Like the city, Hunter's appearance belies the true nature beneath – rakish, piratical, a flair for flamboyance concealing an iron will.

'Intriguing. You still believe there is hope. Is this what it means to be a Brother of Dragons, then? Faith over reason?' Math, the great sorcerer of the Tuatha De Danaan, stands beside the stone fireplace, oblivious to the heat. Sometimes Hunter wonders if there is a person inside the black robes and the brass mask that rotates every minute or so to reveal one of its four faces: boar, salmon, falcon, bear.

'Reason is overrated.' Hunter pours himself a goblet of fruity wine and downs it in one. 'What's the point in sitting on your arse and ruminating on the logic of what is, by any rational person's yardstick, complete bug-eyed, screaming craziness? Life's for living. When some git's swinging an axe at your head, or a woman is pressing her lips against yours, you feel it and you react. You start reasoning about either one, you're a dead man.' He pours himself another goblet of wine, drinks it quickly.

'Your drinking is a mask, like mine,' Math notes wryly.

'We're just two peas in a pod.'

The long wait ends as the door opens silently to admit the goddess Freyja, wearing a black dress to mark the gravity of the occasion. Her delicate features are emphasised by the thick animal fur she wears across her shoulders. For once, her potent sexuality is tightly controlled; another sign of respect for the visitor.

'The Council of Asgard is convened,' she says. 'Brother of Dragons, and cousin-' she nods to Math '-you will accompany me.'

Past hissing torches, she leads them down the majestic staircase to the great meeting hall of oak and glass. At one end of the room, an enormous window looks across the expanse of snow to Bifrost, the Rainbow Bridge, shimmering like the aurora borealis. Its far end hangs in tatters; Earth cannot be reached.