The fight had moved a long way from the wagon.
She knew she must look absurd, a powder blue midget racing into a battle against a giant. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do or why she was doing it. She didn’t like Killer; he was a dirty-minded, obnoxious little punk, but she wasn’t going to let that hateful monster kill the boy if she could help it.
Killer was starting to twitch. The Minotaur was behind his head, and he must have opened his eyes and looked up and seen it staring down at him, for he tried to rise— and Asterios put one foot on his face and pushed him down again.
It likes to play with its victims.
And Ariadne was still running, silent on the grass.
Then Asterios uttered a quieter, rumbling whinny that might have been a laugh, clasped its hands behind its back, and bent over, twisting its head. She thought for a moment that it was merely peering into Killer’s eyes, but then she saw the horn, directly over the boy’s heart… and Asterios continued to bend.
Killer reached up and grasped the horn, and the cavernous chuckling noise came again. Blood was visibly trickling from the monster’s cuts down onto its victim, and Killer was now obviously taking the strain, trying to hold that icily descending horn away from his chest. He squirmed, doubling himself to bring his legs up, pressing his feet against the massive head… and Asterios rumbled mockingly again, remorselessly increasing the pressure. It must outweigh Killer three to one— the could never resist its weight. The horn moved steadily lower, gently folding his limbs ahead of it, touching his chest Still it had not seen Ariadne. Still she ran. Perhaps she could ram that wand down its horrible throat; Jerry had said wands could burn the demon.
Asterios was bent almost double now, its legs apart, its back toward her, its rear vulnerable. It had not heard her, or it would be moving faster to destroy one victim and then turn on another.
And then it either heard or saw her. Roaring, it jerked loose from Killer, unclasping its hands, raising its head— too late. Without slowing down, swinging the heavy wand two-handed like a golf club, she struck upward as hard as she could between the Minotaur’s widespread legs; flame and smoke spurted from its crotch as faerie wand met demon flesh.
With a deafening scream, Asterios collapsed in a heap on top of Killer. Ariadne fell over both of them and then was thrown clear by the monster’s wild convulsions.
She struggled to her feet and staggered, dazed. Killer and the still-bellowing monster seemed to be writhing together in some horrible embrace. Then Killer had rolled free and was scrambling to his feet, so splattered with blood that it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been wounded— but he was mobile. The distant onlookers broke into hysterical yells of joy. Ariadne started to run for the silver sword shining in the grass. That was a long way, too. She grabbed it and headed back again, reeling and breathless and miserably aware that she was badly out of shape. The wand and sword were slowing her down.
She came to a gasping stop and held out the sword. “Put it back!” Killer screamed. “You must not interfere!”
Asterios, still roaring, clutching its genitals, had risen to its knees. “No man may interfere!” She tried to yell and could hardly get the words out at all.
But Killer’s face was inflamed and furious beneath the blood stains. He had one hand pressed against a slash across his chest and he was swaying on his feet.
“Put it back where it was, you stupid bitch,” he snarled at her. “And get back in the wagon where you belong.” Behind him, Asterios made an attempt to rise and sagged again, bellowing.
She was almost too furious to think. This was a clash of cultures, like Jerry’s story of Thermopylae— Killer would not accept help from a woman. A ball of twine would be all right, but she was not supposed to interfere in a hero’s actual battles.
Asterios lurched to one knee, then to its feet, bent double still.
The Iliad?
Hadn’t there been goddesses involved in the battles between Greeks and Trojans? It was his bible, Jerry had said.
She took a deep breath, suppressed her panting, drew herself up as straight as she could, and said, “Don’t you know who I am, Achilles?”
“Ari…” he said, then the rage faded, and his eyes opened wide. “Athena?” he whispered.
Asterios half straightened and started to shuffle forwards, one hand reaching for Killer’s neck.
“Quickly, mortal!” Ariadne said. “Kill the Minotaur!”
Killer nodded, grabbed the sword, and jumped clear of the monster’s grip, just in time. Ariadne raised the wand threateningly in case it came for her, but Killer swung the silver sword in a blazing wide arc at Asterios’ throat.
The Minotaur toppled backward to the turf, and Killer raised the sword, two-handed, and thrust it down, burying it in the monster’s chest.
The wagon exploded in cheers, erupting people as a volcano throws rocks. Killer turned to stare at Ariadne, and she held out the wand. “You have done well,” she said.
He was panting, naked, splattered with blood, and for a moment she thought he would kneel to her. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. She also was gasping and sweating, too much for a goddess. Realization flickered in his eyes. Then he grinned and lifted his hands invitingly.
She threw herself into his arms.
It was the kiss at the shrine all over again, and this time she did not even try to resist. She could not breathe in his grasp, could not think, was conscious only of the pounding of their two hearts and his naked form against her and of a great joy that this Killer had survived. She dug her fingers into his back and returned his kiss wholeheartedly.
He was an obnoxious little punk, maybe, but now she knew she would not be able to resist him. Whenever he called, she would come.
Jerry led the pack at first, then slowed, and he was the last to arrive at the celebration, the group that was standing around Killer and Ariadne, waiting for them to break loose from their embrace.
He wandered over to inspect the prone form of the Minotaur, the silver sword still protruding from its rib-cage. Killer would certainly break his rule against booty and have that head mounted. Jerry pulled out the sword and wiped it on the grass. Then he heard much laughter behind him: Killer was accepting congratulations from the others now. Even the Gillises were in there.
Ariadne broke free and came towards Jerry and then stopped. He held out a hand. “Well done!” he said.
She shook his hand, lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Doesn’t this carcass look smaller than you expected?” Jerry asked. “Jerry… I don’t know why I did that.” He forced a smile and hoped that it looked genuine. “Did what? Displayed that incredible courage of yours yet again? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, Ariadne— man or woman. Don’t be sorry for that. Or do you mean kissing Killer?”
“Both.” He shrugged. “Quite understandable. He’s had four hundred years of practice. I’m the only one, almost, who has ever been able to refuse him— and even I’m lined up now.” He was sounding bitter and childish; she was hurt.
“Damn!” he said. “I’m not jealous of Killer, Ariadne; truly. Every husband in Mera— Oh, hell! I mean I don’t own you.” She studied the Minotaur. “Yes, it is smaller… Jerry! It’s shrinking!” So it was; bloodstains fading, pelt disappearing. Already the monstrous head was barely more than human.
One by one, the men came over and shook Ariadne’s hand. Their awkward discomfiture amused her.
Then Jerry was grabbed roughly from behind and whirled around by Killer, still wearing nothing but smears of blood and a huge grin. He had a gash on his chest, and his lips were bruised, but the bruises could easily have been done during the congratulations. “You’re the only one who hasn’t…” he shouted, and stopped when he saw where Jerry was pointing.