"Patrick Adkins is a natural-born storyteller. . . . The man knows how to spin a tale of wonder."  —Mike Resnick

      "A most entertaining fantasy story, with a great deal of originality."  —Poul Anderson

      "Patrick Adkins has inherited the dawn-dipped, phoenix-feather quill of Thomas Burnett Swann."  —Roger Zelazny

      For untold ages before the birth of Zeus, Kronos, Lord of the Titans, ruled the world. A giant among giants, the most powerful and revered of all the gods, his unmatched strength and intelligence forged a Golden Age among the Immortals. 
      But that was long ago. Brooding and increasingly unpredictable, he rules now through fear and unsurpassed cunning, his magnificent palace atop Mt. Olympos rife with whispers of madness and horror.
     Only Proteus, the shape changer, Proteus's precocious little sister Metis, and her “pet” humans can pierce Kronos's web of deadly intrigue and prevent a disastrous war of the gods from being unleashed across the earth. 
     A fast, gripping, and sometimes funny tale of adventure, love, and intrigue among the elder gods and goddesses of Greek mythology, Lord of the Crooked Paths is also a vivid, authentic reconstruction of a lost mythological era—the Age of the Titans. First published as two separate books, the complete story appears here for the first time as originally intended by the author.

      "Intriguing . . . Adkins has done an excellent job of bringing together the names of legend and giving them character and motivation."  —LOCUS 

     "Come, Kalliope! Melpomene-Thalia, come on!" Metis scowled, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the three Muses to catch up with her and Lachesis.
     For more than half an hour the five goddesses had been making their way across rugged mountains and rambling foothills, walking with an ease and suppleness that belied their towering size. They seemed to glide over the rocky terrain and between the huge fir trees of the mountain forests. When the trees grew too close together, they bent them aside. They drew up the hems of their chitons to step lightly across rivers and gaping chasms.
     For the Muses the journey was a lark; the divine maidens traipsed along, singing and bantering among themselves. The young goddess Metis, no longer quite a child but not yet a youth, rushed impetuously ahead while Lachesis, stately and somber as ever, usually brought up the rear.
     "Can't you three come on?" Metis demanded, her dark curls flouncing as she stamped her foot.
     Lachesis, wrapped in her own thoughts and walking at a steady pace, had gotten ahead of the others and finally slowed to a stop. "Is something wrong?" she called down, her voice not quite as lackadaisical as usual.
     Melpomene shook her head and held up a hand to silence them. Metis shrugged in resignation and began to skip back down the path. A few moments later Lachesis followed her.
     Thalia danced toward them as they reached the group. "Quiet, child, do try to hold your tongue," she sang without the slightest hesitation, caressing Metis's cheek with her open hand; "a song is not a song, you know, until that song is sung!" She twirled gracefully away, continuing to sing as though there had been no interruption.
     Metis folded her arms across her chest and waited with obvious impatience. Finally Thalia completed her last verse, swept into a pirouette, and ended with a deep bow. Kalliope and Melpomene, both laughing, applauded with enthusiasm.
     Metis planted her hands firmly on her narrow hips as she turned toward Melpomene. "You promised to show us something new and interesting," she said. "You're supposed to be leading us to it, but I'm always in the lead. And I don't even know where we're going!"
     Thalia answered before her sister could. "You lead, rash child, because your feet outpace your brain. A slower pace-"
     "You brought your basket," Melpomene interrupted, smiling indulgently. "If we walk too leisurely, you can distract yourself among the plants that grow beside the path."
     Metis shook her head vigorously. "You're too slow. You keep stopping to talk and dance-and sing your untrue songs."
     "What's this?" Thalia asked, turning to her sisters in exaggerated surprise. "Untrue songs, indeed! The child thinks we lie."
     "All those things you sing about-they never really happened," Metis said. "You just make them up."
     "Not at all," Kalliope explained patiently. "You're simply too young to understand. We only tell true lies."
     "True lies?" Metis grimaced. "How can you tell true-?"
     Melpomene was holding up her hands to quiet them. "No more, you three. We'll walk faster, and Metis, you may search for plants."
