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back to his mother safely?” Again his voice dropped to a whisper. “Danae—”
    He still had a soft spot for her. He was like that. “I know,” I broke in. “She worries about him. Well, he’s perfectly safe with me,” I said, draining my goblet.
    I believed it when I said it.
    Ares’ weapons room is as scrupulously clean as a shrine to Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth. All its contents are in perfect working order, which is more than I can say for the God of War himself. He’s loud, messy, red-eyed, and restless, and when he’s not fuming over some imagined slight, he’s shouting or cursing. When he takes offense— which is often—he bristles like a porcupine and the dark, wiry hair on his shoulders stands straight up. I have seen this. It is a repulsive sight.
    Nobody likes him, least of all me, and I confess that when I rapped on the armory’s tall bronze door, I was hoping he wouldn’t be there. Ares wouldn’t dare disobey Zeus’ request for the sickle, but he’d be sure to give me a hard time before handing it over.
    I knocked again and there was no response.
Lucky
me,
I thought, opening the door. I’d take the sickle and Zeus would tell Ares why—easier all around.
    I stepped inside.
    The armory was as I remembered it, a serene place lined floor to ceiling with countless tools of war. Helmets—plumed, gilded, studded, skull-topped. Sheathed swords. Two-headed axes. Towering stacks of metal greaves and breastplates. Cuirasses of cloth, hide, and reptile skin, wrinkled and stained with battle sweat. Poisonous decoctions. Massive gold and silver shields, some adorned with grinning shrunken heads. Throwing lances and thrusting lances, all tall as men. And, on its very own gilded stand in the center of the room, like a menacing, razor-sharp smile, the Adamantine Sickle.
    Hephaestus, Fire God and master artisan, had made it long ago, forging it in secret out of nobody knew what. He called it Unconquerable, and after he demonstrated how it could slice an airborne flower petal, cut three sheaves of wheat with one stroke, and behead a snake as quietly as a whisper, everyone agreed it was a fitting name. When Ares saw the sickle, he wanted nothing else, and after days of haggling, pleading, angry demands, and lavish bribes, he finally got Hephaestus to sell it.
    The price was so high that Ares wouldn’t reveal it.
    I do not like weapons, even when they are as beautiful as the sickle. This is very ungodlike; all the Olympians bear arms. Ares has his arsenal, Apollo and Artemis their bows, Zeus his thunderbolts. Athena likes to be called the Goddess of Wisdom, but she is never without helmet, aegis, and armor. Even Love Goddess Aphrodite has a little golden dagger tucked into her magic girdle (don’t ask me how I know).
    I have always thought this ridiculous. Why should we Immortals carry weapons? Nothing can kill us. Nevertheless, the habit persists. Of all the gods, I alone rely on my wits for protection. It has always been a point of pride with me. Having said this, I’ll confess that when I lifted the sickle off its stand, I fully understood why Ares had craved it so. The thing was as light and supple as a willow switch, falling into the crook of my arm as if it longed to be there.
My new death-dealing friend
, I thought. It made me feel utterly invincible, as cool and implacable as its silver moon blade.
    I will not lie. I liked the feeling.

TEN
    Arcadia is an easy trip from Olympus, due south over Thessaly and the Gulf of Corinth. Even carrying the sickle, I got there quickly—the day was clear, the winds were helpful, and my spirits were high. Apollo had given me excellent directions to Medusa’s cave—he’s good at that—so I found it easily.
    I first saw Perseus from the air. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Athena’s great shield, lobbing pebbles into a hollow tree trunk some twenty paces away. His aim was good.
    So were his reflexes. Coming down, I placed the sickle against a