seer of
the Poor, Comforter of the Worker and Patron of the Drunkard, sat
silently in a cheap bar on Lower Third Avenue, New York, slowly imbibing
his seventh brandy-and-soda. It tasted anything but satisfactory as it
went down; he preferred vodka or even gin, but after all, he asked
himself, if a God couldn't be loyal to his own products, then who could?

He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, and his face did not look
like that of Dionysus, or even of William Forrester. Though neatly
turned out, he looked a little like an out-of-work bookkeeper. But it
was obvious that he hadn't been out of work for very long.

_Hell of a note_, he thought, _when a God has to skulk in some cheap bar
just because some other God has it in for him_.

But that, unfortunately, was the way Mars was. It didn't matter to him
that none of what happened had been Forrester's fault. In the first
place, Forrester hadn't known that the girl at the Bacchanal had been
Venus until it was much too late for apologies. In the second place, he
hadn't even picked her; he'd kept his promise not to use his powers on
the spinning figure of Mr. Bottle Symes. But Venus had made no such
promise. Venus had rigged the game.

But try explaining that to Mars.

He didn't seem to mind what went on at the Revels of Aphrodite--being
Goddess of Love was her line of work, and even Mars appeared to
recognize that much. But he didn't like the idea of any extracurricular
work, especially with other Gods. And if anything occurred, he, Mars,
was sure damned well going to find out about it and see that something
was done about it, yes, sir.

Forrester finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. It had all
begun on the day of his Final Investiture, and he had gone through every
event in memory, over and over. Why, he didn't know. But it was
something to do while he hid.

It hadn't been anywhere near as simple as the Investiture he had gone
through to become a demi-God. All fourteen of the other Gods had been
there this time; a simple quorum wasn't enough. Pluto, with his
dead-black, light-absorbent skin casting a shade of gloom about him, had
slouched into the Court of the Gods, looking at everybody and everything
with lackluster eyes. Poseidon/Neptune had come in more briskly,
smelling of fish, his skin pale green and glistening wet, his fingers
and toes webbed and his eyes bulging and wide. Phoebus Apollo had
strolled in, looking authentically like a Greek