     Metis clutched her large basket against her midriff. "I always look for unusual plants when I walk in the woods. I have been looking. I haven't found any."
     "And we always dance and sing in the woods," Thalia said, patting the child's head.
     They began walking again, Melpomene studying the crest of the high, rounded hill.
     "Is it much farther?" Metis asked.
     "Hush," Thalia said, leaning toward her confidentially. "You'll only embarrass Melpomene. She's lost, you know."
     Now Kalliope drew toward them, speaking in a mock whisper intended for Melpomene to hear.
     "Tell the child the truth, sister. Melpomene does this all the time. She says, 'Come see what I have found'-won't tell you what it is, of course, to keep your interest up-and leads you on a merry chase for hours stacked on end. It makes a fine, droll tale to tell that night."
     "I think the place is near," Melpomene said, pointedly ignoring their conversation. "We must be quiet now, or risk discovery. We mustn't scare them away."
     "Ah, discovery," Thalia whispered. "That certainly lends an air of mystery to the affair. Builds suspense, too."
     "Who?" Metis demanded. "Who are you talking about? Tell me!"
     Melpomene shook her head. "You must be patient. I promised you something new, and I won't break my promise. I think you'll find it interesting."
     "She's got such a knack for suspense," Thalia observed, still pretending to whisper.
     "Whatever this mysterious thing is, at least tell us a little," Kalliope said. "When did you find it?"
     "Yesterday afternoon, on my way back from Mount Helikon."
     "Well, it can't be all that interesting," Thalia said, "or she could never have kept it a secret this long."
     Melpomene gave them her most tight-lipped smile. They had reached the top of the hill. All around them stark peaks and gaping canyons bespoke the unimaginable age of their world; at the same time laughing streams and virgin forest proclaimed its eternal youth. Staring out across the treetops, Melpomene scanned the smaller hills and valleys below, teeming with life. A lone red deer came down from a hillside forest, while a saber-tooth stalked it from the concealment of large rocks.
     Beyond the farther hills began the moist expanse of the Boiotian plain, most of which was still covered by early morning fog. Near its edge herds of antelope and bison had begun to graze. Barely visible, Lake Kopais glinted dull blue in the distance.
     "Yes, I'm right," Melpomene announced. "We aren't far now."
     She pointed off to the left, where jagged limestone hills descended toward the plain. A crystalline stream gleamed among the rocks. On its way to the lake it broadened, becoming brown and shallow as it crossed a long, narrow glade rimmed by ash and oak trees.
     "Is that where we're going?" Thalia demanded. "Well, if you weren't lost, you certainly took the most roundabout route you could find."
     "I wanted to avoid crossing the plain. If we were seen-"
     "She was lost!" Thalia cried, dancing around her sister.
     "I was not," Melpomene protested, for the first time becoming genuinely annoyed at Thalia's playfulness. "I didn't want to cross the plain, and I didn't know the most direct way here."
     "That's what I said-you were lost!"
     Melpomene folded her arms across her breasts and refrained from answering. It took only a few moments, however, for her to regain her normal, indulgent good nature. "I'd love to bicker the rest of the morning, dear sister, but we should start walking toward those trees. From here on we must be very quiet-I know you'll find that a chore, Thalia-and we must avoid being seen."
     Thalia grinned broadly, but before she could reply, her sister Kalliope took her by the arm and guided her in the direction Melpomene had indicated.
     The goddesses made their way down the rocky slope. By following the valleys and passes they managed to come to the plain at a point not very far from the glade. A pride of lions, grunting their disapproval at the appearance of the towering maidens, retreated at their approach.
     Melpomene brought the goddesses to a halt at the edge of an open area. She held Metis back to keep her from venturing too far into the open, then drew concealing fog from the plain. It crept toward them in drifting wisps at first, then in slow, billowing waves. The fog grew thicker, layer upon layer, completely obscuring the area they must cross.
     Hand in hand, Melpomene led them forward until they crouched behind the concealment of the tall, thick trees that rimmed the glade. She dismissed the fog and signaled to the other goddesses. Following her example, they cautiously parted the branches to peer through the foliage.
