Lindsey Duncan is a life-long writer and professional Celtic harp performer, with short fiction and poetry in several speculative fiction publications. She feels that music and language are inextricably linked. She lives and performs in Cincinnati, Ohio and is a student at Indiana University, working on a self-designed major. She can be found on the web at LindseyDuncan.com

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.

"Who do you favor to win the Fifty Years’ War, Esephus?" a friend bellowed.

"The spear-makers."

Raucous laughter followed him as he moved on to quieter pools. The younger, less affluent gods hovered, watching images of new converts swirl into view. Esephus joined them, thinking that if only one swore to him, he could stop worrying. Times had been hard since the monotheists sanctioned the arena. He was losing devotees even faster than blood-sport could take them. It had once been that his worship was passed through the ranks, a tradition as glorious as the ring itself. Now. . .

The gods clamored as a saffron-haired vision appeared in one of the pools – soft, lithe, anyone’s mother-of-heroes. Even Esephus was caught, his lips parting in an oath. “By my teeth,” he said, “perfection.”

“Whose do you suppose she is?” another wondered.

She knelt before an altar. Smoke formed above her head in the shape of words: Tearius, God of Poets.

That divinity stood at the edge of the group with a scroll in ink-splotched hands. He looked up, startled, as three of the gods descended on him. They clapped his shoulder and provided spates of advice on wooing the worshipper.

The God of Eagles rolled his eyes. “A fluke.”

It was not. Esephus kept an eye on the pool long enough to see two more individuals swear themselves to Tearius, and was intrigued. Clearly, there was more to the situation than met the eye.

He knew enough about strategy to realize the man who relied only on his own strengths was lost, and so cornered Tearius by the gymnasium. “Can we talk?”

The god smiled vaguely. “Philosophically, that’s under debate. Some people believe we don’t exist.”

“I’ve noticed your successes,” Esephus said bluntly. “Can I ask what your secret is?”

“Women,” Tearius said after a pause. “They rock the cradles, they teach the children, they survive the wars – and they plain outlive everyone else. Earn the interest of the fairer sex, and you have earned everything.”

“Well, that leaves me out of luck.” Esephus grimaced. “Sure, there are a few female gladiators, but they aren’t precisely maternal role models.”

“You could apply to the Overgods to have your aspect expanded,” Tearius offered.

“That would take decades.” Yet Esephus set his shoulders. “I’ll have to do it. Thank you.”

The younger god hesitated, then continued in a thoughtful tone. “Sometimes,” he said, “the Overgods aren’t so careful if you request something that looks similar to your current portfolio.”

Esephus frowned, about to grumble that it wasn’t much help. Then he considered how the Overgods usually worked, and the idea hit like one of their thunderbolts.

He grinned. “Thanks, lad! If there’s anything I can ever do to repay you. . .”

“Just hire me to write your next set of prayers.”

“Done. Done.”

Mere months later, Esephus stood by the scrying pools smug and waiting. The Storm of Ages continued to rage; the pools were still packed with gods who had nothing better to do. The divinities watching the converts nudged and whispered about two women: a prim gardener who did not seem either the age or the type to take up religion lightly, and a flighty young noblewoman.

“They don't seem like any of our types,” the God of Eagles observed.

Smoke swirled over the heads of both women. It read: Esephus –

Disbelief, shouts, and a slow grin from the god himself. Things were going to be different.

The last words swirled in the smoke: God of Gladiators, Falchions, Gladiolas and Fashions.