The Demon and the City

across the gap and toward the road, within feet of Paravang Roche.
    "A guide!" Senditreya shouted. "You'll do."
    Paravang, too late, tried to scramble away but felt a hot divine hand grasp the back of his neck and haul him bodily into the chariot. The flail whipped over his head like a thunder-crack and the chariot sped off, blasting through the closed gates of the temple and sending them into a thousand splinters. Paravang, his mouth and nose filled with sawdust, tried to jump down, but the goddess still had hold of the nape of his neck. Her hands were huge—she was huge, in fact, at least eight feet high and built like an ox beneath the billowing crimson and indigo robes. Paravang caught sight of her face and wished he hadn't: looking into Senditreya's eyes was like looking into the pit of Hell.
    "I need," the goddess said with dreadful calm, "to go to the home of one Jhai Tserai. Where is it?"
    And once he had found his voice, Paravang told her. Several times.

Forty-Eight
    Robin rested her hands on the rail of the balcony and looked out across the lake. It was, of course, beautiful. A huge, low moon hung over the water, much closer than it seemed on Earth, although it had been explained to her that this was illusion. If she half-closed her eyes, she could almost see the pavilions and temples that were said to lie upon it in this dimension, the Imperial Court of Mhara's mother, the Lady of Mists. The lake itself was equally lovely: starred with fleets of water lilies and drifts of swans, crossed by a sequence of charming little bridges. Now, under the moonlight, it was a world of indigo and silver. Robin gazed across it and longed for the view into her own grimy back alley. Because what good was it being in Heaven, if you couldn't spend your time with the person you loved?
    She had certainly been well-treated. She had been granted a set of rooms in a long, low mansion, dressed in silk robes, and given a maidservant, with entrancing good humor and no sign of obsequiousness, who appeared to regard it as an honor to look after her. But she had seen nothing of Mhara for the last three days. She had asked and asked, and received polite, evasive answers, expressed with exquisite regret. Eventually hope gave out and Robin admitted what she had known all along: she was an embarrassment. The son of the Lord of Heaven wouldn't be allowed to have a mere human as his consort. And when she had gone to look for Mhara, she discovered that all her wanderings seemed to bring her back to the lake, as though the land itself was carefully and cautiously turning her around.
    So, Robin asked herself miserably, was this it? Was she supposed to stay here for the rest of her life, in the proverbial gilded cage? How long might that life be, since she was now in Heaven and perhaps, therefore, an immortal now herself. It seemed unlikely that anyone ever died here.
    Then, below the balcony, something whistled.
    Robin paid little attention at first. The lakeside trees were filled with delightful, sweet-singing birds; their song wafted through the fragrant air from morning until balmy night. But something about this was different: sharper, more insistent. Hope suddenly flared up all over again and Robin leaned over, craning so far that she almost fell off the balcony. Mhara stepped out of the shadows.
    "It's you," Robin hissed.
    "Robin!" Mhara jumped, caught the bottom of the balcony and hoisted himself over it. Robin could see at once that he was different. The dreaming serenity had been honed to a keener edge, voice and movements were decisive.
    "We have to leave, Robin." He took her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly.
    "Thank God," Robin said before she could stop herself.
    "Well, no. My father has nothing to do with it."
    "I can't flee in a dress. These skirts—"
    "There's no time. Come on." He dropped from the balcony and held out his arms. Robin gritted her teeth and jumped down into them. It was an awkward landing and they both staggered, but then Mhara caught her by the hand and pulled her into the bushes. "This way. As quietly as you can."
    Robin brushed through thick branches of hibiscus and oleander, releasing a scent like roses and cinnamon into the air. That was the trouble with Heaven, she thought, it was all too much. But perhaps it wasn't designed for human senses: perhaps spirits, such faint things as they were, needed overload in order to sense anything at all.
    The shrubbery ended by the lake. On a narrow strip of