     Metis could see nothing. To gain a better view she threw herself on the ground and crawled forward between the boles of the trees. Before her lay the mud bank of a stream. All along it, at irregular intervals, vaguely oval mounds protruded from the water and extended onto the shore.
     Metis edged forward on her elbows, making as little noise as she could. The mounds glistened where the sunlight struck the translucent slime that coated them, and they heaved with slow, rhythmic movements. She watched in puzzled fascination for more than a minute before she became aware of the creatures across the stream.
     They were tiny, but perfectly formed-not much bigger than the hand of a goddess. Ten or fifteen of them were visible, all dirty, but some caked with
 mud from head to foot. Much of their bodies was covered with coarse, sparse hair, and in places the hair sprouted in thick patches.
     Now Metis realized that there were others on her side of the stream. Some were cracking open acorns and eating them. A few seemed to be playing. One began making high-pitched, piping cries as another chased it.
     Metis backed out from between the trees to join the other goddesses.
     "Well," Melpomene asked, whispering softly, "what do you think of this strange new thing? An interesting discovery, are they not?"
     "What does it mean?" Metis asked. "Except for being so tiny, they look exactly like us."
     Melpomene smiled despite herself. "Well, no-not exactly like us. As far as I can tell, all of them are male."
     "And they're filthy," Kalliope said. "They have ugly hair all over their bodies, and they smell dreadful. I can smell them from here."
     "Are they really little?" Metis asked. "Is that their natural size?"
     "I suppose so. They were the same size yesterday, when I first saw them."
     Thalia was studying them, her brows contracted in thought. "Dirty, smelly little gods," she said finally, turning back toward the others.
     "I think they're cute," Metis objected.
     "Filthy, hairy little creatures formed in the image of the immortal gods. Grotesque little godlings, caricatures of the gods-mockeries of the gods!" Thalia's eyes brightened, her lips spreading into an enormous grin. "And not a female among them. It's wonderful! It's hilarious!"
     Metis was pouting. "I still say they're cute," she insisted. "All they need is a good bath."
     "Look at the one over there," Thalia continued, pointing. "See how he walks, watching the ground. He looks like Crios, and the one next to him could be Koios! Oh, this is a marvelous joke. The gods will never live it down."
     "There's something... something about them." Lachesis said thoughtfully.
     "Indeed there is-their odor!" Thalia cried, unable to control her laughter.
     "Quiet," Melpomene warned. "They'll hear us. Keep your voices low."
     One of the creatures was wandering toward them in search of acorns. Even as Melpomene spoke it looked up through an opening in the concealing leaves and branches. Its eyes grew very round and it began to cry out in shrill, inarticulate sounds. Kalliope reached for it between the trees. The creature stumbled backward, falling in its effort to escape her, and she picked it up by the feet.
     At its first cry the others of its kind disappeared among the rocks and trees and
 bushes. Soon not one remained in sight.
     Melpomene rose to her full height and the other goddesses stood up around her, gathering in close to Kalliope to look at the specimen she had captured. It wriggled like a fish held by the tail, but as soon as it noticed their huge, peering faces, it became completely limp.
     For nearly a full minute Melpomene stared at it, her head arched to one side. Finally she said, "Man."
     Kalliope and Thalia nodded their immediate agreement.
     "What?" Metis asked. "What did you say?"
     "This is a man," the Muse explained. "That's what the creature is called. Usually we know the right word immediately, without having to think about it. This time it took a bit longer."
     Lachesis repeated the word slowly as she stared at the peculiar man, which still dangled upside down from Kalliope's fingers. "It's very
 puny. Puny and helpless," she said.
     "Let me hold it," Metis pleaded.
     Kalliope gently lowered the man into her outstretched hands. Now Lachesis stood beside the child, searching the tiny form with her eyes. Melpomene pushed her way between the trees, and the others followed out to the bank of the stream. They stopped beside one of the mounds. A section of mud had crumbled away near the top. Through the jagged opening they could see a diminutive, godlike mouth. It gurgled and sucked air.
