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  Jerry searched desperately for a way to intervene. All he saw were some pottery shards. And the fact that Skadi the huntress was wearing top-boots—quite wide at their top—and she was right next to the fire.

  Using two scraps of the broken bowl, Jerry scraped up some of the coals and poured them into one of her boots. Then, hastily, he did the second boot. Skadi was too busy straining at the snake to notice. Smoke started coming out of her boots, and Jerry shoveled a second load in, for want of any better idea.

  The dead snake broke. Loki tumbled backwards and Skadi suddenly realized that her feet were on fire. First she danced frantically, in the process stepping on her live snake—which latched its fangs into her leg. She sat down hard, grabbed the snake and flung it at the wall—narrowly missing Sigyn. Then she tore at her boots, hauling them off, scattering coals.

  But Loki had seen enough. Grinning like a fiend he took a whole handful of live coals and poured them down the back of her neck. His hands seemed completely impervious to their heat.

  Skadi jerked backwards and Loki assisted her with a mighty shove. Her head hit the floor with an audible crack. She lay still for a moment, before she rolled over screeching, pulling her smoldering dress away from her body and standing up to scatter more coals. She stood on a coal, yowled, leapt backwards, and tripped over Loki's prison-slab. She landed with an even louder crack. This time, before she could move, Sigyn was onto her, pressing a sharp fragment of pottery to her throat. "Lie still, bitch, or you will die right here."

  Blinded, stunned, snake-bitten, and obviously in a lot of pain, Skadi moaned weakly—but did not move. How could she know it was just a piece of pot? Jerry actually felt a little sorry for her. She had tortured Loki for centuries, so Loki and Sigyn plainly had a grudge. On the other hand, Loki did tend to bring things on himself.

  Skadi was a fairly minor and obscure member of the Norse pantheon, and Jerry didn't know much about her. But the way Skadi was reacting to the pottery shard that she couldn't see, and his memory of the most famous binding in Norse myth had given Jerry an idea. What was it that the chain that bound the Fenrir wolf was supposed to be made of? Ingredients such as the sound of a cat's footfall and a fish's breath. If he could fool this giantess that she was under duress of similar intangible bonds . . .

  "Hold the knife steady, Lady Sigyn," said Jerry, as calmly as he could. "It wants but a few more chants and scratching of the runes until we have her bound with the invisible net."

  "Will it hurt her?" asked Sigyn, in a voice which said that she wanted it to.

  "Not unless she moves," said Jerry. "If she stays still, it will feel as light as the finest cloth. But the more she struggles, the tighter it will bind. It is woven from the teeth of birds, moonlight gathered at noon and the . . ."

  Inventiveness failed him, The best he could come up with was "tomb dust from an ancient king," and hope that Skadi hadn't read much Gothic horror.

  "Who is that?" Skadi's said through gritted teeth. "Curse you—"

  Loki held a coal close to her cheek. Not quite touching but close enough for her to feel the heat. "Now, now," he said in a mockingly cheerful voice. "You wouldn't want to make a sorcerer powerful enough to undo Odin's works angry, would you? He already conjured up hot coals to help you dance. It is a shame that you are so clumsy that you fell over. I would lie very still and silent in case he decided to do worse." He took her knife from her girdle—a precaution they should have thought of earlier—and toyed with it.

  "Sorcerer?" said Skadi, digesting that. She didn't seem the quickest thinker around, but then she'd been through some harsh treatment in the last few minutes.

  "Of course, Skadi. A very powerful one. How else do you think I am free? Yes, Loki is free, and Fimbulwinter begins," he said savagely. "Now, while my sorcerer spins his magics, I will ask you to give me the galdr. I need the chant to see me free of this place."

  "You will not get it from me," she said with savage satisfaction. "Odin is more powerful now. He won't need Thor and Heimdall to catch you any more, Father of lies."

  "That is an interesting description coming from you. Njörd would be impressed to hear of your honesty, adulteress."

  Skadi snarled. "Hel take you, Loki."

  "I hope so. She is my daughter, after all," he said, quite urbanely. "Now, tell me the galdr."

  "I'd rather die."

  "That can be arranged, Skadi," said Loki grimly. "Not quickly of course, but it can be arranged."

  Skadi sniffed. "Then you will never get out."

  "I still have my sorcerer. He has defeated Odin's Seid runes. He may get us out. Why not reach a bargain? When Ragnarok comes, you are one of the giants. One of my kin. If I win . . . I will set you free. Or Odin may come looking for you. Otherwise, you are dead."

  She was silent for a while. "I suppose so," she said at last. "Vegtamr Gungnir Fjallar. Nine times."

  Loki shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "You won't mind my holding the knife to your throat while I say it then, will you?" he said, his voice full of a gentle irony.

