Sleipnir

Her eyes widened.

I added softly, "If I kill Odin, then everything changes. At the very least, I think I'm a better soldier than he is. I don't lie to people, and I keep my promises—and don't make promises I know I can't keep. I may be nothing but a mortal man, Rangrid; but I think I'm a better man than he is a god."

The tears in her eyes spilled over. I couldn't quite bring myself to add that I didn't want to die still thinking of her as my enemy.

Rangrid whirled, and flung the sword. It embedded itself point-first in the wall, and hung there, quivering. My eyes widened. Good God, she was strong... .

An instant later, I was engulfed by one hundred thirty pounds of valkyrie. For at least five minutes, neither one of us spared a single second for breathing. When we unclutched, I had to gulp for oxygen. Her eyes blazed.

"Odin," she hissed, with a look in her eyes that made me very glad she wasn't my enemy, "will take your life only if he kills me first! And I am very much harder to kill than you."

It was not a boast.

I gri

She didn't; but then, she didn't need any.

And I'd thought that previous kiss explosive... .

When we finally came up for air again, I held out one hand, a little shakily. "Better give me that damned silly sword, Rangrid."

She managed to free it with one emphatic grunt, then handed it over hilt first. I examined it appreciatively. Being hurled into the wall didn't seem to have done it any harm. It wasn't ancient work, because the blade and hilt were quite obviously made from modern materials; but whoever had made it had put months of loving work into it. I wasn't a fencer; but I was a weapons buff, and a pere

"It's hopeless," she murmured, watching me make awkward practice swings. "He'll cut you down where you stand. It isn't fair."

I flashed her a confident grin that had nothing to do with the way I felt. "Darling Rangrid, he didn't intend it to be fair. I'll just have to fight dirty."

She laughed, and threw her arms around my neck, kissing me again until we were both dizzy. I finally broke my lips free. "I don't suppose you've got a machine gun stashed anywhere around here? I'm a damned fine shot, if I do say so myself... ."

She shook her head slowly. "Odin fights only with traditional weapons."

"Huh. Figures. How the hell does he aim to fight a modern battle that way? Don't answer; I already know. He intends on losing. Stupid way to plan a war... ."

Her eyes went dark. "I don't want you to die," she whispered. "We need you to fight Surt and the sons of Muspell; but it's alive we need you. If he kills you, Randy, you'll just be one of his millions—and be wasted, along with the rest of them."

"Then I'll just have to take care not to get killed, won't I?" The breezy bravado in my voice barely masked the dread I felt. "You, uh, better get dressed; I think we're late."

There was a fearful pounding at the door. Rangrid threw herself into armor faster than I'd have thought possible without doing injury to sensitive spots. When she opened the door, another incredibly beautiful woman in full battle armor stood outside.

"He is ready?"

"Yes, sister. We are ready."

Rangrid's reply warmed me to the bottom of my terrified cockles. I threw her a smile; then resolutely squared my shoulders, grabbed my courage in both fists, and marched out to meet Odin.

Chapter Nineteen

The great hall beyond the private chambers was a shambles. Broken dishes and tables, clean-picked bones, unidentifiable bits of garbage, spilled mead, and a few unconscious warriors were strewn randomly across the floor. Those warriors on their feet were swaying badly. The civilians I'd seen the previous night were conspicuously absent.

Odin waited on his massive throne. His single ruby eye followed our progress through the stench and the mess. My escorts saluted him, although I noted that Rangrid's was sloppy. I simply waited, poised lightly on the balls of my feet, one sweating hand on the hilt of my silly sword. I'd rather—far rather—have been holding Gary's knife, or even my lost AR-180 rifle.

Odin's glance swept me dismissively. "Are you prepared to die, mortal?"

I gri

Rangrid drew a sharp breath. The other valkyrie made an abortive move toward her sword. I ignored them both. Odin's face had lost color. The hall was so quiet, I heard a faint belch from at least a mile down the tables.

His attempt at a sneering grin was a dismal failure. "This should be uncommonly entertaining." It came out sounding forced.

I was, perhaps, more relaxed than I had a right to be. "I hope you sold lots of ringside seats. It isn't every day a god gets the immortal shit kicked out of him. Hell, after today, my future's in the bag: cereal endorsements, sportswear franchises, maybe even a shot at a commentator slot on Monday Night Football."

His stare was vacuous. Beside me Rangrid made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like choking laughter.

Odin scowled. I guess even Neanderthals catch on eventually when someone scores off them; he obviously didn't have the faintest idea how to score back. So he settled for an uncreative curse and a speech that was begi

"You have come living to Valhalla"—I never said he was genius material—"and you have feasted under my roof and partaken of the pleasures reserved for the Einherjar alone.

"You now must demonstrate that you deserve the right to join our ranks, or forfeit not only your life, but also your soul, to everlasting torment in the darkest, frozen wastes of Niflhel. The choice is yours: Die fighting and join us; or die shamefully, as a coward dies. Which do you choose?"

I stood watching him for a moment; then deliberately folded my arms across my chest and spat to one side. I'd fight him, all right—and die if I had to—but I wasn't about to buy into that ridiculous pair of choices. The way I had it figured, I had three options: fight and win, fight and die, or fight to a draw. If it turned out I couldn't physically kill him, then I had only one slim chance. And that depended on two things: Was Odin a betting man? And could I trust his sworn word to honor a lost bet?

Yeah, right.

I didn't have much choice.

So I looked him up and down; then spat on the floor again, and launched into it.

"Who the hell taught you to make speeches? Professor Bigwind at Pompous University, Bombast 101? If I thought you could fight as well as you talk, your offer might actually be tempting."

The vacuous stare returned. Hell, it wasn't nearly as much fun scoring off someone too stupid to appreciate your wit.

A murmur of laughter ran through the crowd behind me, though. Odin might not get it; but the Einherjar did. Odin's face and neck began to turn red under all that hair. A little slow, our boy, but not entirely dim. Maybe he was just getting senile?

I added with a drawl, "You realize, of course, getting killed isn't in my game plan. I came here to kill you. Tell you what: I'll fight you. And if you can kill me, I'll join up with the boys. If you can't, or if I strike a killing blow—"

He interrupted me with a snort. "You know well enough you ca

"—or," I went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "one that would be a killing blow if you were an ordinary man like me, then the fight ends, and I win."