shade of the roof and the tall oak trees surrounding it, the boy inside was sweating profusely, thanks to the furnace glowing in the back. Perspiration dripped off his curly ringlets and onto the anvil where he was stationed. He gripped a hammer in one hand, which he was using to repeatedly strike the blade of a glowing metal sword he held in the other.
Modo was wearing a sleeveless tunic, which revealed a detail his picture had not: Modo was ripped. His bicep bulged every time he brought the hammer down. From the size of his forearms, Ash guessed this whole blacksmith thing was more than just a part-time gig. He certainly didn’t get those muscles from ringing church bells.
The word “blacksmith” triggered something in Ash’s mind, and she experienced a tremble of excitement. There was little that Ash knew about her own Polynesian mythology, but she had retained a few random facts about Greek mythology from Mr. Carpenter’s ancient history class.
The reason she was excited was because the Greeks had a god of metallurgy . . . one who was exceptionally good at weapon making and forge working.
One who was characterized by a wizened face and a lame foot.
“Hephaestus . . .” she whispered.
Just then, Modo looked up from his smith work. Hishammer was cocked back, ready for another strike. “Did you say something?” he asked in a faux English accent, with a historical lilt. He sounded like he’d stumbled out of one of the Lord of the Rings movies.
Ash cleared her throat and stepped under the straw roof. “I, uh, said ‘how festive.’ As in, the sword you’re making is festive to the, uh . . . festival.”
Modo gave her a once-over, from her T-shirt down to her jeans. “Well someone around here has to look festive. Can I presume that this is your first trip to our fair kingdom?” He smiled, just slightly baring his pointy teeth. “If you feel like slipping into something a little more comfortable, I can recommend a talented corset maker just a few huts away.”
“I treasure my ability to breathe too much.” And my dignity , she stopped herself from saying. “But I’ll remember to bring a pair of pantaloons next time.”
She was struggling with how to broach the “So you’re a god too, huh?” topic, but Modo kept right on going in character. He pointed to her forearms. “Quite the sinewy arms for a maiden . . . This leads me to believe you’re used to wielding a short-range weapon—a quarterstaff or an archer’s bow, perchance?”
“Tennis racket,” Ash replied.
“Ah, yes,” he said musically. “Difficult to master, but deadly in the right hands.” He hammered away at the sword a few more times and then held it up to the light to inspect the blade. “So, stranger—if you haven’t cometo King Edward’s realm to fit your person with clothing befitting of a lady, and you’re not here to engage in close-quarter combat like a man, then why have you come?”
“I came here to find you,” Ash said, then added, “Modo.”
At the sound of the name, Modo’s arm once again paused on its way down to the blade. When he finally spoke, the medieval inflection to his voice faltered, and she could hear a distinctly Canadian accent. “Where did you hear that name?”
She stepped farther into the tent and put a hand on his arm. “Listen, we don’t have much time, so just for the sake of efficiency, let’s drop the whole Renaissance act and stop pretending like we’re not gods.”
“Gods?” Modo stared at her as though she were a complete lunatic. He tilted his head to the side. “Who put you up to this? Was it my frat brothers at Delta Psi? Or was it the Bellringers?”
“Nobody’s putting me up to anything. You need to come with me.” She tried to tug him away from the anvil.
He wouldn’t budge. Instead he let out a short, husky laugh. “Wait a minute—it’s my birthday tomorrow. Did the guys hire a stripper to come here and do some sort of weird, fantasy role