THEOMANCY Kallie So the muses tell! Twelve gods reigned over the Sellenes and all their lands from on high. The thunder-king, and his queen, and his brothers and sisters, and their divine children - in every city, their temples rose high and their prayers were sung, and the cities of the Sellenes prospered. Of all the Olympians, in the fair city of Kichyros, great Diohos, son of the thunder-king, was honored above all the rest. There, it was said, he had first arrived in Sellas, leading his procession of drunken satyrs and music-mad maenads to rest on that very hillside. And so the city became his sanctuary, and they honored him. Its people raised up to him a great temple, and so the drunken god taught them how to harness his blessed oxen and plow their fields. He blessed their vineyards with overflowing plenty and made their wine coveted in every corner of the world. Its people sculpted for him a fine idol, a marble statue of such handsome beauty it was said that all men who saw it envied the reveling god’s manliness, and all women who saw it lusted after his virility. And so he blessed their playwrights with inspiration, gifting them both the most uplifting comedies and the most moving tragedies. Its people offered him generous sacrifices, pouring the finest wine and honey onto his altar and hosting the most lavish festivals in his name. And so the mad god gave to their prophets his most secret gift and promised that in his consecrated wine, they would find magnificent foresight. And so blessed by the ecstatic one, Kichyros prospered, and with its wines and festivals, became the envy of all Sellas. Until the coming of the steppe women, and their theomancy. *** “You,” came the woman’s voice. “Boy. I offer you the same choice I offered the rest. You will invoke the god, or you will die. Choose your fate.” Nikon, priest of Diohos, looked out across the city from the temple mound and found himself mesmerized by red and black. Red, the glow of flame; black, the stain of soot, both of them casting the streets of gleaming marble in a terrible, unearthly light. Nikon had been born in Kichyros, but now, as the red rose and the black settled, and the dancing shadows of violence and chaos grew taller and wilder, it was all made strange. It was horrifying, of course, but there was also something hypnotic about the rhythm of the light; the ebb and flow of the deep flames reflecting from polished stone. Their gradual, implacable waxing, punctuated by the occasional bright lash that rose high to the heavens. And there was music to it, too. Not just the distant war-drums, but the low rumble of fire and the irregular ear-splitting crack as the heat of the inferno snapped wood and split rock. Nikon couldn’t look away. He wanted to wail: what had happened to his city? But he already knew the answer to that. They had come, and they had conquered. The Hamaza. Of all the shadows that stalked Kichyros, the ones that truly made his soul tremble were the towering figures of their warriors, all of them mounted upon towering, stirupped war-horses that made them loom like giants. They were all women, of course. That was the way of the Hamaza. They had no men. None at all. Already, Kichyros’s menfolk had been slain on the battlefield or carted away for slaves, while its women were being seduced by the lascivious offerings of these barbarians. Whenever they claimed a city, it was said, they competed with one another to woo its most beautiful matrons, offering gifts, newfound liberties, and pleasures they could never have found in their marriage-beds. Nikon shuddered at the thought. Once, Nikon and all the other Sellanes had laughed at stories like that. Women warriors? Women rulers? Women who only lay with women? The absurdity! Nobody in Kichyros was laughing now. “Choose,” the woman insisted. “Invocation or death.” Nikon made ready to summon his courage, but a sudden, ear-splitting crack from nearby unmanned him. Nikon clutched at his chiton and clamped his eyes shut in frantic prayer. It was just a timber, he told himself. Nothing more. Not bone. And the howl he’d heard was surely the wind, whipped up into a frenzy by the heat. Not the scream of one of his fellow priests, coming from within the flames. It was useless. If he refused, he was next. It was that simple. His courage fled. “I’ll do it,” he said, voice trembling. A harsh, mutinous whisper went up from the temple attendants, all of them bound and kneeling in the flanks of the sanctuary. Their scorn was nothing new. Nikon was a priest, but he had always felt himself set apart from the others. He was younger. Less experienced. Less joyful in his worship, perhaps. Nikon had often wondered if the temple of Diohos was where he truly belonged. The attendants had always seemed to wonder the same thing, and look down upon him for it. “Coward!” one of them hissed. “Die like a man!” another urged. “Like the others!” “Don’t do it!” encouraged still another. “Better this place be desecrated than-“ “Silence!” the Hamaza commanded. At once, it was so. Then, to Nikon: “Open your eyes, boy.” Her voice carried all the sky’s weight. Nikon opened his eyes and saw her standing over him, taller than any man he had ever met. “Look at me,” she instructed. He raised his gaze. “What’s your name?” “Nikon,” he said quietly. “Nikon,” she repeated. Her Sellanic was good, but not perfect. Her accent was distinctive. There was no mistaking it; she was from the eastern steppe. “I am called Irtasduna. I am a high priestess of the Queen of the Endless Sky, the goddess who is the mother of all - soon, even this place. Understand me?” “Yes,” Nikon answered swiftly. “Yes.” It was impossible not to be in awe of her. Against the orange sky, Irtasduna had a harsh, fierce beauty. She was strikingly muscular, and her bronzed skin spoke to countless hours spent riding under the steppe sun. Her attire was strange, too. She wore a tunic, finely-made but simple, and cut at the shoulders and knees, leaving her arms and calves shockingly bare. Above that, she wore armor: a metal vest made in the eastern fashion, scale-like, and in her hand was a long spear she carried with consummate ease. All of that was characteristic of Hamaza warriors. What set Irtasduna apart was the fantastic ornamentation she was drenched in. All of it was gold: bangles, torcs, rings, strange disks threaded together in decorative patterns. It was the wealth of a hundred