     "This man," Metis said, "is it a god? I mean, is it a little god or... or... only an animal in the shape of a god?"
     Melpomene looked down at the tiny form in the child's hands. "It's hard to imagine that they could truly be gods," she said. "They make me feel
 sad, somehow."
     "Sad? Why so?" Kalliope asked.
     "They're such pitiful creatures. Look at them. Wretched little things... shaped like us, but born of slime."
     "They're our brothers," Kalliope said. "After all, we too are children of the earth."
     Melpomene smiled wanly. "A poor joke, sister, and a cruel one. By that logic the grass and the trees and the insects are our brothers and sisters
 also."
     "They are," Kalliope insisted. "Less fortunate than we, but still kin, even if born of mud and slime. Poorly born, these peculiar little creatures may yet prove worthy."
     Melpomene looked doubtful.
     "Look at this one," Kalliope continued, gesturing toward the creature Metis was holding. "He has a good face, handsome under the grime. Notice his chin and forehead-the nose too. All well shaped, not without a touch of nobility about them. Perhaps they are gods. It's too soon to say."
     They moved slowly up the long, narrow glade. Across the stream little heads appeared, wide eyes following them.
     "They're watching us," Metis said. "They're curious. That means they're smart."
     A bittersweet smile touched Melpomene's lips. "So much the worse, if they do have any intelligence."
     "Why?" Lachesis asked.
     "They'll compare themselves with us. They'll envy us and aim too high. They'll smolder with resentment, and finally they'll hate us, when the futility of their efforts starts to crush them.-Oh, pay no attention to me," she said suddenly. "I don't know what's wrong. My mood has turned terribly glum."
     The mounds grew in all sizes. Some were little larger than acorns; others were as big as the full-grown men watching from the trees. Many of the largest mounds had the mud broken away in places from the violent struggles of the creatures within, which seemed to be trying to extricate themselves.
     "I think you're wrong," Kalliope said. "None of that matters. Even beings as wretched as these can be noble, if they strive." There was a peculiar quaver in her voice.
     "But without hope of success... ?"
     "It doesn't matter," Kalliope insisted, pointing first toward one of the mounds and then across the stream.
     "Yesterday they were struggling to birth themselves from these mud and slime cocoons. Today they're playing in the wind and sunshine. Who may say what they'll be capable of tomorrow?"
     Metis was absorbed in the man cuddled against her breast and not listening to their conversation. "May we take this one back with us?" she asked.
     It took Melpomene a moment to cast off her sad thoughts. "I think not, Metis... not without Lord Kronos's permission."
     "You'd best put him down now," Kalliope told her. She lifted the man gently from Metis's hands and set him on the ground near the stream.
     The goddesses continued walking, a pace or two at a time, each now sunk in her own thoughts. Metis hung back, waiting until none of them was looking in her direction. Then she scooped up the man's still limp body and hurriedly concealed it within her basket. As she turned to follow her companions, she looked up to find Thalia grinning at her. The older goddess had observed her surreptitious disobedience but made no effort to inform the others.
     "Why do you suppose they've come into existence now, so late?" Lachesis asked.
     "Does there have to be a reason?" Thalia said.
     The creatures scurried along the opposite bank, behind the trees and brush. Here and there eyes and heads were visible.
     "They're so curious," Metis said. "Why don't we try to make friends with them?"
     "Just how do you propose we do that?" Thalia asked.
     Metis considered for a moment. "You could sing for them. Even animals love your singing. I'm sure these tiny gods will. Please sing for them."
     The Muses consulted.
     "Dance for them too," Metis begged.
     "What shall we sing?" Melpomene asked.
     "A lullaby. Sing a gentle, soft lullaby."
     Metis and Lachesis drew back to make room. Melpomene began to sing with a voice like the wind whistling through canyons and rustling among forest leaves. Her sisters danced with the flowing grace of autumn leaves lapped by the breeze.
     Soon tiny heads appeared among the foliage on every side. Hairy, mud-streaked bodies edged forward, until all around the goddesses men stood watching and listening in entranced wonder.