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around. The sky was lit by tremendous energies in black and white and red, then the Seven Gods appeared in the east. A host of demons came howling from the west, led by Behemoth, but both gods and demons stopped and hovered above the Cloven Temple.
    The Great God squeezed a dozen bolts into one so brilliant that his flesh could be seen hanging transparently on his bones, then hurled it at his ancient enemy — Behemoth.
    Astatine’s breath congealed in her throat. ‘Father!’ How could he survive such a blast?
    The bolt hurled Behemoth backwards, lighting him up like a comet, but he wrung the lightning into a clot the size of a snowball and flung it at Fistus. The cardinal leapt to safety as the Cloven Shrine vapourised, its molten foundations cascading like lava down the cleft in the hill.
    â€˜Fight!’ roared Fistus.
    The Great God crushed more bolts together and Astatine knew that, this time, her father must die.
    â€˜Together, you fools!’ she roared, then clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. Who was she, an insignificant novice, to order her gods about like servants?
    The Seven Gods rotated in the air, the force of their combined glares singeing her garments, and Astatine quailed.
    A ghostly smile appeared on Behemoth’s grim face. ‘As my beloved daughter said, together !’
    Gods and demons, working together for the only time in eternity, attacked the Great God. He blasted a host of demons away, tumbling them like bats in a hurricane, then five blows struck him at once. He toppled; he fell; he slammed into the hilltop with the force of an earthquake.
    â€˜Rise!’ commanded Fistus, and the Great God struggled to rise.
    â€˜He can’t be beaten this way,’ said Roget quietly. ‘The Great God’s fate is that he can only die by his own hand.’
    Fistus’s spell drove the Great God up onto his knees and he attacked anew but, after a titanic struggle, the gods and demons brought him down again.
    â€˜He can’t take much more.’ Astatine was moved, despite everything, by the driven god’s suffering.
    â€˜Neither can they,’ said Roget. The exhausted gods clung to the rocks like moths to twigs, while clusters of battered demons shrieked in the fuming cleft. Behemoth lay on his back, his barrel chest rising and falling, bellows-like.
    â€˜The Great God’s new wounds are healing themselves,’ said Greave, who was standing upright now, jaw set as if he’d come to some terrible resolve. ‘If he can rise again, he’ll win.’
    â€˜No, Fistus will win,’ said Astatine.
    â€˜The Great God is sitting up,’ said Roget.
    â€˜And we can’t stop him. He can’t be killed.’
    â€˜There is a way.’ Greave exchanged glances with Roget. ‘We both know it.’
    â€˜No,’ cried Roget. ‘One speck of a god’s blood will slay the strongest mortal.’
    â€˜I gave Fistus the means. Only I can undo what he’s done.’
    â€˜The price is too high.’
    â€˜I’ve already paid the price,’ said Greave, ‘but redemption still eludes me.’
    Greave shook his friend’s hand and, to Astatine’s surprise, her own. This time, as his eyes met hers, she felt no trace of frost. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.
    He strode off, head held high. As the Great God climbed to his knees, healed save for the self-inflicted wound between his ribs, Greave drew something from his pocket, thrust it arm’s length up into the gash, and twisted.
    The Great God reared up, writhing with the pain. Greave, his arm trapped in the wound, now swung back and forth fifteen feet above the ground.
    â€˜He’s failed,’ said Astatine. ‘He’s going to fall.’
    Fistus cursed and fired a spell at Greave, who swung in under the god’s arm, pulled close, then thrust again. The god stumbled; Greave’s blood-covered arm slid free and he fell to