His is a
measured reaction. He assigns to each picket a little black
cloud, from which rain continuously falls. Umbrellas are
discouraged by random gusts of wind.
The pickets persist.
Zeus smiles.
The clouds grow larger, the winds gust more strongly.
The temperature begins to fall. The continuous rain ends, is
replaced by snow showers. The winds now blow steadily from the
cold north.
The pickets persist.
Zeus' smile broadens.
The clouds merge. The winds now reach blizzard force, and the
snow changes from soft flakes to frozen pellets. The temperature
drops, then drops again.
The pickets assemble, discuss, and rapidly disperse.
Zeus smirks, makes a snowball, which he then playfully tosses
into the air. He then builds a snowman. He gives it a picket
sign to carry.
Humming, Zeus returns to his throne.
There is no snow by the river Styx. Nor rain. Nor cooling
breeze.
The air is stagnant, hot, thick with the odor of rotted plants,
the breath of Hades' denizens.
Demo, with the back of his hand, wipes the sweat from his brow.
Ah, how delightful it would be to splash even this putrid water
on his forehead. Or even to swim in its cooling depths! What was
it Zeus had said? Something about being dreadfully sorry?
He rows slowly, moving the oar against water with the
consistency of mud. To lift the oar for the next stroke is
nearly as difficult as to row.
Then he cannot lift it at all!
Frowning Demo yanked at the oar.
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