LE Modesitt The Hammer of Darkness

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that its upper slopes are cloaked in shadow, unlike any other peaks on Aurore.
Thor is not hard to find, Emily discovers. Hammer resting on his knees, the
thunder-god stares down at the waves crashing against the sheer quartz cliffs
that stretch kilos east and west from his vantage point. His location, across
the Midland Sea from the Sacred Mountain, is scarcely hidden, though neither
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Apollo nor the Smoke Bull has ever cared for the White Cliffs. The Goat can
sometimes be found nearby. It was a challenge, Thor.
The hammer-god does not acknowledge her presence, nor even the concentration
of energy that the golden goddess, mistress of the rainbow, gathers about her.
A challenge, Thor, she snaps.
No, bitch. He lets the hammer fall as he stands, and it vanishes. No
challenge. You followed the behest of Apollo and the Minotaur to carry out the
execution of another of their enemies. You, who could rule an Empire, cannot
rule yourself.
Flame, Thor. Apollo and the Bull rule Aurore. No one stands against them. Not
Martel, not me, not you. Thor smiles, and the smile does not suit him. None
so blind as will not see, bitch goddess. None so deaf as will not hear.
Quoting Martel won't help either, old blusterer. Thor shrugs, unfastens the
great bronze clasps that hold his bearskin cloak, and lets the skin drop. A
gust from the sea wind carries it high over the waves.
A gesture from the hammer-thrower, and the cloak bunches, becomes a dark bird
that spreads its wings and glides toward the calmer water out beyond the ridge
of black rock over which the solid gold-green waves are breaking.
Emily laughs. The harsh notes knife the harmony of the surf noises. As she
draws the colors to her the brilliance of the rainbow glitters, iridesces,
mounts to eye-sear, a small nova at the top of the White Cliffs.
Two hundred fifty kilometers across the Midland Sea, the priests at the temple
in Pamyra note the strange light and gen-uflect.
The rock under the feet of the golden goddess puddles, and she stands in a
pool of molten stone. Very pretty, bitch, but is one supposed to be
impressed? You talk too much, Thor!
The thought lances at Martel with the power of an Imperial battle cruiser. You
have forgotten nothing and learned nothing, Emily, and for that you shall pay.
Pay with your memories, pay with service, and pay for the love that has left
your soul. Strong thoughts. . . And her sending falters. Where is my hammer,
Emily? Where is my lightning? And yet bind you will I in darkness, and in
time, and away from all you hold dear.
A small sunburst crashes against Thor's shoulders. He does not even bend, but
darkness rises from the White Cliffs beneath his feet and through his hand
toward the miniature sun that is a goddess. As the blackness flows toward her
the pool of molten rock traps her feet as it freezes, holds her like a fly in
amber.
Thor takes one step toward the sun that has dwindled to a rainbow, then
another. Who are you? Who. . . what. . .
The clifftop is empty. No sign remains of the two, except three black
footprints in the white rock leading toward a perfectly white and perfectly
circular depression melted into the stone.
A single raven, not native to Aurore, circles, then flaps over the waves
inland toward the lowlands.
LVI
The woman wakes, shaking, from a nightmare. The details fade even as she tries
to recall them.
Her hair is long and black, her waist narrow, breasts high but adequate,
certainly not small, nor large enough to merit the term voluptuous.
All her physical characteristics, from golden eyes to lightly tanned skin,
from black hair to oval face, are irrelevant to her at this particular moment.
She does not know who she is, where she is, or why. In the starlight, she
looks at her hands. The nails are neatly trimmed, short, unadorned. The hands
are uncallused, but not soft. She looks down at her body, discovers she is
wearing a light blue one-piece coverall of a luxurious material, but without
underwear, she can sense, and formfitting boots a shade or two darker than the
singlesuit. She wonders how she knows the colors in the dim light. The gentle
terwhit of a bird in the tree above her startles her, and she studies her
location.
First, it is night. That she had realized earlier. Second, she is sitting on
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