conquered treasuries and palaces. Nikon had never seen such opulence. Even more striking, though, were the tokens of her sacred office: feathers, holy talismans, symbols inked into her skin. A warrior. A war-leader. A priestess. Her eyes were as wide and deep as the sky. She looked like she could stare down the Furies themselves. Nikon shivered. “Good,” Irtasduna said. “Stand. Follow me.” She turned immediately and, as Nikon scrambled to his feet, led him the length of Diohos’s temple. Two other women - junior priestesses, it seemed - appeared to flank Irtasduna. It churned Nikon’s stomach to see these easterners walking through the temple as if they owned it. The damage didn’t seem to be as bad as he’d feared, though. In fact, it quickly struck him that there was none at all. No sign of looting or desecration. Irtasduna had an entire phalanx of Hamaza soldiers with her, occupying the temple, but all of them treated the sacred sanctuary with a curious kind of respect. If the stories Nikon had heard were true, however, their intentions were anything but respectful. “Here.” Irtasduna came to a halt. “You will invoke the god.” They had reached the focal point of the temple. In front of Nikon rose an image, marble-carved and ten cubits tall, of Diohos himself. This was no mere statue. It was an idol. A vessel for Diohos’s very essence. One stood before the altar in each and every Sellanic temple, but few temples in any city were as grand as this one. It was meant to be Diohos’s greatest sanctuary. His chief site of worship. Kichyros had spared no expense, employing the finest sculptors and stonemasons to craft an idol that would be truly worthy of the reveling god. Never before had the sight of that marble idol left him so afraid. “W-why me?” Nikon whined. He couldn’t help it. “Why must I-“ “The gods heed their own,” Irtasduna told him. Her voice was stern, but not angry - or rather, not surprised. A master tamer with a skittish horse. “He will not come for us. He will come for you. Tell me what you need. It will be brought.” Nikon swallowed uncomfortably. “I need libations. The… the wine. The honey. It’s in the storeroom.” Irtasduna nodded and spat out a sharp word in her own tongue. At once, her assistant priestesses rushed to obey her. It was only then that he saw what they had been doing. His eyes bulged in shock. Across the floor of the temple, daubed in ash and oil, there was now a huge, intricate circle. It was painted in a complex design, interwoven like blades of grass, and lined with symbols in a language Nikon did not know. Unquestionably, it was a thing of power, laid down under Irtasduna’s keen eye for some ritual purpose. “To bind,” Irtasduna explained, guessing at his curiosity. “It would not do to let the god flee back to Olympus.” “To… to b-bind?” Nikon spat incredulously. “You cannot bind a god! That’s ridiculous.” An instant later he flinched, fearing anger, but Irtasduna merely let out a low, scornful laugh. “You see to your magic, boy,” she told him. “I will see to mine.” It was wise advice. The task before Nikon was far from trivial. The gods were fickle, and Diohos might well fail to answer a flawed invocation. Nikon had only managed the feat once. He was young, and lacked the experience of his seniors. Now all of them were gone. Executed. Nikon cast his eyes down and started recounting the prayers to himself, lips moving furiously. Within minutes, Irtasduna’s assistants returned, dragging with them several large amphorae. The priestesses each threw Nikon a contemptuous look as they walked by him, but none of them said a word as they hauled the heavy ceramic vessels into position beside the altar. “Anything else?” Irtasduna asked. Nikon tried to think of some clever lie that might prolong things and give him a chance to escape. Nothing came. “No,” he answered eventually. Irtasduna gestured forward, offering him the floor. “Then, begin.” Nikon was numb as he stepped up to the altar. He could sense the surviving temple attendants, held on their knees in the wings, glaring at him, willing him to fail. Part of Nikon was wishing for the same thing. All of them knew he had failed before. Perhaps it would be best for all of Sellas if he failed again. But Nikon knew what Irtasduna would do to him then. So he began the ritual. “Great Diohos!” he said, voice as loud as he dared. “God of drink and revels! The One Who Finds Wisdom In Wine! Please accept our humble offerings, and heed our invitation.” As he spoke, he used the long-handled cup mounted on the altar to reach into the amphorae and then pour their contents out onto its marble surface. Honey flowed, then wine, coating the carved slab and flowing down into the channels and drains built cleverly around it. Nikon closed his eyes and shivered. He could sense his god drinking deep of the libations. The Hamaza seemed to sense it too. All the women warriors, even Irtasduna, remain still and silent, watching carefully and warily. Even they knew something powerful was happening. But this was just the beginning. Just as he had long practiced, Nikon turned and threw himself abjectly at the feet of Diohos’s idol, just outside of the circle the Hamaza had drawn, and, in a frantic, high-pitched voice, began to sing the spell: “Wise Diohos, bearer of the vine Thee I invoke with these rites divine Florid and gay, blossoming bright With all thy maenads, god of delight Tis thine mad footsteps with mad nymphs to beat Dancing through groves with lightly leaping feet Come, blessed power, regard this supplicant’s voice Come to us, your most sacred city, and in these rites rejoice!” Only the priests of Diohos at Kichyros knew those words of power. They were meant only to be used at times of truly great need or fervent devotion; perhaps it was the plain desperation in Nikon’s voice that carried his prayer upward, to the banquet table of the gods, and lent it the strength to call down the Reveler himself. He came like a rushing, heady wind that made even the Hamaza tremble - all except for Irtasduna. Nikon, most of all, felt the presence of his god keenly. It was, quite literally, intoxicating; it made his eyelids droop and filled his feet with the mad, drunk energy of Diohos’s procession. He felt the god’s very essence move past him, upward, and pour itself, wholly and entirely, into the marble idol that had been carved for this very purpose. For a moment, there was utter