Down a tight narrow street they come, running like the devil himself chased then. Clad in pristine white shirts and slacks, with only the red sashes at their waists breaking the uniformity, they push onward through the street and past each other. To linger is to stumble, and to stumble could easily mean death today. Why you ask? Your question would be answered with a shaking finger pointing behind its running body. Like energy released the pursuers come, their singe and ebony skins are in sharp contrast to the colors of the runners. It shines and glistens from the strength of the hot sun that beams down on a ton of irresistible power, set in a thick muscled body adorned with horns. Horns that seek a purchase, horns that will gore flesh the second contact is made. The leader of the pack is without a doubt the mightiest; a full foot over the rest, heavier, and possessing the most curved, fearsome horns. He charges incessantly at anything that moves before his sight. He has been roused from a peaceful slumber, prodded to stoke his anger, then set before mad fools running like the dogs that regularly hound him, only slower. His color blind eyes are not engaged by the red sashes, contrary to popular belief, but the movement of them ignites his most basic characteristics. Unlike his brethren, he doesn’t slow after a missed charge, nor does his speed fluctuate. Steady as the hands on a captain’s wheel, he pursues until he spies a runner that stumbles. It is only for a second and a step lost, but it is yards and years to the Black. With a bound he is behind the runner, hot blasts from his nostrils intimidating the runner into another stumble. A stumble that leaves the runner prone on the ground, then hoisted on horns that vibrate with each breath of the Black. A mere flip of his neck sends the fallen flying into the air like a red speckled dove. The Black steadies his horns for the coming blow, feeling a building sensation of pleasure that he will finally have ceased the blasted movement! Then he feels a tug at his most vulnerable appendage. A bleat of surprise rushes through grinding teeth, as the Black feels himself lifted into the air by powerful hands. An equivocal feeling grips his throat as he views the world from 10 feet above it. Instinct tells him to run, only there is no earth to spring from or bound against. His stout legs dangle aimlessly as he feels his trunk slowly begin to turn and then spin, propelled by the manus underneath his torso. The Black’s sweat provides a slick base that allows the one beneath him to spin him like a plate on a stick, until he is slid to the ground and rotates about until finally stopping. Dazed, he looks at his aggressor standing before him.

Attired in a white tunic and thick bandolier, with a dangling red headband adorning his brow, the interloper smiles at the Black and makes a motion with his hand for him to come onward. The Black drags his foreleg against the earth once, twice, thrice, only to have the action mimicked by his new foe. He drags his sandaled backwards in the same fashion, then places his pointed index fingers against his temples. A smile of pure uncut enjoyment shines on his face, as he and the Black charge each other with the same intent. They shake the ground like cymbals clashing , and though the Black is formidable, the struggle is brief. Like throwing a satchel over his shoulder, he slings the Black by the horns up and over his shoulder, laughing loudly once he hears the crash that can only be the bull meeting the floor with very little grace.

"Zounds! What sport today! Tis been a millennia since I have done such. I should have visited this Pamplona with more haste! Come my friend,"he bellows turning to see his handiwork. "The day is long and there be much of the gift to impart!"

"The Mistress will hear you now, son of Zeus."

He looks about the hall with eyes that have peered upon nearly all there is to see. He finds little cheer here, all the

more reason to be swift and leave. "My lady, I have come before thee not to appeal for myself, but for the life of one other. A life twas taken far too soon."

"The Mistress knows of this. She bids you to cease your fluttering and be direct."

"Verily. Whilst I didst take part of a holiday in yon Pamplona, Barcelona, a most unfortunate accident did occur—"

"Accident? The Mistress bids you to be truthful in your words, Godling."

"Verily. I did become drunk with the excitement of the day. The running of the bulls. Are thee familiar?"

"The Mistress reminds you to be direct."

"Twas during said run that a most tragic incident didst happen."

"The Mistress bids you be silent. You participated in the bull run and while being a careless braggart, you killed a young boy. Fidel Noguera."

"Twas an accident."

