Ridden, old Mambo Jeanne would have said. Ridden by Papa Legba, the god who guards the crossroads. "Agassu, Agassu has her!" cried someone else as a woman fell moaning, and began to kiss the earth; another man roared like a bull, shook his head, tossing and charging at Papa Legba, who whirled haltingly away. "I am Ezili! " shrieked a man in a woman's thin voice, rolling and lolling his head and hips, "Ezili Dahomey! Ezili of a thousand lovers!" And among the crowding chaos, among the writhing dancers, the shadows and darkness, January saw Olympe's eyes snap open, her mouth gape wide with a sudden bellow of rage.

Saw her face change.

"Ogu am I! " The voice that rolled from her throat was nothing like Olympe's, nothing like the voice of any human he had ever heard. "Ogu am I, Ogu of the sword, Ogu of the fire!" Turning, Olympe snatched a stick from beside the snake cage, whirled it around her head. People cried,

"Ogu!" and tried to steady her, but she lashed at them with her weapon and, striding to the King, pulled the rum bottle from his hand.

"Give me that," she boomed, in that terrible alien voice, "my balls are cold."

Hands clapping, voices calling; heat and rhythm and darkness rolled over January in a wave. He watched in eerie horror as his sister swaggered around the brickyard, pushed through the crowd, called out in hoarse soldier slang to Papa Legba or Ezili, leaping and spinning around the fire.

There was something in it of Italian comedy, January thought, those ridden by the gods improvising lines to one another, acting as the gods would act... And something beyond that.

Something Other, and frightening.

Olympe swayed, and a man caught her-the half-naked King, his manhood lifting under the thin guise of his red kerchiefs. The fire burned low, and the dancing redoubled in its speed and intensity; men and women caught at one another, clutching and moaning.