stillness. Then, impossibly, the statue of Diohos began to move. It was slow, at first. Gods were not swift to take root in the world. But Nikon recognized at once the way the marble was beginning to flex and strain along lines of musculature, bending into itself in ways that simple stone could not. But this wasn’t simple stone. Not anymore. Diohos had answered Nikon’s prayers, and now, though still cold and hard to the touch, something more than just rock flowed through the marble’s deep, crystalline veins. This was transubstantiation. This was godflesh. The statue’s awe-inspiring animation began with hints of stretching here and there, along the limbs, but soon, the incarnated deity straightened its stony back, and when it raised its head, eyes filled with immortal light, a devastated hush descended upon even the Hamaza. Upon even Irtasduna, the most formidable of them. The invocation had worked. They were now in the presence of a god. At once, Nikon bent over and pressed his forehead against the floor in a pose of extreme, abject subservience. How could he not? His god had answered his prayers. He was shocked to his core that the Hamaza were able to remain upright. Surely they too felt the magnitude of Diohos’s presence. Or was their hubris truly beyond reason? Even as he kept his eyes studiously averted, lest even his gaze offend the great god, Nikon couldn’t help but smile to himself. His faith had sometimes been fickle, but now it filled him, waxing like the tide. He was saved. Diohos was mercurial, but the presence of the Hamaza despoiler was sure to turn him to anger. Nikon had heard tales of what Hamaza did to conquered gods, but he refused to believe them. Diohos was too powerful for that fate, and he would not forgive the ones who had sacked his most devoted city. When the god spoke, though, even the smile fell from Nikon’s face, collapsing into an expression of awe-drunk rapture. “Who has summoned me?” Diohos demanded. “Which of my followers delivered to my ears such sweet, heartfelt pleas?” His voice boomed. It seemed to shake the land itself, and compelled Nikon with such force that it instantly overcame his stunned awe. “I did, lord,” Nikon replied. It was not the first time he had seen Diohos invoked, but familiarity had done little to dim the terrifying force of the wine god’s presence. Just as Kichyros’s sculptors had carved him, Diohos stood as twice as tall as any man, and his marble body rippled with immaculate musculature. He was naked, of course, but in one hand he carried a full goblet of wine; in the other, he hefted a long staff with vines woven around it, topped with a large, still-budding artichoke. A fine beard marked Diohos’s handsome, mature face, and his hair was thick with grapevines that were all but overflowing with plump, purple grapes. Depictions varied, but in every city, in every port, in every corner of Sellas, they would have recognized him. The one they beseeched for revelry, for passion, for theater - and above all, for wine, and the profound wisdom it could provide. Diohos commanded fear and respect from all. But not the Hamaza. “My priest,” Diohos said. “What has moved you to such…” He stopped as his gaze traveled around the room and settled upon the Hamaza invaders. He looked to the corners of the temple and saw his faithful attendants bound and kneeling. He looked beyond the temple’s huge columns and saw the clouds of fiery smoke that filled the sky. Slowly, terribly, any hint of his usual, joyous demeanor vanished from his face, replaced with an expression of violent wrath. “Barbarians!” Diohos roared. “How dare you defile this place? This temple is my sanctuary, and this city under my protection. Know you nothing of honoring the gods?” Irtasduna’s assistants shrank back before his divine fury, but the high priestess herself stepped forward, head held high. “Great Diohos,” she began, voice proud. “We apologize for our transgressions. Honoring the gods is our highest virtue - which is why my sisters and I have come to respectfully demand that you submit yourself to the sovereignty of the Queen of the Endless Sky, the goddess to whom all is rightfully owed.” Diohos’s face clouded over still further, into an expression of fathomless anger. “There is no ruler on Olympus but my father, sorceress.” “Not yet,” Irtasduna amended. “But the sky soars above even the highest mount.” To Nikon, it was nothing short of a wonder that she was able to stand firm before Diohos. He could sense the god’s anger churning the air; he could feel the ground trembling, marking, perhaps, the distant footfalls of the parade of mad Maenads that came in his wake. Myth and legend were replete with examples of the fates that befell mortals who dared to defy the gods. Now that his wrath was turned upon her, Irtasduna was in the eye of a divine storm - but she had the look of one who had weathered it before, as impossible as that seemed. “My faithful priest!” Diohos roared. “I will hearken to your wishes! And see these invaders cast out from my beloved sanctum.” Diohos drew himself up to his full height and took a step toward Irtasduna. When his marble foot fell to the ground, the impact thundered through the temple. Marble broke in spiderweb cracks, and up through the cracks sprang wine, in great spurting, foaming gushes. Then, vines. Crawling, reaching, winding, grasping. Another step. Another miracle. More wine, more grapevines, growing, swelling, bursting in an orgiastic dance of impossible life. All of it was directed straight at Irtasduna, threatening to swallow her up, to deliver her up to Diohos and his vengeance. But then it hit the boundary of the circle the Hamaza had drawn and stopped. The flowing wine and creeping ivy rebounded from the circle as if they had struck a physical barrier. With another step, Diohos reached the circle’s edge, and he too was held back, unable to pass. The look of faint astonishment on the god’s face was a match for the expression on Nikon’s. He felt suddenly nauseous. He could sense something in the air. The violent interplay of forces that could not be seen. The Hamaza’s binding circle worked - and it could hold even a god. “Your blasphemy grows!” Diohos raged. “Do not think you are safe. I will set a curse upon your people that will resound through generations! I will take from your people your music! I will leave your children maddened by wine!” Irtasduna bore his rage without trembling. “To