"Boy, why are you sitting on the throne of Zeus?"

Demo turned, startled.

"Eh, you see, I'm in charge. Zeus is on vacation, and I'm filling in for him."

"Indeed! A likely story. Let's see your credentials!"

For a moment Demo hesitated. Then he stood erect, shoulders back, as kingly as he knew how to stand.

"Who are you to question the credentials of an appointee of the mighty Zeus. See, here in my hands he has left his thunderbolt, symbol of his power. And in a moment I shall become angry and cast it at you. Begone! And when you are allowed to return, do so with a better grace, or I shall send you trapping, off to visit . . . well, off to visit his brother Pluto. Now, off with you, and quickly!"

Demo took the thunderbolt in his right hand, raised it high, and made as furious a face as a 17 year old might make.

Apparently it was sufficient. The lackey backed quickly out of immediate range, bowing low and rushing madly from the room as he reached the entranceway.

Demo smiled.

Well, he thought, I could have done worse. A little more practice is all I need. This Zeus surrogate role could be quite pleasant.

It wouldn't be.

The clouds were difficult. In fact, he couldn't master them at all.

With Zeus, merely to think an angry thought generated them.

They cl.u.s.tered, dark and ominous, above his head. Streaks of lightning jumped from cloud to cloud.

Demo tried, but he could not really develop a seriously angry thought. At one time he did almost generate a mild fog, thinking about the fox-imp. With it's antic in mind, his better nature overcame him, and he broke into laughter. Poor fox-imp. It had been so concerned when Rough growled.

For two days were Zeus and Hera to vacation, and two trials were imposed on Demo, one on each of those long days.

The first day Demo sat in the garden, relaxing, watching the green gra.s.s grow. It was ch.o.r.e that pleased him, requiring little physical or mental exertion. There are those who prefer to sit and watch green gra.s.s wither. Not Demo. He really had no mean bone in his body. At least, if he so had he to date hadn't located it. Actually, he hadn't searched very thoroughly.

Nevertheless and regardless, here he sat, watching the green gra.s.s grow. Occasionally he broke out his micrometer, measured a blade or two. "I believe they are shirking. Hasn't changed a single millimeter!"

Would that it could have lasted.

"Sire," Ja.n.u.s bowed. "There are two who would have your counsel."

Demo nodded. "Oh, very well. Send them in. Oh, and bring me my nectar."

The two who entered were unknown to him. One, the smaller, limped. The taller, however, walked as unsteadily as did the small one, and his red nose and blinking eyes suggested a state of inebriation.

Demo frowned.

"Well, what would you have of me. Get on with it!"

"Sire, this picture, this picture so well crafted, is claimed by Bacchus. By Bacchus, who can not draw a straight line, nor walk one. He claims to have painted it, with all its intricacies and beauty. He lies. I, and I alone, painted this picture. I would take it with me to my island of Lemnos."

"Poppyc.o.c.k! Preposterous! This limping lout knows that Zeus is absent. He wishes to take advantage of your innocence. He is a worker in metal, merely an artisan. His soul is burned by the smithy's fire. Art! He knows nothing of art! This picture is of my own design, and it contains my very soul. An artist, you know, puts himself into his every product. Look! Here is beauty, wonder, brilliance - would a smithy even aspire to such qualities as reflected here!"

"Ho, yon wimpy wine sop would not know one end of the brush from the other. More like he would paint the picture in wines of many colors, not with the pigments you see on this my parchment.

The picture, limned on parchment stretched on a wooden frame, depicted a forest scene. Near at hand the trunks of large trees, and seen between them, in the distance, an open meadow. There danced woodnymphs.

Demo examined the picture carefully, then turned it face away from the purported owners.

"Tell me," he looked at Bacchus, "what is portrayed, and how so portrayed?"

He listened quietly to the exposition of the sylvan scene, the merry dance of the nymphs, the greens and browns and tone colors that formed the hues.

"And you," turning to Vulcan, "describe to me this picture."

Vulcan closed his eyes and was silent. Then he spoke slowly, almost as in a trance. "This is the picture of a maiden, her golden hair lighted by a single beam filtered through the forest foliage. All else is only background, merely there that she might display her beauty. It is but a vision, unreal, of what might be. Yes, it is only the picture of a maiden."

"Could each of you supply me with a picture similar in nature that I might compare?"

Neither could respond to his request.

"Well, without more evidence I find that I cannot judge for one or the other. Let me give further thought to the matter. Eh, come back in 2 days. Zeus will be here, he'll resolve the problem quickly."

"My Lord, we are both to leave this edifice this very day. Zeus has so decreed. He was unhappy with our problem, and requested that we bring it to your attention."

Demo frowned. To my attention!

"It's time for my ambrosia. Return when the sun begins its descent. I'll give you and answer then.

He mused. He thought. He worried. He ate.

Delicious, this ambrosia. Not equivalent to his Mother's cooking. But certainly good enough for Zeus.

He carved the food carefully, munching on each savory bite. And as he carved a thought came to mind.

Okay, I've a solution. With my knife I shall rend the picture from top to bottom and each may keep his half."

He took picture, laid it on the table before him, face up, pulled out his hunting knife.

Bacchus rose, looked at the picture, then shrugged. "Very well, Sire. It will serve me just as well. It is but an ornament to decorate my wall."

Vulcan looked at Bacchus, at the picture, and then at Demo.

"No, I would have my picture. Still, let it remain whole.

Though Bacchus may own it, it shall ever be mine. Better it decorate his wall in its entirety than suffer the sacrilege of dissection."