  Skadi ground her teeth.

  "I know the names of One-eye better than you do," said Loki. "Try again. Or I'll have such a spell put on you that Lumpy himself would not fancy you. Your face and eyes may heal, but there'll be no going back from this curse."

  She ground her teeth again, and clutched at the pouch from whence she'd pulled the replacement snake. Loki raised an eyebrow and cut the strap with her knife. She moved as he plucked it away. "Uh-uh! Hold still now." The shard of pottery pressed harder . . . and a spot of blood appeared.

  Loki drew out a small bottle made of hammered metal. "A potion. And what do we do with this? Drink it? Of course if something goes wrong it would be very sad for Skadi."

  "A drop on the eyelid," she said sullenly. Loki nodded, unstoppered it, and wet the tip of his finger and put it to his eye. "Ah," he said. "So the galdr was a feint. Still, we shall have to put a stop to that summoning spell. Sorcerer, can you weave that into your net-spell."

  "I have done so already," said Jerry, taking his handkerchief and putting it over her face.

  "Now can I kill her?" asked Sigyn.

  "I'm afraid not," said Loki. "I am not an oathbreaker like Helblindi. Let her enjoy my prison. There is a hidden ladder here we can climb. Let me put a drop of this on your eyelids."

  When he'd done so, Jerry found himself looking at a rope ladder. Sigyn examined it carefully. "You first, husband. If you get away you can always come back for us. And this one had no part in the killing of my sons, so I will forgo my vengeance . . . on her. For now. But not so with the others."

  Loki grabbed the ladder. "Not so with the others," he said, as he began to climb.

  "After you, Lady Sigyn," said Jerry, although the last thing he wanted was to be stuck alone with a giantess trapped under a handkerchief.

  She shook her head. "It would not be seemly. And I think you should take her boots." Jerry looked at his one stockinged foot and did—taking very good care to shake out the boots first.

  They were at least three sizes too large for him. And rope ladders turned out to be a lot harder to climb than he'd been led to believe by Indiana Jones.

  Sigyn followed, and they hauled the ladder up and began making their way cautiously along the rock-hewed corridor.

  "It's to be hoped that that is a powerful spell-net you've cast on Skadi," said Loki, quietly.

  "Um," said Jerry. "It's . . . uh, well, it's just a piece of cloth. Not a spell-net. Not a spell at all. She just thinks it is."

  Loki stopped dead in his tracks, and grinned wickedly. "It might make getting away more dangerous—but, oh, what a tale! The skalds will love that one. It's a trick worthy of the greatest of tricksters! If only I'd thought of it first."

  "Don't worry," said Jerry, "they'll probably blame it on you anyway."

  The Krim device's computational circuitry was proof that even Moore's law must have an end somewhere, whether it is by postscription or in the ability of c
omputing power to double. Right now it was going through several iterations of probability planning . . . and meeting the unexpected. The gods of the Ur-Mythworlds that the Krim had parasitized before were less recalcitrant than these ones. It offered a renewal of power—an irresistible bait, or one, that if resisted, simply meant the Mythworld was heading into a slow spiral of fading down to extinction. But the labor in this world was hard to control.

  And very frighteningly self-willed.

  PART III: To sleep, perchance to dream . . .

  Chapter 17

  "Got anything to drink in this place, Thor?" said the huge wolf.

  The presence of the creature and the serpent-dragon seemed to trouble Thor a lot less than they bothered Liz.

  "If Sif sees you here she'll have a fit," said Thor grumpily. "And no. You should know by now that we finished every drop in this place in that last drinking session."

  "She hasn't been here for days. I keep hoping someone might restock," said the serpent-dragon. There was something female about that sibilant voice, somehow, and she spoke in the sort of tone that said she thought it ought to be him doing the restocking.

  "Anyway. I've given it up," announced Thor.

  The wolf sat down hard on its haunches and let its cavernous mouth drop open. Liz could see that it was terribly scarred. It shook its vast head. "That's going to go down really well in those fatuous sagas."

  Liz might be alarmed by the wolf and the serpent-dragon—but at least one person wasn't. Neoptolemeus danced forward. "You're beautiful. Do you know Bitar and Smitar?" he demanded.

  The serpent-dragon looked at him, and shook her gargantuan head. "No. Don't know you either. Got anything for a girl to drink?"

  The disappointment written in the boy's face was enough to make Liz want to hug him.

  "So," said the wolf, eyeing them curiously, and possibly a little hungrily, "who are you? Do you have something to do with Thor suddenly deciding he doesn't drink?"

  "They're friends of mine, Fenrir," said Thor. He sat down on a bench next to the wall. "I feel awful. There might be some food in the kitchen, Wolf. Thrúd usually restocks that."

