‘Materialize, you bastard!’
I already have; one body; one mind; one life – in every sphere.
‘I am not you!’ Tempus screamed through clenched teeth, willing firm footing
beneath his sinking feet.
No, you are not. But I am you, sometimes, said the nimbus-wreathed figure
striding towards him over gilt-edged clouds. Vashanka: so very tall with hair
the colour of yarrow honey and a high brow free from lines.
‘Oh, no…’
You wanted to see Me. Look upon Me, servant!
‘Not so close, Pillager. Not so much resemblance. Do not torture me, My God! Let
me blame it all on You – not be You!’
So many years, and you yet seek self-delusion?
‘Definitely. As do You, if You think to gather worshippers in this fashion! 0
Berserker God, You cannot roast their mages before them: they are all dependent
on sorcery. You cannot terrify them thus, and expect them to come to You.
Weapons will not woo them; they are not men of the armies. They are thieves, and
pirates, and prostitutes! You have gone too far, and not far enough!’
Speaking of prostitutes, did you see your sister? Look at Me!
Tempus had to obey. He faced the manifestation of Vashanka, and recalled that he
could not take a woman in gentleness, that he could but war. He saw his battles,
ranks parading in endless eyes of storm and blood bath. He saw the Storm God’s
consort, His own sister whom He raped eternally, moaning on Her couch in anguish
that Her blood brother would ravish Her so.
Vashanka laughed.
Tempus snarled wordlessly through frozen lips.
You should have let us have her.