me, sisters!” she cried. “We begin the stone-shaping spell.” With a cry in their own tongue, Irtasduna’s assistant priestesses overcame their fear and raced to their mistress’s side. As Irtasduna gripped her spear in both hands, holding it aloft, they began their ritual preparations. One of them slit her palm with a bronze blade and let her blood spill onto the marble beneath. Another poured out mare’s milk, carried on her belts in a small vessel, and the two potent substances mixed on the ground into a pink froth that offended Nikon’s every sense and sensibility. After that, they took up torches and began to feed incense into the flames, filling the temple with a strange aroma that drowned out even Diohos’s wine-scent. Irtasduna, meanwhile, let her eyes fall closed as her lips moved in fervent prayer. Nikon held his breath. He could feel sorcery in the air. “Foolish hubris!” Diohos decried. “Your spell is meaningless. This is but a vessel, and I will not indulge your vile trickery for a moment longer. I away to Olympus, to warn my brethren.” It was as he said. It was only by his own will that Diohos’s essence had filled the marble idol. By his will, he could just as easily depart, leaving it nothing more than inert stone. Nikon braced himself for his god’s absence - but instead, after a moment, all that happened was that Diohos’s foul frown deepened even further. “This…” he hissed. Nikon’s breath caught. He had heard rumors about the prowess of Hamaza ritualists, but he’d considered them just that - rumors. That these steppe women knew how to work such magic defied his every expectation. Diohos’s very essence was their prisoner. There was no time to dwell on the abhorrence of that blasphemy. The spell Irtasduna was casting was already reaching its climax. Her assistants had taken up positions around the circle that held Diohos and were chanting something in a language Nikon could not understand. Irtasduna herself remained silent, but she was breathing heavily, drinking deep of the scents of blood, milk, and incense, steadily working herself into an orgiastic stupor. Once the chanting rose in a sudden, mighty crescendo, her eyes flew open, impossibly wide, and she intoned her spell in Sellanic: “Sky-Mother! Under your gaze, even mountains bend, Shape this stone with the divine might you send!” By Sellanic standards, the incantation was crude, but the force of Irtasduna’s devotion was unmistakable. Nikon felt it resound through the temple like the beat of a great drum. But while the power of Irtasduna’s sorcery was shocking, he was not afraid. He’d heard stories about what the Hamaza did to foreign gods, yes, but he simply could not believe them. He’d always believed they were nothing more than baseless whispers; a fool’s attempt to explain away the Hamaza pantheon. It was impossible. After all, no mortal magic, however potent, could touch the gods themselves. Or so he’d thought. Until the living stone idol of Diohos started to melt like candle wax. It happened all over. The statue’s sculpted edges and contours began to soften as the marble was reshaped by the Hamaza’s magic. Diohos and Nikon were equally stunned. The god of revels just looked at his own limbs in shocked silence. Irtasduna and her assistants simply kept chanting, driving the spell onward. At first, the statue truly did look like a great, melting candle. But as moments passed, Nikon noticed yet more impossibilities piled on impossibilities: stone flowing upward as well as down, or melting away into thin air as the statue of Diohos shrank in places. The changes came in ebbs and flows, as if Diohos’s essence was somehow resisting what was happening. Fighting to hold its shape. But as time wore on, it became clearer and clearer that it was losing. The Hamaza’s design was taking hold. “What is this?” Diohos rumbled, as if in a stupor. “What…” *** Twelve gods reigned over the Sellenes and all their lands from on high. The thunder-king, and his queen, and his brothers and sisters, and their divine children - in every city, their temples rose high and their prayers were sung, and the cities of the Sellenes prospered. Of all the Olympians, in the fair city of Kichyros, maidenly Diohos, daughter of the thunder-king, was honored above all the rest. There, it was said, she had first arrived in Sellas, leading her procession of music-mad maenads to rest on that very hillside. And so the city became her sanctuary, and they honored her. Its people raised up for her a great temple, and so the drunken goddess showed them how to trample grapes beneath their feet. She blessed their vineyards with overflowing plenty, and made their wine coveted in every corner of the world. Its people sculpted for her a fine idol, a marble statue of such comely beauty it was said that to move all women who saw it to both envy and lust. And so the reveling goddess herself descended upon their stages, inspiring their dancers to feats of wild, untold ecstasy. Its people offered her generous sacrifices, pouring the finest wine and honey onto her altar and hosting the most lavish festivals in her name. And so the mad goddess gave to their prophetesses her most secret gift and promised that in her consecrated wine, they would find magnificent foresight. And so blessed by the wine-maiden, Kichyros prospered, and with its wines and festivals, became the envy of all Sellas… *** Nikon could only watch as Irtasduna’s magic reached its end. The true purpose of the spell was becoming clear. Diohos’s beard had melted away to nothing, leaving behind a face that was far prettier and more slender than it had been. Stone had flowed away from the god’s shoulders and waist, and towards his chest and his hips, leaving them wide. Full. Child-bearing. Now, Nikon could see that what had looked like melting was instead intentional softening, leaving Diohos with a figure that could only be called one thing. Womanly. The spell was thorough. Nothing was left behind. No hint of masculinity or manliness. Wrinkles and marks of age were similarly erased, leaving Diohos looking remarkably young, more like a maiden than a full figure of thundering godhood. The symbols of Diohos’s bacchanalian character were left intact - the grapevines in his now-long hair, the cup of wine, although as Nikon watched, the budding artichoke marking his staff rapidly blossomed into a flower, open, oval, somehow dripping with nectar. It sent a shiver