  The wolf grinned toothily. "There won't be, when I'm finished."

  Marie put her hands on her hips. "Well, then, let the children get some first. You're ugly enough and big enough to catch your own anyway."

  The wolf blinked. Then cocked his head sideways. "I thought they were appetizers?"

  "Trust me," said Marie. "Those little boys would disagree with you." The way she stood made it clear that the disagreement might just be Marie Jackson.

  "And we really aren't little boys," said Ty. "We're from the planet Krypton. We just look small." He flexed a minuscule bicep. "But try and eat us and POW! WHAM!" He windmilled the air.

  "And you wear your underpants outside your trousers," said Emmitt derisively.

  "They're cute," pronounced the serpent-dragon. "You're not to eat them, Brother."

  "Hmph," said the wolf. "Jörmungand, one of them just has to say you look pretty, and you put me on diet. I'm always hungry."

  "Except when you're asleep or thirsty," said the serpent-dragon. "What's wrong with Thor?"

  The thunder-god's arms and legs were starting to thrash around and he was muttering something about spiders on the walls.

  "Delirium tremens," said Liz.

  "Oh. He looks like a berserker after they've been eating mushrooms," said Jörmungand. She looped a coil around Thor, basically enclosing his whole body. "That'll keep him from hurting himself."

  It wasn't exactly a padded cell, but it was a kind of restraint, Liz supposed. The wolf had walked closer and was sniffing them. "You smell unlike any other prey I have hunted across the nine worlds."

  Liz had spent her life with big dogs. She knew as well as anyone that what she shouldn't do was show fear, or even think fear. She grabbed the sniffing muzzle with both hands. They were barely big enough to go around it. She stared into the yellow eyes. "That is because we're not prey. Got me?"

  Fenrir wrenched himself backwards and free, growling at her. Then, probably because—by the smells of his breath—he'd had the better part of someone's ale-barrel already, tripped over his own feet and fell over. Liz was above him in a flash, grabbing his jaws again, this time in an armlock. Having an older brother who had been keen on wrestling was useful from time to time.

  "You wouldn't be growling at me, would you?"

  He looked at her with wary eyes, and she stared straight back at him. After a brief pause, she released his jaws and he growled, "You're quite some boss-bitch."

  There was a little grudging admiration in that tone. He wagged his tail. His tongue lolled out and he turned his head turned at a slight angle. "Sexy, too."

  That wasn't quite what she'd had in mind as a response. But this was a big dangerous animal, and she could use an ally like that. "Yeah. Well, you need a good brushing before I can call you anything but scruffy. Lie down and I'll do that."

  She delved into her bag, and dug out her hairbrush. She could possibly get another hairbrush, but this beast could bite your leg off.

  The startled wolf lay down, and Liz started to brush his manky fur. He stretched and rumbled, but there was no malice in it. Belatedly, Liz remembered there was a social aspect to grooming among wolves too. Oh, well. She'd worry about that when the time came. In the meanwhile, wolfie needed half a ton of winter fur brushed out. And there was something very therapeutic to grooming a big dog, even if his snake-dragon sister was looking rather puzzled at the entire performance.

  Fenrir was skinny, she discovered. Still young and growing, by the looks of his teeth. He had a gap just behind his vast canines where the carnassials were beginning to cut through. Liz had specialized in fish, but she would bet that this enormous wolf was still less than full-grown.

  Someone coughed. Liz turned her head and saw that it was Thor's stable thrall. He had a silly grin on his face which suggested that he'd had a few horns of ale in a hurry.

  "My lady . . ."

  "Just Liz."

  "Justliz, I have found out what happened to the prisoner. He was taken before Odin, and then was flung down into the pit with Loki." Lodin seemed to think being eaten alive might be preferable.

  "He'll be all right, then," said Fenrir. "The old man isn't a bad sort even though he has prehistoric tastes in Skaldic verse."

  Jörmungand nodded. "Positively ninth century. He's a real old fuddy-duddy. Thinks Starkadian meter is all the rage."

  Whatever or whoever this Loki was, besides someone with a moribund taste in poetry, being flung into a pit didn't sound too good. "Well, we need to get him out," said Liz determinedly.

  "Can't be done," said Jörmungand. "Not that we haven't tried."

  "Yeah," growled Fenrir. "Sigyn isn't your typical literary-fiction step-mom. She was kinder to us than Angbroda."

  "And mostly better at keeping Papa Loki from doing anything too crazy." There was some resignation in Jörmungand's voice.

  Liz blinked. This was the world of myth, where science, and, indeed, genetics did get a little twisted. But this Loki would have to be a really weird creature to father such a diverse pair. "Tell me about this pit."

  "It lies in the caves deep under Asgard. Odin has magically imprisoned Loki there."