitten too deep, and there’s only one way off it now.’
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    Fistus dropped the god-bone into the chalice, raised his hands and began the spell.
    â€˜Is the grey stuff the dead god’s ashes?’ said Astatine, peeping through her fingers.
    â€˜Gods, have mercy!’ cried Roget. ‘It’s a Resurrection spell. But surely not even Fistus would dare —’
    A whistling sound arose from all parts of the horizon and raced towards the hill, rising to a series of ear-rending screeches that collided, collapsed, then an utter silence, more unnerving yet, enveloped all.
    The chalice quivered and burst, its contents billowing upwards in a grey plume which slowly pulled together to the form of a man, a giant almost the height of the Cloven Shrine, though the skin hung on him and his granite face was fissured with despair. A wound between his ribs ebbed red; the bloody blade dangled from his right hand.
    Astatine gasped and fell to her knees. ‘The Great God,’ she whispered.
    â€˜Oh, this is monstrous,’ said Roget. ‘The Seven Gods must strike Fistus dead.’
    As the Great God shambled forwards they saw chains linking his wrists and ankles, yet even shackled and weak from centuries of death he was a forbidding figure. Fistus cried out involuntarily and backed away, eyes darting.
    â€˜He’s overreached himself!’ said Roget. ‘The Great God will splatter him like a gnat.’
    â€˜Either way, we’re done,’ said Greave.
    Fistus stopped and his lips moved as if exhorting himself to stand firm, then he raised his hands for another spell.
    â€˜It’s a two-part spell, resurrection and control,’ said Roget. ‘Now comes the control part. If he’s quick, he might just do it.’
    â€˜No man can control a god,’ said Astatine. Just speaking the words was blasphemous.
    She took out her medal and began to rub it furiously but then, recognising the worn image on it as Behemoth, hurled it away. She began to twist her fingers together, then abruptly thrust them down by her sides, but she could not keep them still.
    As the Great God attempted to turn aside the spell, he stumbled and it struck him on the right cheek. Howling in rage, he broke his wrist shackles and reached up into the low clouds. Thunder rumbled and the cloud boiled up into a thunderhead, incandescent with lightning. The sky went black. Astatine could not see. Lightning stabbed down at the Cloven Shrine, collapsing half of it; another bolt struck three of the priests dead. The remainder ran for their lives, though the red-gowned monks remained.
    Fistus stood firm and cast the spell again.
    â€˜This is the end of the world,’ said Roget. ‘Whoever wins, priest orgod, there’ll be nothing left.’
    â€˜It’s my punishment for seducing the month-bride,’ said Greave, head bowed. ‘And for a lifetime of depravity.’
    Suddenly Astatine saw him from the other, tormented side. ‘Not a lifetime, Lord,’ she said gently. ‘Just a time, and it’s over now.’
    â€˜Too late. No one can undo this.’
    There had to be a way but could Astatine, the little mouse, find it? She must — her gods needed help and she could not deny them.
    I can’t be a timid novice any longer, she thought. Demon’s blood runs in my veins; my father is Behemoth, the