through him. But that was merely the herald of the most striking change of all: Diohos’s phallus shrinking into the god’s body, and reshaping itself into a woman’s opening. The god had become a goddess. “T-this is insanity,” Nikon bleated, voice trembling. The mix of emotions the transformation awoke within him were impossible to name. “It is a blessing,” Irtasduna corrected. She was still panting from the spell’s exertion, but her eyes were clear. “The Queen of the Endless Sky has blessed your god with a more enlightened form.” “Blessed my god with-“ Nikon repeated, before cutting himself off. “B-but that’s impossible! This is trickery. There is no magic that can touch the gods!” He was sure of it. It was a basic principle of invocation. If a god answered the call, they would pour their entire being into the sculpted idol. They became, in a metaphysical sense, more like a mortal - immortal essence, held within a material shell. Incarnated, a god was no longer transcendent. Thus, they could speak, move, receive blessings, deliver punishments. They could act upon the world. That did, it was true, imply that the world could act upon them in turn - but Nikon had always been taught that no matter what, the gods were far beyond the reach of any mortal spellcraft. Irtasduna barked a laugh. “You Sellanics! For all your philosophers, you miss what is right in front of you. We did not need to cast a spell on a god, boy. Just on the stone.” “But… that’s… that’s…” Nikon’s protests died in his throat. Though it seemed absurd, as he considered the divine metaphysics of it all he found he was unable to deny Irtasduna’s logic. Just as water took the shape of whatever vessel it was poured into, mightn’t even a god be reshaped to fit its idol? It was mysticism beyond his ken, but Nikon was forced to concede that it might work - temporarily. “No,” Nikon said slowly. “No, that won’t… nothing can hold a god forever. Diohos’s essence, once unbound, won’t be changed so easily. You’d need something to fix it in its place. Something to overcome the beliefs of ten thousand worshipers. But there’s nothing that could-“ “The boy thinks quick!” Irtasduna interrupted, laughing. Her priestesses laughed too. “Just watch. You will see.” As they spoke, Diohos remained in a kind of stupor. It was as if he - she - was struggling to come to terms with the changes that had been wrought upon her. Eventually, though, she lifted her head and spoke in a voice that carried undiminished authority despite its equally undeniable femininity. “What is the meaning of this?” Diohos demanded. Irtasduna looked up and addressed her. “It is meant to flatter you, goddess,” she assured the transmuted Diohos. “This form suits your divinity far better than being a brutish, ugly man.” “But I am… this is…” Diohos’s brow furrowed in confusion. “It is pleasing,” she confessed slowly, after a moment. Nikon’s stomach filled with indescribable butterflies. As a priest, he could judge what was happening. This feminine shape was the form Diohos’s essence had taken - at least, for the time being. The substance of gods played by different rules than the substance of man, and at times like these, it seemed, it could prove malleable. In a very real sense, this goddess was Diohos. And how could she find herself anything less than perfectly fitting? Worse, as a follower, Nikon was pulled irresistibly into the orbit of his goddess. All his devotion, his piety, his admiration - all of it was now attached to the beautiful goddess looming before him. He could not even bring himself to regret what had just happened. He knew it was wrong, but it felt right. It was as if it was always meant to be this way. And he rejoiced when Diohos proved her mad fire remained well and truly intact. “But,” the goddess pronounced. “Do not think I forgive your other trespasses. I may be a goddess, but I remain an Olympian. I will not tolerate those who wage war on my people, and I will never bow down to your so-called sky-mother over my own father.” Irtasduna didn’t reply, but an ominous smile came to her face as she addressed her assistants. “Prepare the next rite.” Nodding their heads, the women sprung into action, burning more incense and preparing more reagents. With a gesture, one of them sent Hamaza warriors scurrying out of the temple to fetch something. The flurry of activity left Nikon scratching his head. He could not fathom what Irtasduna hoped to achieve, but he found himself afraid of what her Hamaza witchcraft might be capable of. “It doesn’t matter how much stone you shape!” Nikon cried out in reflexive denial. “By dawn, all this will be over! Diohos will be free!” “This is more than just stone-shaping, boy,” Irtasduna answered without looking at him. “Then… what?” Nikon asked. Irtasduna snorted. “Do you truly know nothing of our customs?” Nikon looked more closely at her assistants. They were bringing items that seemed to have little relation to any magic he knew. Flower garlands. Crop seeds, which they scattered across the ground. Two of them hauled a huge chest into the temple, which they opened to reveal a hoard of gold treasures. There was something almost celebratory about the offerings. It reminded Nikon a little of- “Yes,” Irtasduna said. “This is to be a Hamaza wedding.” Nikon blanched. She was going to host a wedding for a god? It sounded insane. Yet as he wracked his mind, he struggled to think of a reason it would not work. “We shape stone to give the god a new form,” Irtasduna explained. “But for now, it is fleeting. So we must bind her to our pantheon.” “That’s not…” Nikon babbled desperately. “You can’t…” “Why not?” Irtasduna put to him. “It’s said that the gods are beyond magic, yes, but marriage? That is a deeper thing. Do your gods not wed?” “They…” Nikon had no answer for her. “This is ridiculous!” Diohos announced. Nikon still wasn’t used to the new softness of her voice. “I will not marry some lowly steppe god.” “Of course not,” Irtasduna replied. “A lowly god would be unworthy of you. But you will make a fitting daughter-bride for the Queen of the Endless Sky herself.” Nikon had almost expended all his capacity for shock. Almost. But Irtasduna’s proclamation went beyond blasphemy. Beyond all transgression. It was an abomination in the eyes of all Sellanic morals. But he couldn’t quite disbelieve that she would do it. “How dare you?” Diohos roared. Once again, the wine and ivy surged beneath