"It was your fault. Yes, you rushed him to hospital facilities and waited by his side, but the outcome is still

death. The Mistress knows why you are here. She bids you speak truly or begone."

"The son of Zeus? Accused of being false?! Tis time that thee learned of the Gift—"

"This audience is over."

No sooner are these words spoken than the Mistress and her minions begin to fade away from view.

"Hold! Wait!" bellows Zeus' son with outstretched arms. "I beseech thee to stay. I shall be. . .direct."

"The Mistress will remain," speaks her minion materializing.

"So long as you are."

"Twas my base foolery that didst extinguish the boy's life. I once had sons and daughters who met with death due to similar madness. I could do naught for them, but now the tale might be different. I approached Zeus, the almighty, but he reminded me of his oath not to deal in the affairs of mortals ever again. I then sought his brother, Hades, for he maintains no such compunctions. He too could do naught, for he had entered a pact with thee. This led me to summon thee. I humble myself before thy power and ask that thee grant me what I crave."

"The Mistress has heard you and rejects your request."

"What?!"

"The Mistress reminds the son of Zeus that she cannot upset the delicate balance of life and death. To restore this boy, would set a terrible precedent."

"Tis madness! Many have I known to escape the grip of thine Mistress. Thou speak falsely."

"Untrue. I only remind you that the balance must be preserved. Surely you understand her meaning?"

"Verily. Mine immortal soul, for mine mistake. A bargain for your Mistress."

"A life is life, but my Mistress would agree."

"Why? I am immortal. All claims to mine life are improper."

"You forget, son of Zeus, that you were once mortal."

"Ah, now does she show her motive. Still thou art vexed over thine loss of mine soul millennia ago! I say thee nay.

There must be another way."

"Perhaps there is. Unless the son of Zeus is above servitude?"

Swirls of flame dance before his singe colored eyes. He stokes the fire with a frail, withered limb fallen from a nearby tree. The branch crackles as it lights and defuses, consequent to being pushed in the fire and earth. A slender smile comes to his full lips as he recalls a night like this from years ago. He was cold, yes? It has literally been millennia since he has felt that sensation. Warmth, frigidity, not regular sensations when one is a god. Even on earth, his powers diminished by his own choice, he can only imagine being cold. Despite the forest night, the wind blowing a language all its own, and all the wintry signs, he remains unfeeling. Neither warm nor cold, simply. . .he is. It was peculiar at first, to live without feeling. Human feeling. Still, there was no handbook for the transition from mortal to god. He has never been known to be an intellectual, and tonight will not put him on the path. Still he wonders … and remembers.

The nights are always good after being released from the yoke of Chiron. It seems the eternal never exhausts of paces to put a young hero through. However, even he had to remark over the feats of the day. The cestus, chariot, spear, and arrow, all displayed with a mastery beyond years and ability. Ability. A choice of word for one who is the scion of the Thunderer. He has been told that the limits do not apply to him. His abilities are beyond those of mortal men, and the world belongs to him. Even the fire seems to dance solely to entertain him. It is sleek, voluptuous, ravishing, and to his eye somehow, feminine. No sooner does the thought form in his mind, than the phenomenal happens. Like stalks the fire lengthens into two separate shafts. Burning to a conflagration, the shafts change hues from crimson to aureate, cyan, and finally white. Bathed in a heat induced sweat, he remains calm in the midst of the occurrence. It is not the first time he has been witness to such an event; his lineage is proof to the fact. The glare becomes powerful enough to force his eyes shut. His flesh the barometer, he waits until the heat descends, and the sound of searing earth begins its cessation. Deeming it safe to look once more, lids retract to the view of two shimmering women. Both clad in white, they approach without walking, floating towards him until they hover before the young scion like breath on the wind.

"The gods favor you, son of Zeus," they speak in unison. "But a man’s destiny is not solely defined by the divine and fate. There is freewill, an equal owner with chance and the ordained. You must choose."

"Tis foolish to choose, not knowing the yield of such a choice."

