Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

“No,” Mriga said.

“I should have leveled this place the last time I was here. This would never

have happened!”

“Siveni, be still.” Mriga sat by Harran’s crushed remains, one hand stretched

out to the awful ruin of his head; a purposeful gesture, for without actually

touching the cold stiff flesh, she found herself unable to believe in death.

That was one of the problems with being a god. Immortal, they often found it

hard to take death seriously. But Mriga was taking it very seriously indeed.

She strained for omniscience; it obliged her a little. “We could get him back,”

she said. “There are ways….”

“And put him where? Back in this?” In her raven form, Siveni flapped down to the

cold stiff mess of shattered bones and pulped muscle, and poked it scornfully

with her beak. It didn’t even bleed. “And if not here, where?”

“Another body? …”

“Whose?”

Mriga’s omniscience declined an answer. This didn’t matter: she was getting an

idea of her own … one that scared her, but might work. “Let’s not worry about

it right now,” she said. “We’ll think of something.”

“And even if we do … who’s to say his soul’s survived what happened to him?

Mortal souls are fragile. Sometimes death shatters them completely. Or for a

long time … long enough that by the time they’ve put themselves back together,

it’s no good putting them in a body; they’ve forgotten how to stay in one.”

“He was a god for a little while,” Mriga said. “That should count for something.

And I don’t think Harran was that fragile. Come on, Siveni, we have to try!”