her feet. Once again, the Hamaza binding circle held it at bay. “Sisters.” Irtasduna remained unshaken. “Begin the spell!” Just as before, the priestess’s assistants spilled blood and milk onto the ground. Just as before, their voices rose in strange chanting. Just as before, once the ritual reached fever pitch. Irtasduna cried out the incantation that would let them resculpt Diohos’s statue - and with it, the goddess herself. “Sky-Mother! Under your gaze, even mountains bend, Again shape this stone with the divine might you send!” The spell seemed to stun Diohos as, once again, marble started to run like wax. This time, though, the alterations were more limited - and this time, as she reshaped Diohos, Irtasduna began to speak still more words of power. Only now, instead of a simple spell, the words she spoke were wedding vows. *** Eleven gods reigned over the Sellenes and all their lands from on high. The thunder-king, and his queen, and his brothers and sisters, and their divine children - in every city, their temples rose high and their prayers were sung, and the cities of the Sellenes prospered. But in the fair city of Kichyros, a foreign goddess was honored instead. Diohostra, steppe-maiden, goddess of wine and revelry. She had ridden out of the east on horseback, it was said, a willful daughter straying from her mother's side in a fit of drunken impulse. The Sellenes hesitated to receive a goddess of the Hamaza, but Diohostra lavished upon the city all her blessings, and soon the people of Kichyros dedicated themselves in her name. And so blessed by the ecstatic one, Kichyros prospered, and with its wines and festivals, became the envy of all Sellas. But later, it was said, the Queen came for her daughter, and Diohostra was joined in matrimony to the very goddess who had birthed her, as one of her countless handmaidens. At first, the poets told, Diohostra remained proud. But in the fashion of the Hamaza, the Sky-Mother gave to her garlands of flowers, and Diohostra’s heart was melted. In the fashion of the Hamaza, the Sky-Mother drenched Diohostra in gold, and so her pride was soothed. And so, in the fashion of the Hamaza, Diohostra mounted the Sky-Mother’s mare and rode off with her to the steppe, there to enjoy her embrace beneath the endless stars. And so did the Hamaza learn of wine-making, of theater, of dance, and of the highest ecstasy. *** This time, as Irtasduna worked her conjuring, shaping the idol of Diohos - no, Diohostra! that now seemed to be the only fitting name - whilst conducting the twisted wedding, Nikon was distracted by his growing awareness of a strange, yawning, metaphysical gulf. As a priest, he was uniquely attuned to the sacred energy of the temple, but he had never felt anything quite like this. A goddess was being ripped from her pantheon. Devoted to Diohostra though he was, Nikon, like any pious Sellene, was conscious that his god was simply part of a whole - but no longer. As Diohostra succumbed to the spell, mythology itself was changing and warping. Nikon, pledged to the goddess, felt the rest of the Sellanic pantheon pulling back from him, growing distant. And instead, he felt the presence of a new pantheon of goddesses, beckoning him up toward the sky. This time, the changes being wrought upon Diohostra’s stone form were more subtle, but no less striking for it. Suddenly, gold bangles covered her arms, and rings adorned her fingers while a torc was bound around her neck. It was the same kind of jewelry Irtasduna wore. The hue of the marble shifted, somehow; darkening, as if Diohostra spent hours riding underneath the steppe sun with bare shoulders. Even the angles and contours of her face shifted slightly, marking her out as a foreigner to Sellas. But one with a striking kinship to the warrior women who had just conquered Kichyros. There was no mistaking it. Diohostra was becoming Hamaza. That alone left Nikon stunned. Her new name was equally shocking. No matter how hard he tried to make it, the goddess’s old name no longer felt right. But the greatest change - the most blasphemous and transgressive - was saved for last, when Irtasduna wove stone into a bridal veil set upon Diohostra’s head, hiding her eyes. “Diohostra, daughter of the Queen of the Endless Sky,” Irtasduna said solemnly. “I now pronounce you her bride also, according to our ways.” Nikon twitched instinctively. Even by the standards of Sellanic gods, the Hamaza pantheon was an incestuous abhorrence. A twisted mythology for a twisted people; warrior women who used strange fertility spells to erase their need for men altogether, allowing them to fully indulge in their shameless, sapphic lusts. Yet as moments wore on, Nikon’s disgust fell away. His new faith overtook his mind, purging his revulsion and instead filling him with reverence. This was a sacred marriage. A union of his goddess and the very highest. How could he not rejoice? It didn’t matter that it had happened just seconds ago. The gods were eternal. They did not have pasts and futures as mortals did. They simply were. Diohostra simply was. As much as Nikon could try to hold on to the male, Sellanic god he had once known, it didn’t matter. That god no longer existed. His memory filled Nikon with no awe. No faith. No loyalty. But Diohostra did. And so, when the wine goddess shook off her stupor and lifted her head to regard Irtasduna, Nikon could no longer quite tell what he was hoping for. Still, when Diohostra spoke, her words made Nikon shiver. “Thank you, priestess,” Diohostra said. Her voice was light. Young. Celebratory. But moreover, she spoke with just the same accent as Irtasduna. “Your commemoration of my joyous marriage is most appreciated!” Nikon could only stare. He felt it too, of course. His goddess’s revelry. It was as if her defiant boast, made moments before, meant nothing to her now. Nikon yearned to celebrate along with her. “You honor me, lady of dance,” Irtasduna bowed her head low. A proud grin was on her face. “May you soon share the Queen of the Endless Sky’s bed.” Diohostra let out a vulgar laugh, shockingly girlish. “Indeed! A boon my many sister-brides and I always crave.” “But first,” Irtasduna added swiftly, throwing Nikon a significant glance. “The reconsecration.” Nikon followed her gaze as she looked to the temple altar. Somehow, he found himself still capable of shock, and a scandalized gasp escaped his lungs as he saw what had