There was a village in the mountains at the top of the world that was always shrouded in mist. Its name was Ballahee, and in it lived a small community of people, good people, who tended to their crops on the mountainsides, and looked after their sheep and their hardy goats, and helped each other through the cold and cruel winters.

The villagers had many problems, such as the cold winters, and the wolves in the scrub-woods, but by far their biggest problem was the mist.

My horse shied before the vale of Avalo. I had been warned to expect it, and it was a simple matter to calm the animal. But when I tried to spur it forward again, it balked and looked back longingly at the grassy hills around us. I followed its gaze, but farther, imagining that I could see the gates of the Golden City Ilnar. Had it only been an hour ago that I left? Or a hundred years?

When going to a sorceress, one can never tell.

If it was someone's idea of a practical joke, Antimony decided, then it wasn't very funny. By rights, she ought to have the creature quarantined immediately. Appearances of lizards (of any sort) needed clamping down pretty severely ever since the Projectors in Room 309 had got hold of that Escher print. One gecko out of place and the whole of Lagado's Old Quarter could be patterned over by suppertime. The public health risk didn't bear thinking about. But for some reason, she felt strangely sympathetic towards it. Maybe it was the signboard. Maybe it was the prospect of finally getting rid of all those ducks.

I woke from nothing. No dreams had stirred me. I had been a hundred years in darkness. I was a stone, waiting roundly. Blank.

I thought, Perhaps it is all over.

(When the sun was high I used to stand in the garden, toss a little golden ball to watch it shine. I played for hours that way.

It is for the best I pricked my finger.)

The keep was suspended, spider-webs gleaming in the open mouths of the half-dead. The vines had covered everything. There was no light left. I thought, Perhaps the sun has gone out, and despaired.

The Storm of Ages dominated the bachelor wing of the Home of the Gods, driving even the most testosterone-ridden weather-god indoors for poker and tankards of divine mead. Esephus, God of Gladiators and Falchions, disliked bloodless gambling, and so wandered over to the scrying pools. As usual, he was armed to the teeth. A cluster of deities who had bet their last burnt offerings stood by, watching one of the more interesting wars and shouting at the occasional brilliant maneuver.

Mason felt awkward wearing one of Gallia's old gowns. Previous to her employment in the Edgeworth home, she had only worn a skirt on two separate occasions. They never suited her and she felt more comfortable in men's clothing.

But society had its standards and Mason wanted to keep her job. With her charge safely in bed she lingered in the servant's hallway watching the party, unnoticed. From there she could see just inside the parlor.

"It's true!" he cried, in his ordinary voice this time. And all the people crowding beside him on the Temple roof shouted, "It's really true!"

That's the second-to-last line of the story. I ought to know because I wrote it myself. Now you know it too; that's the benefit of hindsight. Everything would be much easier to believe in if we had more of that. And having started at the end, I could now go on and tell you the whole story backwards. It's not unfeasible; it's been done before. But, aside from the fact that it would probably make you seasick, it would also take away the suspense and ruin the whole story. I suppose that's where hindsight falls down.

Immediate opening: Global force seeks CEO. Must have leadership experience, ruthless ambition & complete lack of morals. Horde of bloodthirsty minions a plus, but not necessary.

The door of Chaledon Greev's study creaked open, and a figure in black glided into the room. Its cloak absorbed the lamplight, leaving a dark shadow in the midst of the golden glow. A hood hid the being's face, and it made no sound as it came to a halt in front of the huge mahogany desk.

When the doorbell rang at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, I knew immediately who it was. I cursed, fumbled into my frilly bathrobe, and stumbled to the door where Tino sat, wiggling his entire backside in excitement. He gave a deep, stifled bark and a little gurgle of impatience.

"Emily," I said, pushing Tino out of the way and opening the door.

When the snow lies like a second skin and the box elder and the cottonwood hang low beneath this slippered desert moon, then frost and sky are two opposing mirrors. When my tooth-long shadow ripples dune and striated, sleeping rock, the sky seems troubled too; no comet stirs the clouds, and the burn brighter than the fossil streams frozen upon these striped-rock walls like tears.

The desert is a land I have long-cherished. Rippling in the heat as in the cold, choking breath beneath its winding sands, it is the natural home for such a one as He who carries bones upon his back, souls within his weather-tattered coat. Beneath his little bud of moon and all these scattered stars, I could forget myself. I could walk across these sleeping sands and brush my sulfrous metacarpals through the bearded rabbit brush yellow on yellow ‘til icicles ring a frightened Dies Irae. I remember now a distant memory; a young man running through the snow, cold needling his puckered heels ‘til he collapsed for his devouring. I stop my pacing and recall my own demise the first of many where I would preside; the numbing frost, the swirling winds, at last the limbic warmth deep in my cerebellum, twisting like a worm inside a skull.