It is at this juncture that the hero to be recognizes the subtle contrasts in his visitors. A duo in white, yes, but to the right the maiden’s garment is flowing, revealing only slender arms up to the shoulder. To the left, the maiden’s wear is close to her form; cut short on the thigh, displaying fine legs, beautiful to their unmarred feet. Her midriff shows, as dos an ample portion of her bosom, left uncovered by the low cut of her top. It is she who approaches first.

"Call me Kakia, son of Zeus. All that is pleasurable in life is mine to offer. Whatever that be lavish and measured with expense is mine to bestow."

The strategically clad maiden floats before him until her navel can catch the heat from his breath.

"Choose me," she says descending until her bosom is neatly fitted with his nose like a puzzle piece, "and no bounty will be denied you. Life will be full and rich until pleasure is all that you can breathe."

Young nostrils inhale deeply the scent of ambrosia and fire. Kakia lowers her mouth to his, ready with parted lips to seal the purchase. Then a hand soft as fledge and cool as Poseidon’s breezes, touches his burning chin. He turns to te maiden now vying for his attention. Her face is light, her smile is every kind word wished to be heard.

"Scion of Zeus, it is Arete that addresses you now. Mine is the power to bestow you glory. An everlasting glory to be won in the heat of battle against evil."

"Tis all? A paltry portion proffered against a competitor so well laden," smiles the son of Zeus, turning to her rival. "Kakia, yes? Mine destiny is to be a hero; naught will change that. Why should I not live comfortably? Tis but ye lips I need to make tight the bargain."

Kakia cuts a look to Arete, then moves in for the kiss of purchase.

"Wait, Scion. I have not shown you all."

"He has made his choice," Kakia speaks through grinding teeth.

"You added a display to your words. I am allowed the same. Give your mind’s eye to me Scion, and see."

The slender finger of Arete’s hand touches a tense forehead. In his mind, he is carried to the depths of Hades’ realm, Tartarus. Though only an image, he can smell the stench of death and feel the chill of despair. It is a cold that will never leave him completely. He looks on drab figures; some tortured by device, others wandering about aimlessly. Worst of all, he spies a soldier possessing a battle mangled body.

Although dead and beyond recuperation, the shade continues the process of binding his wounds. An epiphany of realization implodes within the godling’s mind.

"This man I knew. A hero vaunted by all for his feats in Corinth. He has been dead for ages, yet knows not this."

"And such is the fate of all heroes," resounds the voice of Arete. "Even those from Zeus’ loins."

On cue a pallid wasted figure appears, dressed in a phantom version of an aegis and Hellenistic helmet.

"Perseus—" lips the startled youth.

"They remember themselves in their glory," Arete explains. "You see that even divine gifts are powerless here."

"And be this my fate?"

"I have one thing else to show."

His mind’s eye cuts to a view of the night’s sky, encrusted with the eternal lights of the heavens. Focus is applied to a spiraling series of stars, as they circle and take a glow superior to their neighbors. They stop to form the outline of the dead hero he has just viewed.

"Death is the same to all who meet it. It is life where the difference is made. The women will be transient, the gold will cease to luster, but the stars will always shine. They will honor the deserving forever. Now that you know all you need, choose."

Turbulent hands form a triangle over a tight-lipped mouth. Pleasure, he would be a fool to choose otherwise. The sight of Perseus returns to him; the fate of all who die, hero or not, is the same. The chance to live among the stars, to truly be eternal. . . .

"I choose ye, Arete. Profitless as it twill be."

"What profit be there to gain all, yet lose everything?"

"You are the chosen, sister," Kakia says returning to the fire. "Enjoy your victory. For now."

In a manner no less spectacular than her arrival, Kakia is enveloped by the flames and vanishes.

"Shall we seal the bargain?" asks a puckering godling.

The wind blows in its own language, and though not fluent in its words, Hercules’ ears perk at a word he does comprehend. A bronzed hand grips the club beside it, and legs strong enough to hold the sky rise to their feet. Though he cannot feel it, he is certain of the cold. It is a scowling that has been with him since he first saw death.

"Wen-Di-Go!"

He looks to the stars and wonders if they will truly last forever.

Next: Call of the damned.