happened to it. Since the temple’s very first days, the altar had always been a perfectly-hewed marble slab, carved with a few depictions of the temple’s deity. No longer. It had been altered by Irtasduna’s magic. Now, the altar was in the shape of a yonic, oval basin, from the center of which spouted a member with a distinct, rounded tip, lending the entire altar a suggestive resemblance to the most intimate part of the female body. Despite himself, Nikon blushed. It was obscene. His blush deepened once he considered that, as an altar, this crude shape was now the very point of connection between the mortal and the divine. He scarcely dared guess at what Irtasduna’s reconsecration might involve. Irtasduna soon robbed him of his ignorance. “Come, boy,” she said, and Nikon was too afraid to disobey. He followed her to the yonic altar and watched as her fellow priestesses brought her a beautiful ceramic vessel filled with sweet-smelling oil. “Is our new goddess not magnificent?” the priestess put to Nikon. He could not bring himself to disagree. “Yet she will fade away like a dream if we do not reconsecrate the temple. A goddess needs worshipers. Temples. You know this, yes? To fix her in her new place beneath the almighty sky, we must give her both. We must make this place hers by making this altar newly-sacred - according to both our ways and yours, to mark the change.” Frowning, Nikon nodded slowly as he digested her words. “Then… you want me to…” “To offer up your prayers,” Irtasduna confirmed. “While I apply the ministrations.” Once more, Nikon considered refusing. Now, after all he had seen, Nikon’s own fate seemed like such a small thing. Clearly Irtasduna still needed his help to complete the ritual. Perhaps, if he was willing to bravely lay down his life, the Sellanic god he still faintly remembered could be saved. And yet his emotions were betraying him. Nikon found he couldn’t help but feel a budding eagerness at the prospect of seeing Diohostra become truly and permanently real. Her transformation was so beautiful. So moving. Diohostra’s giddy joy at her manifestation and her wedding was infectious, especially to her followers - of which Nikon was one. Nikon was drunk with it, and the mood moved him to action. “Yes.” Nikon found himself nodding. “Right.” Irtasduna smiled benevolently at him. “Good. You’re doing well.” She turned to address her assistants. “Sisters! We begin.” Two of her assistant priestesses stepped up to flank Nikon. Strangely, the warrior women did not throw Nikon any of the scornful, hostile glances they usually threw at men. Instead, there was a sense of shared excitement between them as the Hamaza drew breath and started to sing. Nikon did not understand a single word of their song, but even so, their fervent devotion swept over him like a tide. It filled the temple space, echoing from every corner, making the sacred sanctuary feel like it truly belonged to the Hamaza - which, of course, it now did. Diohostra herself bent her ear to their prayer-song, sipping from her cup and nodding approvingly. His goddess, it seemed, knew their language as if born to it. Irtasduna took her cue from her assistants’ chanting. She set down the vessel of oil before the altar and reached into it with both hands, letting the sweet, slick substance flow between her fingers. Then, with an air of great import, she raised her hands up and placed her palms on the clit-like protrusion from Diohostra’s yonic altar. Loud as thunder, high as a virgin’s cry, Diohostra’s sudden moan filled the temple air. Nikon immediately blushed. Diohostra - or Diohos, perhaps - had always been a lustful god, but this was different. He couldn’t help but be moved to arousal by the wine maiden’s moaning. This was new to him. Gods were sometimes known to indulge their lusts with mortals, but not like this. When Irtasduna rubbed her hands up and down along the surface of Diohostra’s new altar, provoking further moans, it confirmed Nikon’s suspicion. It was the altar. It was as if Irtasduna was touching the goddess herself. And there was no mistaking the fact that pleasuring Diohostra was Irtasduna’s intent. Moment by moment, she was quickening the pace of her adorations, rubbing the slick oil across every inch of throbbing marble and letting it pool in the basin beneath. Even from behind, Nikon could make out the look of rapt, fervent joy on Irtasduna’s face. This, to her, was worship. There was equally little mistaking the fact that Diohostra was eager to receive this debauched worship. Her moans grew loud enough to shake the earth, and as Zarinania started rubbing the altar-clit in deliberate, full-length strokes, Diohostra moved in time with her, hips heaving, back arching, wine spilling from her cup across the ground. Nikon was struck with the thought that it was a maiden’s wedding-night pleasure. The thought was blasphemous. A small part of Nikon was still offended at the thought of his proud deity being made so passive. At being masturbated and pleasured in such a fashion by a mere mortal. According to Sellanic values, it was taboo. Demeaning. Unthinkable. But Sellanic values no longer meant anything in this temple. And a far greater part of Nikon was swept up in the ritual’s orgiastic energy. Diohostra’s drunken lust filled him, and he found himself lending his own voice to the worshipful chorus: “Diohostra, bless this hall with thy nectar divine In your name, O goddess, let the vines entwine To keep thine image sacred forever And bestow on us all thy ecstatic treasure!” As he added the Sellanic hymn to the ritual chorus, the air seemed to crackle with euphoric magic. Diohostra’s moans shook the earth, and the entire temple rumbled and writhed. The goddess’s yonic altar dripped with oil and thrummed with pleasure. It felt as much like an orgy as a ritual. Nikon repeated the hymn over and over, voice peaking in a high-pitched wail. He couldn’t help it. He could sense the transfiguration reaching its peak, and his soul was swept up in its yearning. “Queen of the Endless Sky!” Irtasduna screamed, throwing her head back. “Claim your daughter-bride!” At once, a great wind blew. It swept through the temple and carried away the black smoke clouds obscuring the sky, and laid bare all its majesty to the worshipers below. The prayer was answered. And with that, the goddess Diohostra reached her climax. There was no mistaking her orgasm for what it was. The great goddess bucked her hips madly, as if lost to ecstatic dance. Wine dribbled messily from her cup, and the very oil Irtasduna had been applying to her altar seemed to drip from her loins. The goddess’s moans reached an impossible peak, and she howled a string of Hamaza words that even Nikon knew could only be a longing plea for the favor of her mother-bride. He was speechless. A goddess’s orgasm. He had never imagined he would behold such a thing. But that was far from the only miracle taking place. All around him, he could see the temple itself being subtly reshaped. Its marble reliefs melted and flowed into new shapes, but this was no mortal spell. No, it was the goddess’s own magic. Myths, scriptures, entire epic cycles - all were changing with the whirlwind. A religion changed, indelibly. A god lost. A goddess gained. Eventually, Diohostra’s great pleasure-cry died away. In its wake, silence fell across the land like a mighty wave. Somehow, Nikon could sense it sweeping out from the temple, across Kichyros, across to the distant hills and beyond, leaving nothing unchanged by its passing. Then, the magnitude of their divine work set in. They had done it. They had rewritten a god - and now, their rewriting had become eternal truth. And Nikon had helped with it. His knees turned to water and he collapsed, numb to everything. He could not tell what he felt. Irtasduna swept past him and went to kneel before the still-living idol of Diohostra. With one hand, she deliberately rubbed away at the binding circle her assistants had drawn and set the goddess free. There was no wrath. No violence. No divine vengeance. Instead, Diohostra regarded the warrior woman with a pleased, pleasure-drink grin on her maidenly face. “Thank you, priestess,” she purred. “As ever, my mother’s servants prove most… skilled.” She licked her lips. “I am grateful for this gift of pleasure. And moreover, I am grateful for all you have done here today. Such magnificent devotion must not go unrewarded.” “I agree.” To Nikon’s surprise, Irtasduna rose to her feet and turned in his direction. She held out a hand to him. He clasped it and let her haul him to his feet. “You did well. In the name of the Queen of the Endless Sky, I anoint you the custodian of this temple and the first high priestess of Diohostra.” As Nikon flapped his mouth, speechless, the rest of the Hamaza threw up their hands and acclaimed him with their cheers. Nikon could barely believe the sincerity in their voices. “But…” he tried to say. “Don’t you mean-“ “I will send fresh acolytes to you,” Irtasduna told him. “You will instruct them in the ways of the goddess, and they will instruct you in the ways of the Hamaza. Soon, you will be one of us. You will find there is much to appreciate about our way of life. Embrace it, boy.” The corners of her lips turned upward. “Not that I will be calling you that for much longer.” A chill ran down Nikon’s spine. “You… you’re saying…” “We Hamaza do not have men.” Irtasduna grinned. “And Hamaza goddesses do not have male priests. It is already becoming so.” Nikon looked down at his hands. They were softer, more slender, than they had been at dawn that day. He felt at his face and discovered it had softened markedly. Another chill. “Here.” Irtasduna reached for a flask on her belt. She uncorked it and offered it to Nikon. The potent scent from within stirred his stomach. “Drink this. It will hasten the change.” Nikon took the flask. Once more, he considered refusing. But after all that had transpired, that would have been meaningless. He was, as he had always been, pledged to his deity. It only stood to reason that he shared in her fate. And if he could be as beautiful as her, why resist it? As he drank the potion, Nikon felt a distinct spark of euphoria as he considered the changes to come. A new life. A new body. A new name too, surely. No longer the most junior priest in a Sellanic temple. Someone feminine. Someone powerful. This time, it wasn’t fear that made him nod his head. “I’ll do it. I accept this appointment.” “I am proud of you, my servant,” Diohostra pronounced. Nikon’s heart swelled. “But you too deserve a reward, sky-priestess. From now on, all your people’s cups will overflow with the finest wine. Your cities will know the most joyous festivals. My maenads will visit your armies and lie down with your women.” Irtasduna bowed her head low. “You honor me, goddess,” she said. “But all I do, I do for my goddess. Your mother. Your bride. In her name, there is a greater boon I must ask.” Diohostra simply nodded. “Name it.” Irtasduna gestured to Diohostra’s cup. “My people have heard that your wine can inspire stupors of deepest prophecy. We beg you to lend us this foresight.” “You have it,” Diohostra replied. “But for what purpose, sky-daughter?” Irtasduna’s smile widened yet again, and she was filled with starry-eyed fervor. “So that we shall know how best to enlighten the rest of your once-adoptive family.” *** And so, after the Queen of the Endless Sky took her daughter, Diohostra, as her bride, the wine-maiden offered up to her mother and her people a great dowry. The Hamaza drank deep of her richest vines, and in their cups they found ecstatic trances that showed them paths yet untold. Among them, the path to Olympus itself. So the muses tell. --- I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give my thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support: Artemis, Chloe, Grillfan65, The Secret Subject, Morriel, Dex, orangesya, Red, dmtph, MegatronTarantulas, Vanessa, Madeline, BTYOR, Sarah, Mattilda, Emily Queen of sloths, Neana, Shadows exile, Abigail, Hypnogirl_Stephanie_, Jade, mintyasleep, Michael, Be_Be, Tasteful Ardour, Chris, Dennis, Full Blown Marxism, Morder, S, Brendon, Drone 8315, Jim, Erin, HannahSolaria, Christopher, hellenberg, Kay, Miss_Praxis, Violet, Noct, Charlotte, Faun, BrinnShea, B, Foridin, Jennifer, EepyTimeTea, Slifer274, Roxxie, Phoenix, Jim, Sebastian, Joseph, Yaoups, Thomas, Liz, naivetynkohan, Basic dev, SuperJellyFrogEx, Katie, Lily, spyrocyndersam13, zzzz, Mal, Jose, Bouncyrou, Anonymous, Bacon Man, Nimapode, Melody, Kunoichiru, FemKUltra, Flluffie, Ash, Artemis, Geckonator, TheRealG, Anonymous, Bob, J, nathan, GladiusLumin, Ada, Kyle, Marina, Space Prius, Alex, Michael, Thomas, Lavender, Dasterin, Ashe, Sterica, TF Emily, Codzilla Finally, my special thanks to Gwen for commissioning this story!